The Cowboy's Shadow

-The Cowboy's Shadow--The Cowboy's ShadowA Novel of Romantic Suspense By Marty Voght Published by Awe-Struck E-Books Copyright ©2000 ISBN: 1-58749-010-2 To Ray Chapter One The tree house was gone. Not just the house, but the entire, towering elm tree that had supported it. Kyla realized, two blocks too late, that she had missed the corner of Elm Street. She wheeled into the hospital parking lot to turn around, and was confronted with a crush of traffic. What was going on? A cholera epidemic in Argentia, Nevada? Not one vacant space, cars waiting, and a delivery truck blocking half the lane. She followed the narrow, winding drive, without the slightest idea where it headed, breathed easier when she saw two empty parking stalls. Just enough width to turn around. She had shifted into reverse when she spotted the white crosses on the pavement and the red sign. "Ambulance Only." Kyla stepped on the gas - after all, she wasn't going to park, only turn around. At that instant a pickup truck loomed in her rear view mirror; she slammed on her brakes. The truck skidded into the ambulance space, tires squealing. The driver leaped out -- a blur of wide hat, boots, slim jeans -- and dashed around the pickup, leaving his door open wide. He jerked at the opposite door, and the passenger tumbled into his arms. The cowboy staggered up the emergency ramp, the sick man's head lolling, his arms hanging limp. In her mind's eye Kyla saw the bustle in the emergency room.Where do you need me ? She resolutely erased the scene.A vacation . Two weeks free of medical journals, textbooks, of tailing a doctor through corridors smelling of industrial cleaners. Two weeks in which she need not crowd with other students into hospital rooms housing unique agonies. With the truck blocking her way, she had no room to turn. She drove on, into a maze of equipment sheds, where she finally discovered a vacancy. Hospital vehicles only. A quick in and out, Kyla headed back the way she had come, edging past the brown pickup, door still standing wide, and the delivery truck, taking up even more space because men had stacked white boxes on the shady side. Kyla turned onto Main Street, grateful for the light traffic. Residents of the Nevada desert did their shopping and errands earlier in the day, not in the heat of a June afternoon. The house on the corner of Elm and Main looked naked without the tree. Like a bald man surprised by visitors before he had a chance to grab his hairpiece. The owners of the house must miss the shade of the tree, particularly on a day as hot as today. Kyla moved her lips as she counted seven houses on the right, all identical, all built by the mining companies five decades ago for managers and supervisors.

She braked at the thicket of junipers, swung into the driveway just beyond, and parked under the cottonwood tree that shaded Mark and Glenda's front yard. One foot on the ground, her head beyond the influence of the air conditioner, even in the shade the heat seemed solid. She stretched her cramped arms. As soon as the sun went down she would take a walk. "Come inside and do your stretching in the cool," Glenda called from the front door. Kyla grabbed her rucksack and jogged through the white heat reflecting off the walk. "The tree's gone," she said as she embraced her sister. "I drove right past your street." "We all miss it. One of the biggest trees in town, seventy-five or eighty years old. Mark says it was planted right after the town drilled deep wells and built the water system. Before that, Argentia didn't have enough water to irrigate lawns and trees." "Water!" Kyla snapped her fingers. "A fine idea." "Iced tea in the frig." "Better yet." She followed Glenda into the kitchen. "Why'd they cut the elm?" "Diseased. The whole center had rotted out. Trace and his friends were painting protest signs, until Mark marched them down the street and showed them how the tree might fall on the house. They had dreams of rebuilding the tree house -" "Where is Trace?" Kyla asked. On every previous visit her nephew had bowled her over with his enthusiastic greeting. Glenda placed the iced tea on the table, sucked her upper lip behind her lower, a gesture of unhappiness Kyla had learned to recognize as a little sister. Glenda wrapped her hands around the glass as if to warm it. "Trace is with friends. They're very troubled." Twelve-years-old, the beginnings of adolescent vagaries, Kyla thought. "A boy died last week, one of Trace's classmates." Kyla paused with the glass at her lips. "Accident?" "No, the flu. It ended in some dreadful kind of pneumonia, and he died in a few hours. Of course Carl was -- " "Carl?" "The boy who died. You never met him, his folks came to Argentia just three months ago. His father worked for the salvage company that's shutting down the Pollux Mine. Anyway, Carl was an asthmatic, the doctor says his lungs were weak. But that's scant comfort to parents. We've all memorized the symptoms: fatigue, nausea, fever, then gasping..." The words trailed away, she sipped her tea. "Every mother I know walks the same tight rope. Schools out, we can't keep the kids home, under our noses. But what kind of flu? And where did he pick it up?"

"Must be hard for the kids," Kyla said, wishing she had answers to Glenda's questions. "Carl's family simply picked up and left town the day after he died. I understand the kids' feelings. I mean, the family was here only temporarily, but Carl had gone to school with them, and the kids feel -- " she struggled for a word "-- left out. Abandoned. They've had no ritual to mark Carl's death. A psychologist would speak of closure, but I'm unable to maintain a psychologist's distance and objectivity. Everything struck too close to home." Kyla heard a wistful tone behind Glenda's words, and suspected her sister missed her practice as a therapist more than she would admit. "But," Glenda said, lifting her head and smiling, "the kids are solving the problem in their own way, which is why I can't expect Trace to stay home. They're organizing a car wash and bake sale, to raise money for a memorial." "'Fight the dying of the light'," Kyla said. Glenda nodded. Kyla recalled the crowd in the hospital parking lot. "Any other cases of flu in town?" "Not that I've heard of." "I turned around at the hospital, and it seemed half the town had business there." Glenda laughed. "Jackie Kelley delivered triplets yesterday, and anyone with any excuse whatsoever must go. They're identical, I understand. Boys. The very thought of three at one time gives me the shivers. But at least it's a morale builder for the nurses. Last week was rather horrible, a child dying, with them standing by, helpless, not able to do a thing." "Today's not totally good," Kyla said. "While I was hunting a place to turn around, a cowboy drove up with a sick man. Or hurt maybe." "Ranch work's so dangerous. Every year someone's thrown from a horse, or crushed by machinery. Right now it's sunstroke, and last winter two men lost toes to frostbite. But the mines are almost as bad. I worry about Mark." "He's the boss," Kyla said, hoping to ease Glenda's fears. "He won't send a man where he won't go himself. So in emergencies, guess who leads the way?" Kyla cast about for a more cheerful topic, but could not immediately think of a bright remark to distract her sister. "Mom has hopes," Glenda said without warning. "She thinks you're coming to ask my advice in an affair of the heart." Kyla's hand slipped, she tipped the glass too high and the ice slid down and hit her nose. "What?" she snorted. "You're not?" Glenda did not even try to hide her disappointment. "I'm in med school, remember. Four years, at least, before I can even think of having a personal life." "Mom says Neil Walker's opened another business. He's already a millionaire." "Good for Neil." "Dr. Walker's very impressed that you're in med school. It's what he wanted for Neil." "So as second choice he'll welcome a daughter-in-law with an M.D. When Neil was a senior, Mom and Flora Walker spent the year arranging for me and Neil to accidentally turn up at the same parties. Neil wouldn't look at a girl, and I wasn't interested in the school nerd. Won't Mom ever give up?"

"I told you, Neil's made a million, probably many millions, and he's only twenty- three." "That's hardly a recommendation. He's exchanged a computer obsession for a money obsession. By the way, did you ever get Trace that computer he wanted for Christmas?" Glenda made a face. "No. I'm not at all sure it's good for children to become -" She laughed. "Obsessed? Afraid he might turn into a Neil?" Glenda nodded. "And, all the kids expect to be on line, and some of the things available...well, it can't be good for them. It's one reason I approved when Trace spent time with Carl. Carl loved to read. His folks had left most of their things in storage, since they'd be here only a few months. Carl borrowed every book Trace owned. Trace started going to the library with Carl, two, three times a week." "Sounds like Carl was a good influence." "That what makes it so hard," Glenda said. She steadied her chin in her hand. "He was a lovely, lovely boy, and it's unbelievable -- unforgivable -- that he's gone. An only child, like Trace, and it makes me think we've made a mistake, investing everything in one. It seemed sensible at the time, one child, and when he started school I'd go back to work. But here we are, in the middle of nowhere. I've thought of opening a clinic, but I'm afraid cowboys and miners consider talking to a therapist an admission of weakness. I envy Jackie Kelley. Three boys!" *** Kyla tarried at the corner of Elm and Main, leaning over the fence to examine the broad stump. The center showed a dark circle of crumbling rot. She forced her legs into long steps on the four block walk into the center of town. Her muscles protested at first, then purred with relief. Past the hospital, the grocery store, the dry cleaners, where a closed sign hung at an awkward angle. A coffee shop? Impossible! Coffee shops, the ultimate symbols of yuppie urbanity, did not exist in mining towns. She cupped her hands and stared through the polished glass, glimpsed the gleaming chrome of an espresso machine. She opened the door. A blast of frigid air, heavy with the aroma of coffee, enveloped her. Most of the space was taken up by a long white counter and three glass-topped tables. An old desk leaned against the back wall, and on it a computer monitor glowed with the dancing colors of a screen saver. A teenaged girl stood behind the counter, almost hidden by three girls leaning from high stools. They all wore shorts, and bent their tight buns in the direction of a cowboy seated at a table. He did not seem interested in the cluster of femininity, but hunched over a Styrofoam cup. Something familiar about him, Kyla thought. She scanned the man surreptitiously, boots to hat. The hat! In that split second appearance in her rear view mirror, her mind had unconsciously registered the flat crowned Stetson with its silver band, like those worn by the heroes in

old westerns, the midnight movies of every local television station. The dirty brown pickup stood outside, directly in front of the coffee shop. Kyla turned her attention back to the shop, and found the cowboy staring at her. The meeting of eyes demanded some acknowledgment. "I saw you at the hospital," she said lamely. He removed his hat and placed it on the table. Dark eyes, the beginnings of a beard on deeply tanned cheeks -and bleakness that spoke the universal language of sorrow. He stood and gestured to an empty chair. "The man you brought in?" she asked. He sat down heavily, grabbed the plastic cup with such force it nearly crumbled between his fingers. He drew himself up very straight, shook his head, the way men do when they struggle against emotion. Kyla wished she had not asked. "Rod Harris. He was gone in half an hour," he said. He turned to the counter. "Nicki, bring this lady a cup of coffee." The girl behind the counter -- obviously Nicki -- detached herself from the cluster. "Coffees of the day are New Guinea, vanilla walnut and Kona," she said. "Kona's the decaf." "I got New Guinea." He blinked and the dark eyes cleared a trifle. "That's the closest to plain coffee, I think." His lips twisted slightly, a gesture that might indicate disapproval. His eyes were not black, but dark brown, with little streaks of black melting from the iris into the pupil. Kyla considered telling him that she shared his lack of enthusiasm for exotic coffee, but light conversation hardly seemed appropriate. "You work at the hospital?" he asked. "No. I was driving the white car that got in your way when you pulled up at the emergency entrance. I'm from out of town, visiting my sister." She extended a hand. "Kyla Rogers." "Whit. Short for Whitaker." His hands were long, narrow, callused, and dry, in the way of men who worked outdoors in the desert. Nicki slid the cup across the table just as Kyla realized she had not carried her purse on her walk. She had no money. The cowboy flipped a dollar bill from his shirt pocket. "If I'd taken Rod to the hospital sooner -- " He fiddled with the edge of the cup, bending, unbending. "But he wasn't awfully sick to begin with, and he was certain a day in the mountains would cure whatever ailed him, and it wasn't until noon today that he agreed he'd better see a doctor. By the time I hit the city limits he was gasping for breath, wasn't breathing at all when I carried him through that door, the nurse said." A faint vibration sounded in the back of Kyla's mind. Something she should know, but could not quite remember. Something from a textbook, or a lecture. "I hope nothing's going around," he said. "A boy died last week." "Flu," Kyla said quickly. "He was a friend of my nephew. An asthmatic, the virus settled in his weakened lungs."

"You're from out of town?" he said. "San Francisco." "City girl." A flat statement, containing neither disapproval nor admiration. "Not really. I was raised on a vineyard north of Sacramento, but now I'm in med school in San Francisco. I just finished my first year, and I needed a couple weeks in wide open spaces, so I decided to visit -- " "Med school! Then you can tell me, what killed Rod Harris?" "First year med school," she said firmly, amused and startled by his automatic confidence. "I can't venture a guess. The doctor must have an idea." "Doc Temple's ordering tests. They're taking him to Reno -- Rod, that is -to the medical center. I've got to know, because if it's something catching, he stayed in the range cabin with two other men night before last. I phoned the ranch from the hospital. So far Jim and Vince feel okay." Range cabin. The vibration in her head grew into the insistent tinkling of a bell. Bold type, on the right-hand page, not quite in focus, just beyond the threshold of recollection. "What were his symptoms?" she asked, imitating his level tone to conceal her rising excitement. A medical journal, but months ago, and she had read only the first page or two, for the disease had not seemed relevant to a big city practice. "Weak and out of sorts for a couple days, then a fever, aching bones, like the flu, then this morning he was terribly sick." He took two large swallows of coffee. "Dying," he whispered. But that's how Glenda described Carl's illness.Something going around. The thought of being on the front line of an epidemic caused a shiver down her spine. "I shouldn't have let Rod go up the mountain when he wasn't tip-top, but he said the mountain air -- " "Is that computer on-line?" she asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "Haven't the faintest idea," he said. "This is the first time I've been in here." "Excuse me." Kyla leaned around the girls and caught Nicki's attention. Nicki sneered at her question. "If it was working, you think we'd be alone? The boys would be clicking like crazy, looking for nasty pictures their folks won't let them see at home." "Why do you want a computer?" Whit asked when Kyla returned to the table. "There's a rare disease that occurs in western deserts, caused by a hantavirus," Kyla said. She spoke slowly to put a lid on her eagerness. Getting excited when someone near and dear had just died put medical people in a bad light. "I don't know much about it, except there was an epidemic a few years ago in New Mexico. The virus is carried by mice. People catch it when they come in contact with the filth mice leave behind, in empty houses, attics, basements." "There're precious few old houses in this country that aren't full of mice and rats," he said. "You can find out about this stuff on the computer?" "The Internet. Hospitals, medical laboratories, med schools all exchange information -- " He shoved his chair back, stood and clapped his hat on his

head. "Let's go." The library, Kyla thought as she crawled into the pickup. Glenda had mentioned Trace suddenly patronizing the library. Glenda had supposed he was interested in the books, but they probably had a computer hooked to the Internet. Whit swung onto a side street and in two minutes the truck bounced from pavement onto gravel. Very definitely heading out of town. "Where are we going?" she asked, clutching at the dashboard when the front wheels dropped into a rut. She hoped she did not show her alarm at being carried off into strange country. "The ranch," he said. He turned his head, and for the first time the corners of his mouth curved in a pale imitation of a smile. "You think we're country bumpkins, who don't know what computers can do?" Another attempt at a smile, this time climbing as far as his eyes. Kyla smiled in return, and in a millisecond dropped into a crack between torrid heat and a glacier. The ice paralyzed her heart, and the heat threatened to melt some organ much farther down. She turned away and pretended to study the desert. The color of his eyes resembled the dark shadows in the mountain canyons. Her first sight of him at the hospital had been shadow-like, a reflection, yet she had remembered so much from that fleeting glance. Kyla flexed her stomach muscles to control the melting, and wished the acquaintance had remained in that nebulous shadow zone. But, she could learn something, if indeed the cowboy and Carl had died of hantavirus. Very few doctors ever saw a case. Whit downshifted when the road turned to wash board. In him she found every western stereotype, as if he stepped off the celluloid of an old film. Tall, rangy, wide- shouldered, narrow-hipped. She studied the mountains, shaded from dark at the base to light at the peaks, where a white flash of remnant snow lingered under the summit. Whit stepped on the gas when he reached on a smooth quarter mile. The snow disappeared behind a ridge. "How far to this ranch?" she asked, still pretending a great interest in greasewood. "Only twelve miles out of town." Twelve miles on this rutted gravel, would take half an hour. Search the Net, find what she wanted, then demand he take her back to town - - she had impulsively put herself into the hands of a complete stranger. But hadn't he carried his friend into the hospital, wasn't he worried about the other cowboys? He must be the man in charge, trustworthy -"Who're you visiting?" he asked. "The Fettermans. My sister, Glenda -- " "I know them," he said, and his warm smile included her in the circle of friendship, even though they had met only twenty minutes ago. "Mark Fetterman succeeded my dad as superintendent of the Castor Mine." Downwardly mobile. Father a mining engineer, the son a cowboy. Kyla hunted for a polite question that might reveal more. "You didn't like mining?" "I majored in engineering in college, but -- " he shrugged and looked a trifle

embarrassed "-- it's hard to grow up in Nevada and not dream of owning a ranch." "Owning?" Few real cattlemen could afford land these days, with billionaire computer nerds fulfilling childhood dreams of cowboys and Indians. Nevada, Eastern California, Utah were full of spreads with fancy names and absentee owners. Whit slowed as he approached a line of green. "This alfalfa field is the eastern boundary of my ranch. I've owned the place for six years, only six hundred and forty acres. The rest is leased." "You live out here with your family?" she asked, hoping there might be a woman in the house, a guarantee of safety. "Not married," he said. "Rattle about like a pea in a bucket." Kyla could guess what lay at the end of the road. A tumble-down house of three or four rooms, built a hundred years ago when lumber came to western Nevada on the railroad. Dreadfully expensive, so the ranchers built minimal houses. On second thought, Kyla decided Whit had moved in a mobile home, with modern plumbing, adequate electrical wiring, and insulation against winter cold and summer heat. The old house had become a storage shed, and Rod Harris had probably inhaled hantavirus in its decaying rooms. She thanked her lucky stars that the pickup had a bench seat, and that the seat belt kept her close to the door, beyond convenient reach of Whit's hand. Just in case he jumped to the conclusion -- all too frequent -- about the sexual interests of female medical students. Twilight in June lingered past nine o'clock, plenty of time to get back to Argentia before dark. Sprinklers on high wheels threw fountains of water over the alfalfa field. Whit stopped, squinted, watching their operation. "Plum Sky Ranch," he said. Kyla decided not to ask. "The name comes from the color of the sky on winter evenings. I liked that better than Dead Man's Ranch." "That was the name before you bought it?" He nodded as he turned sharply between tall gateposts. He jumped out to open the gate. "I could have opened the gate," Kyla said when he lifted himself in. "That's right, you're not a city gal." She searched for mockery in his remark, but found none. And the smile that followed seemed sincere. Suggestive? The narrow lane headed arrow-straight toward a cluster of trees, and more roof peaks than she had expected. Gables, a long stretch of shingles, black windows, broad, tall doors merged and revealed a house, a huge place, in the style architects called ranch, but that hardly ever existed on a working ranch. "Twelve years ago a movie star bought this place and built the house," Whit said, "but it turned out he didn't like being away from the lights of the big city." Kyla discovered herself leaning close to the windshield, mouth agape. "The old house?" she managed to ask. "The one this replaced?" "Torn down. Mr. Bright Lights wanted everything to look like something out ofHouse Beautiful ." Chapter Two Whit opened the front door and with a bow indicated that Kyla should precede

him. She stepped into an entry hall that extended the width of the house, a sweep of red tile leading to glass doors and visually beyond, onto a patio surrounded by feathery trees. Whit turned right, into a room empty except for brick-red drapes. Through a swinging door, into an antiseptically white kitchen. He dodged an incongruous Queen Anne mahogany table and two mismatched chairs. Office equipment crowded a room just beyond the kitchen -- Kyla figured it had been designed as a maid's room -- including a desk so old it might have been salvaged from a one-room school house. Only the computer looked less than fifty years old; it sat on a door placed across two battered oak file cabinets. Whit punched a button and the screen came to life. "Sit down." He offered Kyla a modern secretary's chair, then dragged an oaken antique from the desk and sat near her. Beside the monitor stood a large photograph of a dark-haired young woman. She leaned from the door of a shanty, and her smile invited the photographer to join her inside. Whit might not be married, but he had a beautiful significant other -- fiancée, or mistress, or special friend. Kyla relaxed. Whit would not jeopardize his relationship with such a beauty by making advances to a woman he had met casually. Kyla clicked the Internet icon, and wished Whit would shift his knee away from hers. She should have worn long pants. He could put his hand on her leg...No, not with that photo displayed in such a prominent manner. Hantavirus, she typed in the query space. The web site of the Center for Disease Control appeared as the first listing. Kyla tapped her fingers impatiently as the CDC logo spread across the screen. "'First symptoms are general and flu-like,'" she read, uncomfortably aware that Whit leaned rather close. But naturally he was as anxious as she..."'Fever, headache, abdominal, joint, and lower back pain -- '" "Back ache!" Whit exclaimed. "Rod asked to take the new truck to the cabin, because his back hurt and the old one's a pretty rough ride. Damn! I could have looked this up, everything I needed to know if I'd just punched a few buttons." The final words strained through clenched teeth. Whit's faint reflection in the monitor screen turned away, and a hand lifted to cover his mouth. She pretended to study the text. "'Sometimes nausea and vomiting,'" she read. "That's how it started with Carl, Glenda said, nausea. 'However, the primary symptom of this disease is difficulty in breathing, which is caused by fluid build-up in the lungs and quickly progresses to an inability to breathe." Whit groaned and dropped a fist on the make-shift desk so heavily that the monitor jumped, the photograph teetered and fell on its face. Kyla slid her fingers across the back of Whit's hand, offering comfort, then wished she had left well enough alone. Warmth flowed from him to her, up her arm. He grabbed her hand, she felt furnace heat that had nothing to do with sympathy, but everything to do with sensuality. "There's nothing more we can do until the lab results come back," she said firmly, sliding her fingers from his grasp. "Now, take me back to town."

He did not rise from his chair, but spread his hands on his thighs and stared at them, as fixedly as he had studied the information on the screen. Kyla wondered what she could say that would offer sympathy, while at the same time get him on his feet, walking to the truck. Years ago Glenda had warned her, before she left for college, that men in a whirlwind of emotion sought comforting arms. The rules were simple: Avoid men in the maudlin first stage of divorce. Say goodbye to the construction worker who watched a scaffold collapse, taking his companions to injury and death. Forget the distraught fraternity boy who knew he had flunked the mid-term. If ever there was a circumstance when a woman should run, this was it. Whit blamed himself for Rod's death. A very close friend, Kyla judged from his behavior. Whit should seek the company of his dark-haired vixen, and cry in her arms tonight. Kyla stood the photograph upright, using more arm and hand movement than was necessary in order to wake Whit from his despair. She observed him from the corner of her eye. He sat absolutely stiff, his face frozen in an expression of disbelief. His profile might have been chiseled to Hollywood's order, and his expression the result of long acting experience. He was breathtaking, from tip to toe. Was there a woman in the world who would not feel tempted? Whit shoulders slowly relaxed, and his hands slid to his knees. The chair rasped across the floor as he moved it back to its place before the old desk. Kyla allowed herself a quiet sigh of relief. He retraced his steps through the kitchen, like a robot. A beautiful house, from what Kyla could make out in the dim light. The room beyond the kitchen had obviously been meant as a family room. Rough green stone surrounded the hearth. A tiled wet bar tucked in a nook beside the fireplace. A broad arch opened onto the entry hall, and beyond a matching arch framed a room so long shadows obscured the far end. In all this area, not one stick of furniture. No pictures on the walls, not even a mirror or coat hook beside the front door. Kyla took one last look down the length of the entry hall -- nothing but the uninterrupted glow of polished terra cotta -and found it spookier by far than the traditional haunted house, with its heavy furniture and cobwebs. Whit opened the door of the pickup for her, abstracted, seemingly acting from a habit of gallantry. He batted at the hood as he rounded the front, slid behind the steering wheel without a glance in Kyla's direction. His throat contracted, a convulsive gulp, almost a hiccup, then the sound of the motor drowned any further evidence of his sorrow. Half way down the long drive he cleared his throat. "You think Rod got this stuff in the range cabin?" He kept his eyes focused on the road.

"How often was he at the cabin? You said he felt sick before he made his last trip." "He goes -- went -- every week or ten days during the summer, hauling water and groceries to the cowboys on the mountain pastures. Rod was my manager, my assistant, working for me to learn the ropes." "According to the CDC, time between exposure and first symptoms can be anywhere from three days to six weeks," Kyla said, repeating the words on the computer screen. "Is the cabin used all year round, or does it sit empty part of the time?" "No one's up there in the winter. We opened it about a month ago, after the snow melted enough to get the truck up there. I can look in the ranch diary for the date." "It's not uncommon for people to get hantavirus after cleaning a cabin that's been shut all winter," Kyla said. "They sweep, and rouse all the filth mice leave behind." "Rod didn't open the cabin by himself," Whit said. He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "I went with him." "Oh God!" Kyla clutched at the seat belt that stretched taut across her chest. Whit's skin was dry. She had noticed when they shook hands, and dismissed the condition as normal for a man who works out of doors in the desert. But he showed no sign of fever. Eyes clear. Dark pools. She reproached herself for departing from strictly clinical terminology. "How do you feel?" "Fine," he muttered. He slowed at the gate, and Kyla unhooked her seat belt. "As well as can be expected, considering I just lost one of my best friends. And I was the person who made him sick." Kyla jumped out, opened the pipe and chain link gate. It swung easily, a hint that the master of Plum Sky Ranch insisted on proper maintenance. A death from hantavirus not only cast a pall of grief, it suggested less than perfect management. "The disease may not have been in the cabin," she said after she rejoined him. "After all, Trace's friend Carl had the same symptoms, and he was never in your range cabin." A sudden vision unrolled, a scene of Whit escorting half the kids in town on a school field trip to the mountains. It would be just like him. What? How had she formed such a generous opinion of Whit, after only two hours? "Have any kids been in the cabin?" she asked. If he said yes, the natural conclusion would devastate him. "Not that I know of." Thank God! "I can't recall ever meeting the boy who died, although I met his folks at a business luncheon." "Carl probably dug up rodent nests, like any twelve-year-old boy, or fooled around empty houses." "With the Pollux Mine shutting down, there are plenty of empty houses," Whit said. "I noticed Argentia's looking a bit seedy." "Just a bit?" he asked. The faint mockery startled her, a show of liveliness alien to his grief. "Argentia's lost half its payroll in the last six months. After this week only the salvage crew will be working at the Pollux, and

they'll be done before fall. Your nephew, he's not sick?" "Trace? No, seems wild as ever, and his appetite at dinner was absolutely mindboggling." The truck skidded a trifle on the gravel as White rounded a curve. They headed straight for the rising moon, one day from full. "I haven't been able to reach Rod's sister," Whit said. "This isn't a message to leave with a secretary or on an answering machine. I'll try later." The truck bounced across a rut, throwing Kyla against the tension of the seat belt. "I've got to know where this stuff came from, before I send some other cowboy off to catch his death. I need your help." His agony roused her nurturing instinct, but her logical mind fought the impulse to offer assistance Perhaps she should put her fingers on his arm, lightly, when she said "No," so he understood her refusal did not come from a lack of sympathy. On second thought...She twined her fingers firmly in her lap. "Say no," said a voice much like Glenda's. Whit's simply too monstrously attractive. And what would the dark-haired lover think if she found her sweetheart running around with another woman? A new recollection, Trace at the dinner table, talking about car washes and suitable memorials, mourning his friend. She saw Glenda's furrowed brow, and sensed all the other fretting mothers on the alert for symptoms. No one seemed to have mentioned hantavirus as the culprit in Carl's death, and the parents were not restricting their children's wanderings -"Will you help me figure this out?" Whit asked. "Yes." He drove in silence for a mile or two. "What do we do first?" "Tomorrow morning I'll talk to the doctor who treated Carl, and ask if he's considered hantavirus. I'll describe Rod's symptoms, and suggest that they match Carl's. You keep a ranch diary?" He nodded. "Figure out everyplace Rod went over the past few weeks." "I'll try, but he has days off. I don't run a boarding school." Kyla nodded her understanding. "I'd like to retrace Carl's steps, but his folks have left town. Maybe Trace and his friends can give me pointers." The muscles in the back of Whit's neck tensed slightly, muscles that disappeared below his collar, out of sight, merged with the strong bulge of his shoulders and upper back, great bands supporting his spine. "Here we are," Whit said, turning at the corner without the elm. "Got you home by dark, which keeps Mark Fetterman off my case. Will your brother-in-law object, you spending time with me?" "My brother-in-law isn't my keeper," Kyla said, half wishing he were, and that Mark would forbid her setting out on what could be a very dangerous course. Not danger from hantavirus, but from her own heart and lust. From the man who had so poetically named Plum Sky Ranch. ***

Whit did not leave until Kyla disappeared through the Fetterman's front door, then drove slowly down Elm Street. Things had been different in his boyhood, when expensive electricity had prevented extensive use of air conditioners, before anyone had imported a satellite antenna to snatch television out of the sky. Back then neighbors visited in the evenings, skate boards rattled noisily over the asphalt, he and his friends gathered in the tree house beneath whispering leaves. Now the street stretched empty, everyone isolated in their cooled houses. Twenty years seemed like a century, and Whit felt very old. He braked before he reached the stop sign. No light in the house, of course. His folks had pulled out three weeks ago, towing the trailer north to spend the summer in the mountains. The vacancy left by the felled tree still shocked him. Years ago his father had told him the elm must come down, but he and his mother had resisted. Unthinkable, Mother had said, not to have the shade on hot afternoons. Miserable, he had said, to lose the retreat of the tree house. But since his father retired from the mine, his parents spent their summers in British Columbia, and it seemed foolish to maintain a tottering tree, one that would inevitably splinter in a high wind and crush the corner of the porch. "I didn't know what misery was," he whispered to the dash lights. "I should have cut it down years ago. Jenny, I'm sorry." Rod's death caused an ache in his chest, a vacancy in his world. But the moment Kyla had said "enclosed spaces," what was left of the world fell apart, and he tumbled in the void, falling and falling, with no bottom in sight. Not simply an ache, but a knife in his heart. No, that would kill him instantly and end the pain. A knife constantly slicing, a thousand cuts each hour, all repairing themselves so he might suffer the agony of being slashed again. If he had let the tree go, Jenny would be alive. He let the truck roll to the stop sign. The not-quite-full moon slid from behind the house. The elm had always blocked his view of moonrise. Last full moon he and Rod had unloaded the groceries at the range cabin. They had finished the cleaning early, with plenty of time to return to the ranch for a late supper. Staying overnight had been an indulgence, a pleasure of thin air and preternatural silence. Of rustling night birds, and the glint of stars so bright that staring at them caused a quiver close to sensual. And that night killed Rod. Twenty-nine days, the cycle of the moon, exactly four weeks and one day since he had shoved open the creaky door. Rod had swept the floor while he cleaned out the stove. They split kindling, and carried in a pile of wood. Perhaps he should turn around, go back and tell Kyla he had opened the cabin four weeks ago. Maybe the doctor could deduce something from that information, when she talked to him in the morning. The thought of facing Kyla in the dark...To talk privately they must stand in

the front yard...not a good idea. He gunned the motor, spun around the corner, trying to imitate the movements of his skateboard. The bright lights of Main Street pulled like a magnet. Whiskey Dan's. A beer, maybe two, to help him forget the curtained ambulance that carried what was left of Rod Harris to Reno. Drink, to obliterate the memory of the night he arrived at his newly purchased ranch with the load of heifers, to find his father waiting on the front steps, blurting unbearable news. Jenny's dead. There was something else Whit wanted to forget, but he doubted a beer would help. No alcohol could dull an event so recent. It bulged in the front of his skull. A woman stepped through the door of the coffee shop, one glance, mere curiosity, and he had found himself floundering in eyes blue as a mountain lake. He should be consumed by mourning, he should concentrate on Rod, and on Judith, deprived of her brother. Yet with his first glimpse of Kyla Rogers, he had wondered, "Who is she?." "Jenny, I'm sorry." He apologized not only for the tree, but for a betrayal that loomed in the offing. If Kyla cooperated he would break a six-year-old vow. Painful, but inevitable. *** "Where's Trace?" Kyla asked, alarmed to find only Glenda at the breakfast table. "Already out and about. He and his friends are rounding up more mothers to bake cookies and cake. It's good for them, really, and helps them face the fact that Carl's gone and will never return." "Best to keep busy, not dwell on bad news," Kyla mused, thinking of Whit, who would keep himself busy -- and her too -- trying to find the fatal spot. Not an impossible mission, since hantavirus did not float around like the seeds of a milkweed. Not the way she had planned to spend her vacation, but if she and Whit could find the place where Rod -- and maybe Carl -- had been exposed, they could save others. "Glenda, I met a fellow last evening, accidentally, in the coffee shop. His name's Whitaker." "Whit. He owns Plum Sky Ranch." "Yesterday he brought one of his cowboys to the hospital. The man died, and his symptoms sound an awful lot like Carl's." "It's spreading!" Glenda dropped her toast and nearly knocked over her chair trying to get up. Kyla waved her down. "If it's what I think it is, you don't catch it from another person. You get it from mice, by going into a house or barn where they live, or disturbing their nests, stirring up dust where they've defecated. Had Carl been anyplace like that, do you know?" "The boys ride for miles on their bicycles, and plenty of old shacks -- " "Alone? You let them ride without knowing -- " Glenda laughed. "This isn't San Francisco, dear sister. Kids in Argentia still have freedom to wander, and parents are confident they'll stumble onto nothing

worse than rattlesnakes. Ask Trace, but I don't think old houses interest him. He's prospecting for silver. He's sure the old timers didn't find everything." "A mine? Would Trace and Carl explore a tunnel?" "Mark's warned them, more than once, that old mines are dangerous. And Trace is a sensible kid. I guess I can say, 'Probably not.'" "I want to talk to Carl's doctor about this. Hantavirus infection is rare enough that many doctors never see a case." "Dr. Chase. You'll find him in his office next to the hospital." Kyla fished in her purse for her car keys, but reconsidered the moment she stepped into the cool morning air. A walk would do her good. Argentia's atmosphere hummed, a faint, eternal vibration made by trucks rolling from the mine to the mill. Sunlight oozed down the slopes of the White Mountains, one brighter streak seeming to cascade from the patch of snow high on the peak. When she reached the end of Elm Street, Kyla had an unobstructed view of the mountains, and could trace the ravine that carried the snowmelt. A line of green, like a seam in the mountain. The vegetation disappeared in the foothills, then reappeared as a spread of grass where the water touched the desert. Plum Sky Ranch. Yesterday evening she had not considered why a homesteader had settled in that exact spot, but now she saw it had been inevitable. Water ruled in the desert. People could not locate farms and homesteads for the best view, or shelter from the wind, or distance from town. They lived and worked where the water bubbled from the ground. Water meant survival for humans, as it did for all animals. Every living thing headed for the trees that lined the stream human beings, deer, mountain lions. Mice. The doctor's office occupied a pre-fab building. Kyla sighed, regretting that the cookie-cutter products of an assembly line displaced the picturesque architecture of the mining camps. Then she recalled that Rod and Carl might have died in some carefully preserved relict of the old days of mining. A sign at the edge of the pavement -- there was no curb -- proclaimed the offices of Augustus Chase, M.D., General Practice, and Sylvia Flores, R.N., Nurse Practitioner. The doctor's name had faded under the pounding of wind and sun. Nurse Flores' name stood out in bright green paint. Kyla concluded she was a new addition to the office. Beyond the glass door Kyla faced a beige reception room, all the vinyl-covered chairs empty. She knocked to attract the attention of a woman in a glassed-in cubicle. "I'm not sick," Kyla said, after the woman slid open the window, "but I'd like to speak to Dr. Chase. About a patient of his, a friend of mine." "It's Wednesday, the doctor's not in the office today." The woman flipped the pages of an appointment book. "But Ms. Flores -- " "No, Dr. Chase." The receptionist consulted her watch. "You might find Dr. Chase at the hospital.

He'd just about be finished with his rounds." Kyla thanked her, stepped into the growing heat, wondering how she might locate the doctor in the hospital when she hadn't the slightest idea what Dr. Chase looked like.I'll have him paged. At that moment, directly across the street, the door of the hospital swung open, a man stepped out and halted under the canopy while he fumbled sunglasses from his shirt pocket. Middle-aged, a trifle thick in the waist, worn jeans, high-crowned hat. But he carried a white lab coat slung over his arm and a stethoscope dangled incongruously against his chambray work shirt. "Dr. Chase?" She could not see his eyes behind the dark glass, but from the angle of his head she judged he studied her critically. "My office is across the street," he said. "Make an appointment if you have some complaint -- " "I'm not looking for medical care," Kyla said hastily. "I'd like to talk to you about Carl Goulding. I'm a friend of the family, and, well, it seems to me his symptoms resemble those caused by hantavirus pulmonary syndrome." He leaned in her direction without moving his feet, as if his boots were nailed to the walk. "What qualifies you to question a diagnosis?" he asked quietly, but she felt steel in the question... "I'm a medical student. I just finished my first year." "That gives you the expertise to contest my word?" Both his tone and lips sneered. "Carl Goulding was my patient, I know his history, you don't. He was a sickly boy." But the Gouldings moved here only three months ago, Kyla wanted to say in protest. How can you be so sure of Carl's health history? But Chase's sneer made her hesitate. "Your question, your interference, clearly demonstrates why females should not be admitted to medical school. Women are much too emotional to cope with the traumas encountered in the practice of medicine. Become a nurse and work under a competent physician." He pointed to the sign in front of his office. "Hantavirus," Kyla said slowly. The four syllables seemed to fall like lead weights to the ground at her feet. "Has never been found in western Nevada," Chase said with a dismissive wave. "It's an urban disease, common in crowded slums and the homes of sluts. Good day." He did not bother to lift his hat, and Kyla had the distinct impression that he categorized her among the sluts. She stared at the back of the retreating work shirt and jeans. Narrow hips, but shoulders a little rounded from age. He climbed into a dusty white pickup parked at the side of his office. Lengths of freshly cut lumber angled from the corner of the bed. Every professional man in Nevada seemed to fall under the spell of ranching. Perhaps a virus wafted on the desert breezes, infecting men with the disease. Even her brother-in-law talked now and then of buying a "bit of land" and keeping horses. Dr. Chase obviously had yielded to the will-o-the-wisp, and was now discovering that maintaining the corral and exercising his horses took all

his spare time. The constant work would shortly effect a cure, he would put up a sign advertising the spread was for sale, and another doctor, or dentist, or engineer would take the opportunity to exercise his fantasy. Whit had somehow made a go of it. Probably with an inherited fortune from a city- dwelling father or grandfather. The thought of Whit recalled Kyla to her search. Hantavirus. But Dr. Chase had just said hantavirus was an urban disease? Could that be true? She wished she had read the CDC web page more closely, instead of skimming for information that seemed relevant. She should have printed the document. Now she must find a computer, and go over the page more carefully. Damn Glenda's anti-computer prejudice! One couldn't go door to door, asking people if they were hooked to the Internet. But she could ask Trace. He must have friends with computer friendly parents. The kids, she recalled, were circulating through town, drumming up contributions of cakes and pies. The mob shouldn't be hard to spot, for in a town the size of Argentia, ten or twelve kids on bikes would be rated a gang. She walked toward the business district, peering down each side street. "Hello." She stiffened at the husky voice. Sexy. She turned, presenting what she hoped was a disapproving face to the man accosting her. Whit leaned out the pickup's window. One glimpse of his face told her the husky tone came from lack of sleep and grief. Pain creased a slash across his eyes. Or, God forbid, was he sick? She jumped off the curb. "How are you feeling?" "Good enough to wrestle something about half way between a mountain lion and a toy poodle. How are you?" "I need to get back on the CDC web page. There must be a computer in town, at the library or at -- " He stretched to open the passenger door. "Hop in. But first I need a dose of caffeine. That New Guinea they serve at the coffee shop tastes better than the rotgut I perk at home." Kyla climbed in, settled herself against the door and fastened the seatbelt. "Next thing you know, you'll buy a coffee grinder and order gourmet beans from a catalog." "No need for mail order. There're shops over in Bishop that sell fancy coffee." "Bishop? But that's in California." "State lines don't mean much out here. It's only forty miles, just right for an evening drive over the mountains. I find most everything I need there, and that means I don't need to go to Reno but once a month." Reno. Two hundred miles each way. Living in San Francisco, Kyla realized, she was forgetting the rancher's disregard for distance. In the city, days passed without the need to move her car. In fact, she intentionally walked, for fear of losing her parking spot. As if to reinforce the contrast between San Francisco and Argentia, Whit swung into an empty parking spot, right in front of the coffee shop. The sign in the dry cleaners' window hung at the same lopsided angle she had noted last night. Not closed for the day or evening, Kyla realized. Closed.

This morning a middle-aged woman served the coffee, and chatted with an elderly man perched on a stool at the counter. "Two cups of New Guinea," Whit said. "The coffee of the day's Sumatra," the woman said. "Jelly bean-almond's the flavored one, and the decaf's French roast." "Jelly bean-almond!" Kyla exclaimed. "Coffee flavors are getting a trifle ridiculous. Next it will be bubble gum." "That's on Friday," the woman said. "The kids like it iced with whipped cream. They're my best customers. That is the girls are good customers. As soon as I get hooked up to the Internet the boys will come." She nodded toward the computer. "You want your jelly bean iced or hot?" "Neither," Kyla said, a little shocked. "Sumatra." "Business will pick up when that new resort casino goes in west of town," the man volunteered, speaking to no one in particular, while the woman filled the plastic cups. Whit shrugged. "Just talk, as I understand it. Before they get a building permit, they'll have to prove that Fellows Canyon has water enough for all those people." "Last night the county approved the plans," the woman said. She fetched a thin newspaper with the coffee, and placed it on the table facing Whit. Reading upside down, Kyla could make out only "Fellows Canyon Ranch" in the headlines. "The county approved the concept," Whit said, folding the paper and shoving it aside. "What did the doctor say?" "Flu." Kyla took a sip of coffee and almost burned her tongue. The hot plastic cup yielded under the sudden spasm of her fingers, and she put the cup down before it collapsed. Relax, she told herself. No sense getting upset at Chase's ignorance, because she could not change it. "Dr. Chase claims hantavirus is an urban disease and does not occur in western Nevada. That's why I need a computer, to check with the Center for Disease Control again. What have you found?" "Rod's calendar. He used an X to mark his days off. On some of those days he wrote 'ranch hunting.' Sometimes there's a question mark at the bottom of the space, sometimes an exclamation point, like he'd seen a place he might consider buying." "Ranch hunting?" Kyla asked. "Could he afford -- " "Rod's father was a developer in Southern California, who left Rod and his sister very well off at his death. Rod despised city life, and his father's obsession with tract houses and malls. He wanted a ranch, and was working for me to learn the ropes. After three years, this spring he decided he was ready to strike out on his own." "What does his Southern California sister think of this?" "Oh, she has her own share of the money. Judith's religious, almost like a nun. She bought a big house in Reno, and made it into a sort of hotel, so people from little towns have a place to stay when they go see the doctor. That's important in a place as big and empty as Nevada." Kyla nodded while she refashioned her image of Rod. Not a penniless, uneducated

cowboy, but a rich man's son, with a sister devoted to caring for others. "You said something about a diary," she said. "Rod didn't keep a personal diary, but I found this in his truck." Whit spread two pieces of flimsy paper on the table. Ragged edges showed they had been torn from a book, and creases indicated multiple folding and refolding. "They come from a catalog of farms and ranches in Nevada and Eastern California, plus a few in Oregon and Idaho. Rod checked some, probably the ones he looked at, or planned to look at. By the way, we opened the cabin on May 5th." "Exactly a month ago," Kyla said. "Last night I tried to pump Trace about old buildings and mine tunnels, but he'd only talk about likely outcrops. He's prospecting for silver. I learned that you don't search for new ore bodies near habitations or previously worked hillsides." "Making a strike." Whit grimaced. "The eternal hope of desert rats." He laughed, the first time that Kyla had heard him, and the deep chuckle startled her so much she put down her coffee. "The dream never dies." "I'll talk to Trace again tonight, casually. When an adult asks direct questions he gets defensive, like you're finding fault." "You'll be a wonderful doctor," Whit said. "We should turn medicine over to women. They're more sensitive." "How nice of you to say that, since about twenty minutes ago Dr. Chase informed me that women are too emotional to practice medicine. He recommended nursing under the supervision of a competent physician. Male, of course." Whit laughed again, this time a chuckle of disbelief. "Don't take him seriously. Everyone connected with the Pollux Mine walks around with a short fuse these days." "The Pollux mine? The doctor's part of the mine?" "Chase is...was the company doctor, besides having a private practice. That's why he has a nurse working in the office, to handle his patients when he's called out to the mine. Of course, the nurses came and went like the full moon, and now I understand why." That explained the bright paint on the bottom of the sign. Sylvia Flores, R.N., had only just arrived, to discover she had accepted a job under the thumb of an unredeemed male chauvinist. Whit poked at the papers spread on the table. "I figure we should go to every ranch Rod checked, and see if he visited it." "We're looking for old, abandoned buildings," Kyla said. "In places likely to harbor hantavirus, there'll be no one to ask." Whit unfolded another sheet of paper, and displayed an abstract pattern that reminded Kyla of the tread on a tire. "This is how we do it. Rod put new tires on his pickup last month while he was in Los Angeles. I cleaned one off and smeared it with ink, then backed over this paper. We look for his tire tracks." Kyla caught herself before she laughed at this ridiculous notion, cleared her throat. "It's been weeks since he visited some of these ranches," she protested. "Tracks last a long time in this country, especially in the spring. We had a late snow that dampened the ground for a week." Whit tipped his cup and drained

it, and picked up his hat. "I'll take my coffee along," she said. Whit fetched a plastic top from the counter, and met her on the way to the door. A gallant gesture. Like an old-fashioned cowboy in a Randolph Scott movie. In those movies, did Randolph Scott fall in love and stay with the beautiful leading lady? Or did the films end with him riding off into the sunset? Chapter Three "I can't stay long," Kyla said as Whit fiddled with the air conditioning controls and hit the switches to roll up the windows. Old-fashioned cowboy or not, she had better make it clear that she would leave the ranch immediately after getting the information she needed. "Tomorrow afternoon is this barbecue thing -- " "Farewell party for the Pollux workers. A bit late, since a lot have already left town for new jobs." "Trace and his friends are having a car wash and bake sale during the barbecue to raise money for Carl's memorial, and I volunteered to make two cakes, one chocolate and one white. I've never baked at this altitude, so I'd better start this afternoon, in case of failure. And I still have to go to the grocery for powdered sugar." She sat back, pleased at having presented an incontestable excuse for not hanging about the ranch. An excuse that cast no shadow on his reputation. Once she got on his computer, she would print the Center for Disease Control page, and avoid having to ask Whit's help again. "I want to visit two ranches tomorrow morning," he said quickly. "If you make the cakes today, and we leave early, we'll be back in time for the barbecue." "Why tomorrow morning?" "Rod marked two ranches over the mountains, in the Owens Valley, where it gets mighty hot. Temperatures have been climbing every day this week, and the forecast says...well, I want to get those two properties out of the way so we can concentrate the search around Argentia. It'll save time." As flimsy an excuse as her two layer cakes, Kyla thought wryly. She would have to watch herself around Whit. "And while we're over there, we'll buy some decent coffee." "We? Don't look to me for advice. Like the song says, 'I buy my coffee beans already ground.'" A fleeting smile. What bad luck, to meet a tempting man under totally inappropriate circumstances. In his presence she felt the long-disregarded tingle, a little too low for her heart, and a bit farther down, liquid oozing like sunshine on the mountain. The consistency of honey. Kyla caught herself staring at the large silver buckle, tight on Whit's flat stomach. He did not look at her, not even a sidling glance. Didn't he feel the slightest waver under the blue work shirt? Kyla remembered the stunning, flirtatious woman in the photograph. Whit did not need her. He had no interest in a short-term fling with an out- of-town med student. Kyla unhooked her seat belt as Whit slowed for the gate. Furnace heat struck like a blow when she opened the door, and the wind took her breath. If the valley beyond the mountain was hotter than Argentia, maybe Whit had a point about hurrying the trip. She stood back from the road to avoid the dust kicked up by the tires, closed the gate and jumped into the cool haven of the truck's cab.

Whit parked in the shade of the cottonwoods. Kyla, now prepared for the startling house, had time to examine the other buildings scattered under the trees. Equipment sheds, a stable that appeared to be empty, and a puzzling structure that resembled a motel. Door, window, door, window. "Who built a motel this far off the highway?" she asked. "That's a Hollywood version of a bunkhouse, a two-room apartment for each of the hands, with a kitchen and mess hall at the far end. Go on in the house and get started. The front door's open. I'll wait for the fellows coming down the hill." "Someone coming? How do you know?" Whit pointed to a streamer of dust on the hillside that Kyla judged to be at least a mile away. The wait would keep him busy for some time. "I'll only be a jiffy," Kyla said. She ran up the stairs, down the entry hall, through the echoing family room and kitchen, into the office. Whit must have used the computer before he came into town, for busy images spiraled over the screen. Good. That saved several minutes. She clicked on the Internet icon, and tapped her fingers through the process of dialing. Where was the printer. She would turn it on now so it would be ready the moment she found the CDC site. Strange, the printer sat right beside the computer, and she had not noticed it yesterday. Of course, the photograph of the dark-haired woman had stood in front of the printer yesterday. But the photograph was no longer there. Center for Disease Control. No time to think about the vanishing photograph. Her stomach untwisted as she read the first paragraph. "A serious, often deadly, respiratory disease that has been found mostly in rural areas of the western United States." So much for Dr. Chase. A middle-aged doctor, who had not kept up with his reading since he graduated. Kyla clicked "print," the printer groaned, made a sound rather like a shotgun being readied, then clattered. In computer years, the thing was an antique. As the sheets spilled out, Kyla idly wondered where the photograph had gone. It had toppled over when Whit slammed his fist on the desk. Perhaps he had moved it to a more stable location. Not on the desk, nor behind the computer. She shrugged. Whit's private life was none of her business. Yes, on second thought, the state of Whit's love life might have grave importance to her. Didn't men sometime hide photographs, so a new friend did not question their attachment to an old flame? If Whit made advances...The printer clattered to a stop. Kyla snatched the paper in an untidy bundle and ran to the front door, and almost collided with Whit. "Done?" he asked, and she thought she detected a waver of disappointment in the word. She nodded. "Would you...uh...like to see the rest of the house?" She heard too much hope in the question for comfort. The rest of the house would include the bedroom wing. "No, I really must get back to town," she said primly. All the way back to Argentia she wondered why she should felt a deep sense of regret... *** Whit picked her up before sunrise and headed west on a paved road that had no yellow line down the center. The asphalt narrowed further in the slot of a

canyon, widened on rolling hills, then gained altitude. From the curves Kyla could see Argentia spread out below, like a toy town. Sage brush and greasewood gave way to junipers and piñon. Whit slowed on a curve, pulled onto the narrow shoulder and stopped. "There's something I want you to see," he said. "Feel like a walk." "Wonderful. I'm not getting enough exercise." In the way of ranch country he did not lock the truck, but instead opened all the windows. She followed him around gnarled junipers, twigs and needles crunching beneath their feet. He led her uphill, toward the top of the ridge, but instead of using the easiest path in the depths of a gully, he climbed over a rocky bluff. His long legs stretched, he reached a hand down and pulled her up the final six feet. "Oh!" As far north, as far south as she could see, the peaked escarpment of the Sierra Nevada blocked the view to the west. Saw-toothed gray peaks, their flanks streaked with snow, swept ten thousand feet above the green and tan valley. "Oh!" she said again, and felt foolish that she could find no more eloquent words. "Thank you." She stepped forward blindly, a rock turned beneath her foot, throwing her off balance. Whit's arm caught her about the waist, needlessly she told herself. She would not have fallen...But she did not regret the closeness, for the distant mountains reflected in his eyes. What followed was no chaste, first-date kiss. His lips strangled hers, his tongue poised, entered, searching, setting an instantaneous fire, made hotter by his fingers digging into her hips She'd been right all along, his gallantry was a façade, and he had lured her to a lonely place, where he could rape and murder her and her body wouldn't be found for days. Weeks. Maybe months. She considered struggling, too late, for he released her mouth, although he kept her tight in his arms. "I've wanted to kiss you for days," he muttered. Kyla leaned back as far as she could, which was not far because his hands cupped her buttocks. To her amazement, he seemed to be blushing. At least a russet color spread beneath his tan. Impossible, she decided, Men who plotted this sort of isolated attack did not blush. "You can't have wanted to kiss me for days," she said firmly. "We met day before yesterday." His belt buckle graved into her stomach, as aggressive as rape. The cool liquidity suddenly turned molten.It's not rape if you want it, too . But she had had no experience with wanting a man she hardly knew. Sex came after acquaintance, with plenty of time to consider methods of birth control. Snap at him! Get angry! Tell him this isn't love, but lust, primitive urges, plain in the fingers that hiked her skirt. Obvious in the straining of her hips against his. Below the buckle she sensed another hardness. "You know what I'm thinking," he said thickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it

to happen like this. I think we'd better go back to the truck." The russet flowed around his eyes, and grew so dark the sun gleamed red on his cheekbones. Walk down hill? Kyla wondered if her legs would move. Everything below her waist stirred like boiling mush. She had never made love any place other than a bed. But what room had a view like this? She slid from the circle of his arms.Say something to break the spell. "I must say, you picked an absolutely stunning place for our first kiss." Then, for some inexplicable reason, she sat down on a rock, and only crossed her legs when he knelt before her. She could not decipher his expression, whether worried or triumphant. "Whit, I do not habitually make love with men I do not know. I am not panting for a man."The hell I'm not! " I know it's a common misconception that women in medicine are...well...easy. But we are truly no different from other women, except that we know more about sexually transmitted diseases, including AIDS." He spun away from her, his knees carving shallow holes in the duff. She saw only his profile, not even that when he dropped his head in his hands. "I mess everything up, don't I." His words came out muffled, and possibly contrite. Kyla used this moment of introspection to scramble to her feet and straighten her skirt. She turned her back on Whit, concentrated on the mountains, resplendent in the morning sun, and willed her heart to a normal beat. In the moments since her first startled glance, the scene had changed. Not just a slightly different angle of the sun, but a sensual beckoning. The snow curled seductively about the rugged peaks, the peaks towered over the magnificent depth of the valley...Kyla shivered, knowing the physical world had not changed. Only her eyes and mind. Why should the mountains, why should this man tempt her? "Do you want me to take you back to Argentia?" he asked. She opened her mouth twice before her throat allowed a full breath. "We've got two ranches to look at. Hantavirus, if you recall," she added sarcastically. He scrambled to his feet. "Doesn't do any good to say I'm sorry, I guess." "Not really, so just shut up." He plunged down the slope, heels digging into the pine needles. "Whit!" she called. He slid to a stop. "Thanks for the stunning view. And I would have enjoyed the kiss, with a little warning." He grinned and extended an arm to catch her in case she slid out of control. Kyla placed her feet very carefully. "I guess I didn't have any warning either," he said when they reached the truck... Kyla tightened the seat belt, pressed against the door and said nothing. The ball was in Whit's court, to snag or let go. He drove very slowly over the crest. "Can I tell you something that might explain?" "If you want." "You're the first woman I've met in six years who...I'm attracted to you. And it

happened so fast, in the coffee shop. I felt like I was swimming in a flooded mine pit with no way out." "You were in shock." Might as well use one of her Glenda-inspired remarks. "You had no one to turn to in a moment of grief." "I looked at you, and fell in love, and it sure as hell caused a shock." "I don't think love happens that fast." He shook his head in determined disagreement. "It happened to me once before, in college. Her name was Jenny Lovelace. I walked into Sociology 101 and there she was, the love of my life. An art history major," he added, in a flippant manner that tried for mockery, but did not succeed because his chin quivered. Kyla felt a mad need to escape from the truck. Something dreadful was coming. But escaping the cab of a pickup rushing down a mountain road... "She died," Whit said flatly. Kyla felt no surprise. It was as if the confession had passed inaudibly from his brain to hers. He shifted into third gear to slow for an upcoming curve. "The house on my ranch, I saw it being built. I'd ride out on my bike, twelve miles each way, and walk through the place, dreaming it was mine. I turned twenty-one Christmas vacation of my senior year." His smiled wanly. "I'm one of those unfortunates born on Christmas Eve." "I'm the day after Christmas," Kyla said, then regretted having formed even this minor bond between them. Although, the misfortune of a holiday birth gave themsomething in common. "Really? That's a fantastic coincidence." "Not really." Kyla intended to side track Whit with a lecture on the uncanny frequency of common birthdays in any group, but he interrupted her. "The week after Christmas Dad had to go to Reno on business," he said, interrupting, unwilling to be put off. "I rode along, my first opportunity to gamble in a fancy casino. Dad gave me twenty-five dollars and hung around, grinning, teaching me the evils of gambling by letting me waste our dinner money in a progressive slot machine. But on the last dollar bells rang and lights flashed, and when they picked me up and revived me, I found out I'd won more than eight-hundred thousand dollars." "Eight-hundred! That's close to -- " "A million. Eight-hundred-seventy-four thousand, and some cents. I don't really remember all the documents and photographs and congratulations. My picture was in the Reno paper next day, and I look like someone who's just wakened from a six-month coma. What I do remember is Dad's hand on my arm, and him saying over and over again that we had to go home. As we drove out of town, everything seemed to glow, a light I'd never seen before. Car lots, equipment yards, department stores. 'Wow!' I'd think. 'I can buy one of those and one of those.' We'd gone a hundred miles when Dad asked me to think back to the day I'd graduated from high school. What dreams did I have then? And I knew immediately, Dead Man's Ranch, and that house, and I imagined Jenny in it, and the fit was perfect."

Whit massaged his chin, worked his mouth and cheeks as if his face threatened to dislocate and he had to adjust it into place. "Right after college graduation Jenny came and we signed the papers. That afternoon I rode the fences, four miles -- the movie star had got fed up with the expense and had let them fall down. While I was gone, Jenny cleaned out my old tree house and fixed it up with towels for curtains and pictures from magazines tacked to the wall, like a play house, but for grownups. A real white tablecloth. We had dinner there, with champagne..." His voice broke, and there was a silence that lasted several miles before he spoke again. "We spent the night in the tree house, and you can guess what we did. It wasn't the first time, but it was the best. Then Jenny drove home to Pasadena, because the wedding was in two weeks. I rented a truck and went to Arizona to pick up some heifers, the beginning of my herd. When I pulled in the gate, Dad was waiting, to tell me -- " He braked so suddenly Kyla automatically put out her hands to catch herself. The truck swerved onto the narrow shoulder, the side mirror crashing into brush. Whit leaned against the window, sobbing in great whooping gulps. After a long moment, Kyla loosened her seat belt and slid across to him. She lay her arm lightly across his shoulders. He did not turn, but his right hand reached back and grasped hers. Cleaned out my old tree house. She waited until his shoulders no longer heaved, until his chest resumed the natural motion of easy breath. "She died the way Rod and Carl did?" Kyla asked. "I don't know. They said a sudden pneumonia, and I never wanted to learn the details. But probably, because I hadn't cut down that damned elm tree -- " "The elm tree! The one on the corner, where Elm meets Main?" He nodded. "I was so sorry to see it gone, but looking over the fence, I realized the center had rotted away." He grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand, his right hand drew hers against his chest, and she felt the steady, slow throb of his heart. "I've got to know for certain. If it's what you think -- this hantavirus -I'll make sure it never happens again. I'll start a non-profit, the Jenny Lovelace Foundation, send out yearly warnings to all the ranchers, all the mines with abandoned offices and bunkhouses, everyone with a vacation cabin in all of western Nevada. I'll get Rod's sister to help me." He released her, reached for the gearshift, but before he let out the clutch he leaned over, placed his lips an eighth of an inch from her cheek and smacked. "Thanks. You're going to make a wonderful doctor." Kyla slid back to the door and fastened the seat belt. None of this was happening. He had not come close to raping her on a mountaintop. He had not just poured out his guts and sobbed like a child. She studied Whit from the corner of her eyes, while her internal sight searched for moorings. Everything she had held onto, all principles, washed away. This man would take her to bed, make love to her, before she even found out who he was. On the other hand, it might be an ideal affair, designed by the mountain

gods. She dare not risk a serious relationship, not with years of medical school and residency ahead. Whit, with his abiding love for the dead girl, would never commit himself to anything but a casual relationship. A deeper commitment would betray the dead fiancée, his eternal wife. Why not a vacation fling? After all, her friends would laughingly describe Whit as a GU man. Geographically unsuitable. They would meet a time or two through the summer. By fall the distance would come to seem prohibitive, and they would never see each other again. Whit should, of course, marry. A sturdy ranch woman, a widow who had her own mournful past. A wife to fill that house with practical furniture and noisy children. Kids to track mud on the spotless tiles and leave hand prints in the sterile kitchen, raid the refrigerator after school, spreading peanut butter and crackers across...That incongruous Queen Ann table? Kyla suddenly understood where it had come from, and pity for Whit swelled, bringing her close to tears. *** "No need to look at this one," Whit said. The sign on the fence welcomed visitors to Sierra Snows Boys Ranch. Two yellow vans stood in front of a long bunkhouse, and in the corral teenagers unsteadily mounted sway-backed horses. At least two kids cowered behind the fence. "An old dream," Whit said. "Expose troubled city kids to fresh air and magnificent scenery, and they'll go home reformed." "You don't believe it?" Kyla asked. Except for the two behind the fence, most of the boys looked perfectly happy. "No. Being raised in the desert and mountains makes the difference. You learn very young that one misstep can kill you, because you walked behind the casket of a playmate who forgot. By the time you're six or seven, you know it's deadly to play tag around open mine shafts, or climb on sunny rock piles without checking for rattlers. You listen to the old timers who lounge in front of Whiskey Dan's, you shiver a little, have a nightmare or two, after they describe a skeleton in the middle of nowhere, clutching an empty canteen." The big white house on the corner, the elm and the tree house. Whit had been a privileged kid, the son of the superintendent of the Castor Mine. But because Argentia was small, he'd palled around with the sons of miners, ranchers, and men who loafed in front of the saloon. The narrow road ended at a highway buzzing with traffic. Trucks, motorhomes and trailers, high four-wheel drives and tiny sedans. A few days in the isolation of Argentia, and she flinched at meeting civilization. Auto repair shops, without a single blocked-up wreck. Western wear, fast food, motels, restaurants. A town totally unlike down-at-the heels Argentia. "This place looks prosperous," she said. "Bishop's a tourist town," Whit said. "A million people a year come vacationing in the Sierra." They passed an art gallery, a book store, another art

gallery. Kyla craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the paintings on display. Two grocery stores! Maybe she should ask Whit to stop for powdered sugar, for the grocery in Argentia had run out. A very large, very modern motel. Was that what he had in mind? An overnight trip, an anonymous rented room, where neither intruded on the other's reality? Whit drove straight through town. She must plan ahead. She would ask him to stop on their way back, at the grocery and at a drug store. She would go in, alone. For what?I forgot my toothbrush, she rehearsed, moving her lips only slightly.Be just a minute . Or perhaps the drug store was near the coffee shop, and she could leave him -"There it is!" he said. A realtor's sign the size of a billboard reared behind a gleaming white fence, and beyond it stood a mobile home. They both gasped when Whit swung through the gate. Behind the mobile stood small building wrapped in tarpaper. Before White turned off the engine a woman opened the door of the mobile home. He walked to the bottom of the stairs, between rows of potted geraniums, lifting his hat. He explained their search without reference to illness and death. Heat rose in waves from the stones that paved the garden path. Kyla wished the woman would invite them in. "Rod Harris," she mused. "Young man?" Whit nodded. "Yes, I think that's the name the realtor said. But we only own a few acres. The rest is leased, and he didn't like that. Nice fellow." "How much did he nose around? Did he go into that old shack?" The woman jerked her head back, and frowned, obviously insulted. She wiped her brow, spreading perspiration that made her forehead glisten like polished wax. "That's no shack, it our son's house. He's fixed it up nice inside, but couldn't afford new siding, which is just as well, since we're selling. But me and my husband can't do the work any more, and with the price of cattle down -" She shrugged. Her fingers worked at the sweat under her nose and muffled the rest of the sentence. "I hope your friend finds a place to settle." "He has," Whit said. "Thanks." Another tip of the hat Kyla jumped into the truck and lifted the skirt of her sundress to let the cool find her legs, then thought better of such a provocative gesture. "That's that," Whit said. "We'll get the coffee and head home." Would he ask her ahead of time to go to bed with him? Or would sex be an impulsive act, like the first kiss? Why did she suppose he would bother with a bed? He might decide sagebrush under the full moon was romantic.

"Please stop at a drug store. I forgot my hair brush." Hairbrush? She didn't need a hairbrush. They lasted a long time when you had short hair. She could figure no way to backtrack and say toothbrush. Whit parked along the curb. "'Spellbinder,'" she read the sign. "This is a bookstore." "The coffee shop's in the rear," he said. Whit ordered iced French Vanilla for them both, then left her sitting at a table while he selected a half-pound each of French Roast, Costa Rican, Brazil, Sumatra, Kona and cinnamon hazelnut. Two cowboys at the counter debated the best road into an abandoned mining town. Whit handed the man behind the counter a hundred-dollar bill, reminding Kyla of eight-hundred thousand dollars that tumbled out of a progressive slot machine, and what Whit had done with it. She wished she had not mentioned the drug store. In this small town it would be like this bookstore-coffee shop: cozy and down-home, with regular customers waiting to talk to the pharmacist, a balding man called Doc. He would smirk at a strange woman buying condoms. Somewhere, going or coming, they had passed an impersonal chain store, one of those confusing places where you can buy everything from antibiotics to motor oil if you can find it. Perhaps if she suggested a purchase he needed to make -"You need a coffee mill," she said the moment Whit joined her at the table. Then she realized to her horror that if he had something to buy, he would come into the store and see -"That kitchen's got everything built in," he said. "All I've got to do is find the owner's manual." Kyla drank her coffee and kept her mouth shut. She said nothing about the big, impersonal drug store, but he took her there anyway, and she wondered if he read her mind. Too bad that Whit must sit in the truck, baking in the middle of an asphalt parking lot, but she certainly did not want him along. "Just be a minute," she said, and jumped out before he had set the parking brake. She snatched the first hairbrush she saw, but then noticed one that folded into a neat package. Why not? She could save it for traveling. But look, another, with a little comb that slid into the back. White or blue. Purple! She dug to the back of the display, and had to replace all the ones she had pulled off. Poor Whit! Absolutely roasting! She dashed to the far side of the store. Condoms would be near the prescription counter, where the pharmacists could keep an eye on impoverished teens with aching loins. She rounded a tall display of humidifiers, and collided with Whit. She knew his blushes now. This one started at the open collar of his shirt, and rose like the tide. His nose split the stream, the red lapped at his eyes. He cleared his throat twice. "I didn't know there were so many," he said, surveying four feet of display. "I didn't either. You want to pick?"

"Does it make a difference if they're day-glow green?" "You've never bought any?" He bit his lip. "Jenny and I were stupid, innocent kids. Incredibly lucky, too. She borrowed a diaphragm from a room mate." He hadn't made love to a woman since Jenny? Kyla rapidly replayed everything Whit had said during that painful drive over the mountains. Incredible, but it must be true. This tall, handsome, virile man had been celibate for six years, a living memorial to the dark-haired vixen. Ribbed. Extra thin for greater pleasure. Large. Super. Buyingthose must give a man's ego a kick. "Whit, you decide what you need. Read the packages. I'll pay for my hairbrush and meet you at the truck." She sat in the heat, sweat tickling her midriff and pooling about the elastic waist of her sundress. She should have asked Whit for the keys, so she could start the engine and the air conditioner. What had been the dimensions of the bulge in his jeans? What if he bought large, not to massage his ego, but because he truly needed them? He tossed a pink bag on the dash. "We both got the same notion up there on the mountain," he said, a partial question. "Well, if it comes to that..." Kyla snatched the bag and stuck it in her purse without looking. "Heat's not good for rubber," she explained. "Learn that in med school?" "Very first lesson." Chapter Four Whit looked for a spot in the shade to park, finally gave up and backed into the dirt of a vacant lot half a block from the high school. He sat in the cab of his pickup, listening to the creaks and pops of the metal as the engine cooled and the cab warmed. This was not really his party. He had worked at the Pollux Mine three summers, while he was in college. Nothing like a regular miner. But the miners lucky enough to still have jobs at the Castor had a holiday to bid farewell to their friends, and that meant Mark Fetterman would be here. And maybe Kyla would be with him. If you stay in this truck. You'll be baked as toasty as Kyla's layer cakes. Go in or stay out. Kyla and Glenda appeared at the corner, walked up the steps, into the gym. Whit slid out of the pickup, and in the shelter of the truck checked that his white shirt had stayed tucked in. Why all this worry about impressing a woman he hardly knew? Hardly knew, yet the first woman he had wanted for years. After Jenny's death he had made one or two bad tries, had decided his mating impulse was dead, that he would never again feel the urge to walk across a room, strike up a conversation, with thoughts of sex winding through the words like red thread in a rope. I'm sorry, Jenny. The words had become a preoccupying mantra since he kissed

Kyla. As he had selected and paid for the condoms.Jenny, please forgive me. As he entered the foyer, a kid thrust a slip of orange paper in his hand. The janitor must have let the air conditioning run all night, because stepping across the threshold was like falling into ice water. Whit stood in line to sign a book, like at a wedding or funeral. It would be stored in the archives of the mine, and probably never be opened again. Kyla's signature was halfway up the page, perfectly legible. She had not yet learned a doctor's scrawl. He paused at the open door, looking over the rows of folding chairs, knowing he searched for Kyla. Sit near her and be obvious? Or keep his distance, as if she didn't matter a pin? He identified the cap of dark ringlets that curled randomly against the nape of her neck. Jenny complained incessantly about the pain of dealing with straight hair. She would be jealous. I'm sorry, Jenny. He would lift those tiny curls, follow her hairline with his lips, kiss her ears, her shoulders. Slow and easy, hours of petting before he let things come to a climax. He had hurt Jenny the first time. The days of shame that followed their first intercourse...That he did not want to repeat. Perhaps he should simply give it up, leave Kyla alone. But a second glimpse of the untidy curls changed his mind. Kip Marshall, the superintendent of the Castor, walked to the podium. Whit decided he had better find a seat before the ceremonies started. "Boss?" Jim and Vince stood just inside the door, turning their hats in their hands. What were they doing here? Well, nearly everyone else in Argentia had the day off, and his hired hands undoubtedly hungered for free barbecue. "Good, we caught you before you went inside," Vince said. "You locked Rod's truck and apartment?" Whit nodded. "Well, someone tried to break into both this morning. He climbed through the window, tossed Rod's stuff around, but we surprised him while he was working at the truck lock. He drove off in a light-colored pickup, maybe with dark sides, but it's hard to say. Could have been mud and dust. But he drove like the devil breathed down his neck." Inside the gym Marshall had begun his welcome speech. "Outside," Whit said. "What's missing from the Rod's apartment?" he asked when the door swung shut behind them. "Nothing that I could see," Jim said. "Drawers pulled out of the desk, some of the books off the shelves -- " "The books damaged?" Rod had collected books on Nevada history, and some of the volumes had been printed more than a century ago. "I didn't look real close, figuring that's a job for the sheriff. Lots of papers scattered, like maybe the fellow was after money. But Rod didn't keep his ready cash in his desk." "Wheredid Rod keep his ready cash?" Whit asked. It had slipped his mind that sometimes Rod kept rather large sums of money in his rooms, because he banked in Los Angeles, and brought spending money back from each trip, enough to last several weeks. Vince smirked. "That statue of a bronc rider in the bedroom. Rod showed me once

how the bottom opens. I checked. The robber didn't even move the thing, I could tell from the dust." "Most likely a kid," Whit said. "School's out. He waited this morning out on the road, saw me take off, you guys head out -- " Not true. A kid would have gone for the bronc rider, a Remington bronze sculpture a foot and a half tall. Not an original, but even a reproduction of that quality brought several hundred dollars at auctions. "He must not've found what he was looking for," Jim said. "That's why he tried the truck, but breaking into a pickup's a lot harder than climbing through a window." "Look guys, I'm being impolite if I don't show up at this meeting," Whit said after a moment's thought. The memory of dark ringlets accused him of lying. "You report this to the sheriff. The deputy's probably right outside, waiting to handle the traffic jam when three, four hundred people head for the barbecue." Jim and Vince nodded, plunged down the steps. Whit returned to the frigid gym. He leaned against the door frame rather than disrupting everyone by hunting for a chair. Why would anyone break into Rod's apartment and truck? Whit mulled over the question for five minutes, and could not come up with a better explanation than money. Everyone in Argentia, every man, woman and child in the county, knew Rod Harris had money. He made no secret of the fact that he had the cash to buy a ranch. A light-colored pickup? A very slender clue in a country lousy with pickups, mostly white, at least on top, because white paint stood up best to the desert sun. Dark sides, but as Vince pointed out, that could be mud from driving through a wash. Whit walked back to the glass door and studied the parking lot. Completely full, and vehicles lined both sides of the street as well. He curled his fingers into a fist, and paper crackled. He smoothed out the orange sheet. Car wash on Elm Street. Have your vehicle cleaned while you enjoy yourself at the barbecue. Cars $5. Full-sized pickups, $7. The clue of the pickup could vanish at the car wash. He had better look right now. Whit walked briskly to the nearest white truck, then slowed to a stroll. What did he think he would find? A note? I was at Plum Sky Ranch this morning. Hell, he would have a white pickup himself, except the brown one had been on sale in Carson City. Had Vince and Jim thought to look for tire tracks and footprints? Whit hoped they had not tramped on the evidence. Three, four, five white pickups on this side of the street, all in varying degrees of dustiness, two with colored side-panels. He crossed to the other side. Four more, crowded under a cottonwood tree, claiming a slice of shade. All dirty, all with the windows rolled down. Whit walked close enough to peer inside. No evidence of papers that might have been snatched from Rod's desk. From the corner Whit had a clear view all the way to Main, two blocks away. Jim and Vince leaned on the deputy's car, talking through the window. Maybe he should join them, tell the deputy to look for strange tire tracks and boot prints under the window. On second thought, telling the deputy his job would only alienate him.

The doors of the gym swung open, two men emerged, sunlight sparking reflections from spots of gold on their shirtfronts. Blast it, he had forgotten, they were distributing pins to everyone who had ever worked at the Pollux. He should have stayed at the meeting to collect his. A boy came down the stairs two at a time, much too young to have been employed anywhere, but he wore a pin, too. Maybe they had souvenirs for the miners' kids. But this one looked more like an urchin, long hair slicked into a ponytail, a T-shirt advertising a rock group Whit had never heard of. His jeans were clean, but out at one knee. His folks should have seen him better dressed for the meeting. Whit waited in the narrow strip of shade beside his own pickup, one foot inside, until he saw Kyla on the steps with the Fettermans. Approaching her publicly would only start gossip. Yet, he probably should talk to her, because the burglary of Rod's rooms might have had something to do with hantavirus. Quit looking for excuses, he told himself. "Kyla," he called from the middle of the street, eyes fixed on her. He stumbled on the curb and nearly went on his face. Great! Just the way to impress a woman! First cry like a baby, then fall down on the street. "I just heard something -- about Rod -- and I think you should know." Kyla spoke to her sister, making excuses Whit assumed. Perspiration already beaded her forehead. Her wrists stuck out of her light blue jacket and the pants sagged on her hips. She had not come prepared for a community meeting, and had borrowed the suit from her sister. She would roast at the barbecue. He said nothing until she climbed into the truck and he had the motor and air conditioner running. He summarized what he knew of the burglary, while admiring the way she pursed her lips in thought. "I can't see that this has anything to do with hantavirus," she said. Her sharp gaze seemed to strip him. Whit felt exposed. Kyla saw through all his pretense. But her quick intelligence made her even more desirable. All the trucks and cars jockeyed for position in a friendly race to the barbecue. Whit decided to let the crowd disperse. Easier driving, and he could spend more time with Kyla. "My first guess," Kyla said, "would be a woman wants to retrieve love letters, before someone else finds them and passes them to her husband. Or tries to blackmail her." Love letters! He hadn't thought of an illicit romance. What an innocent you are, he jeered to himself. Just because he had never been tempted, because Rod's sister was close to being a nun, he had assumed...Even thinking about such a thing violated a basic tenet: Don't speak ill of the dead. If Rod had been having an affair with a married woman, best to put a lid it immediately, so there was no gossip. And," Kyla continued, rather like a remorseless dentist holding a drill, "she left something in the truck that can identify her. You said Rod put question

marks and exclamation points on his calendar. No mystery what he meant by those if there's a woman in the picture." She flashed a meaningful grin. Question mark.Can she get away from her husband to see me ? Exclamation point.Wow! That was the best that's ever been ! An adult version of x's and o's. Whit stirred uncomfortably, engaged the clutch and shifted into reverse. A single mental image of Rod and his woman friend in bed translated, without conscious intent, into carnal thoughts about Kyla. Which wasn't fair to her, or to him, because nothing might come of their friendship. How do you tell a deputy not to get overly anxious about pursuing a criminal? Jim came running up, breathing hard. "Are there any footprints in front of Rod's window, where the guy crawled in?" Jim stared at Vince, Vince gaped at Jim. They had not bothered with even elementary investigation. "Look for footprints," Whit said, "and if they're small, like maybe it was a woman, tell Deputy Colton it's a false alarm." "Oh shit!" Vince said. He wiped his sleeve across his face as if to change his expression. Jim jerked his hat lower. "I didn't even think -- " Jim began. "The woman, of course!" "You knew? Rod had a romance?" Whit asked. They both nodded. "He told you?" Rod had told the cowboys, yet never mentioned a word to his best friend? "He didn't tell us, we guessed," Jim said, scuffing the dust with the toe of his boot and staring at the deputy's car idling at the corner. "That last night we all stayed at the range cabin. We teased him a bit, and he told us to keep our traps shut." "Get out to the ranch and look for footprints before Colton turns up. If there's any indication, any at all, that the burglar might be a woman, tell Colton to forget to enter the call in his log, and I'll donate to his campaign for sheriff next year." Whit was aware that Kyla struggled to control an I-told-you-so smile. He stepped on the gas. "Are you bound to appear at this barbecue, or -- " "I promised Glenda I'd help. After all, it's in her back yard. Come along and get something to eat. The meat should be ready, and the potato salad looked scrumptious. The slaw I'm not sure about." He should head home, to be around when Colton arrived. Elm Street was already lined with cars and trucks. "I'll drop you off," he said. She hesitated a moment with the door open. "Breaking into Rod's apartment probably has nothing to do with hantavirus, but if you find out who she is, she might be able to tell you about Rod movements in the past few weeks." "Whoever she is, she won't want to admit she even knew Rod," Whit said. An empty spot near the end of the street tempted him. No one had parked here, because it was in full sun. If the elm tree still stood, it would be in the shade. He should head out to the ranch. But this would be his last opportunity to get one of those gold pins from the Pollux Mine.

The backyards of the houses of the two mine superintendents had no separating fence, so the crowd had plenty of room to spread out. Even so, the place overflowed, people pushing onto the Marshall's patio, under the semi-transparent plastic roof. The corporation big wigs stood there, shaking hands and smiling like politicians. Not a chance of getting close enough to mention his gold pin. Whit glimpsed a harried Kyla, balancing paper plates in one hand and cups in another. No sense trying to talk to her now. He might as well go home and see the mess the burglar had made in Rod's room, and come back later, when the crowd had thinned. A caterer's truck backed down the drive. Whit dodged into a stand of junipers, much healthier trees than those growing wild on the mountain slopes. He had to watch where he stepped, so he didn't dislodge the hoses of the drip irrigation system. "Whit!" A woman wobbled toward him on high-heeled sandals that sank into the loose soil. He searched for a name. Moira. Moira Chase. She stepped very close, so close her perfume overpowered the odor of sunbaked juniper. "Too bad about your hired man," she whispered. She spread her left hand on his chest, two fingers sneaking past the buttons, until her ring caught on the fabric. A high-set diamond as big as an aspirin tablet. "We should talk," she said in a throaty whisper, "because I knew himvery well." Her hand slid over his belt buckle like ice cream melting. Her fingers twitched at the zipper of his jeans. Escape! Run, perspiration streaming down his back. Jump into his pickup, get the motor started, roll up the windows, lean back, panting, against the hot upholstery. A quick, fearful glance at the rear view mirror, to make sure Moira had not followed him. Fool. Oh course she hadn't. Not in those ridiculous shoes. "Rod, you didn't!" Whit slammed a palm on the steering wheel. The doctor's wife! Raunchy jokes about Moira Chase had been a staple at Whiskey Dan's, ever since the doctor had brought Moira home. A woman of twenty-two married to a man nearing fifty. That was certain to lead to snide comments, but Whit had never taken them seriously. He unbuttoned his shirt, stripped it off, flung it over the back of the seat. Filthy. Filthiest where Moira had touched him. What stung most, Moira did not seem to mourn her dead lover. Only looking for another set of male genitalia to satisfy her slim loins. *** On the wash-boarded gravel five miles out of town, Whit realized he was driving too fast. He eased off the accelerator. Moira Chase had broken into Rod's rooms to find a letter, a photograph, some trinket she had given him that would betray the affair. She had to keep the secret from Dr. Chase, or she would lose those big sparklers and the cute little red car she buzzed around town. Whit felt physically ill at the possibility that Moira now leveled her sights on

him. Rod's successor in the extra-marital sack. The gate stood open. Damn deputy! Whit stopped, swung the gate shut, drove too fast, slammed on his brakes and roused a cloud of dust under the cottonwoods. He struggled into the damp shirt, but didn't bother to button it. Deputy Colton knelt in the marigolds below Rod's window, the odor of the crushed flowers pungent in the heat. Whit kept his distance, for fear of trampling evidence. "Well?" he called. Colton shrugged. "Boots, size eight or nine, I'd guess." A smallish man or a tall woman. Moira Chase. He tried to figure her height from where her eyes had reached. Three or four inches below his own. Eight, maybe nine inches over five feet. Just about Kyla's height. "Tire tracks?" "I'd say, whoever your burglar is, he buys his tires at the same place you do," Colton said wryly. Naturally, with only two gas stations left in town, and only one still stocking tires, three-quarters of the pickups had the same tread pattern. Rod was an oddity, his truck and equipment bought in Los Angeles. "Drop it," Whit said. He felt no great urge to protect Moira Chase's reputation, but blackening Rod's name was another matter entirely. "Can you write down some other reason for coming out here?" Colton grinned. "Do it all the time when a woman's involved. How about someone tampered with your irrigation equipment?" "Fine," Whit snapped. He stared after the deputy's car until nothing remained but a column of dust. It stopped long enough to open and close the gate. Now, destroy the evidence. The boots had sunk an inch into the tilled loam of the flowerbed, leaving detailed prints. Pointed toes, soles far from new. The right heel was nicked, and the left sole so worn a nail head protruded slightly. "Jim, get a hoe and stir up this ground. The marigolds need weeding." Jim grinned before he turned his back. Whit paced methodically back and forth, obliterating prints in the dusty yard. "You know who?" Vince asked. "I suspect, and if it gets back to her husband...Rod loved her. Let's respect that, and keep our mouths shut." And she felt nothing for him.Only an animal lust that any strong, young man could satisfy. "Vince, go fetch the keys to Rod's truck, look through it, bring everything to me. Do you know how to open the secret compartment in the bronc statue?" Vince nodded. "Look in there, if there's any money, bring it in and I'll put in the safe." Whit stripped off his sodden shirt as he walked through the kitchen and flung it at the washing machine in the laundry nook. He could not stand to wear it, fouled by Moira's touch. He sat before the computer, called the ranch accounts onto the screen, found the rows of figures meaningless in his present frame of mind. Vince dropped a substantial stack of money before him, the rubber band parted, scattering hundreds and fifties. "And I found this, too." A sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper, folded in thirds. A photo fell out as Vince tipped the

paper toward the desk, a square picture, from an instant camera. Moira Chase, sitting on a boulder known to every local, where Fellows Creek had cut a hole straight through a rock. Moira's denim- clad legs spread around the hole. She wore nothing above her waist. The photographer had caught her unzipping her jeans. Soft porn. The kind of pictures panting lovers exchanged, trusting each other with incriminating evidence. Moira had probably taken a similar photo of Rod. She would have the good sense to destroy it, probably had burned it already. Whit turned the picture face down on the mouse pad. "That must'a been what she was looking for," Vince said. "Obviously. I'll let her know I've destroyed it. And you'll forget you ever saw it." Vince hummed, and Whit had an awful vision of the man in Whiskey Dan's, two or three beers to the good, smirking and hinting until the truth came out. "Vince, have you ever met Rod's sister?" "Judith? Of course, if she has an empty room I stay in her house when I go to Reno. I pay, since I'm not sick." His brows rose. "Good Lord! If Judith finds out!" "Exactly. She's a wonderful lady, and we'll keep our lips buttoned. Not just here. Everywhere." Jim entered and offered a plastic sack. "Bunch of junk for the most part." Whit dumped the contents on the floor. An empty cookie packet, ice scraper, a small flashlight, three scraps of paper scribbled over with what seemed to be shopping lists. A map of western Nevada, two pencils, a ballpoint pen, and half a dry doughnut. "I didn't bring the tools he stuck behind the seat. Some of them belong to the ranch." Naturally, since Rod repaired fences and irrigation equipment. "Can't see what his woman friend would want with any of this junk." "She didn't find the picture in his room, so she tried to get into the trunk, on the off chance," Vince said. "What picture?" asked Jim. "One you don't need to know about or even mention," Whit said. "Let's get back to work." He watched as Jim and Vince piled hay bales in the old pickup, feed for the horses stabled up at the range cabin. Whit dug around in the kitchen, found a book of matches under his two dish towels. He balanced the photo, face down, on the pristine grate of the family room fireplace, held the match to the corner, and sat, his back against the stone, as it smoldered. He hated this room, hated the memory of Jenny's delight in it, her shy hints that he would father the kids to fill it. Kyla? He could not imagine her here. A woman aiming for an M. D. Not at all like Jenny, except for what she roused in him. He lifted the poker from its hook, and beat at the ashes, whispering, "It's all physical, Jenny. Nothing at all like what we share." Apologizing ahead of time for what he would eventually do. He found himself exercising his arm on nothing but gray dust. Chapter Five Kyla rocked listlessly in the swing that hung from the largest poplar tree.

Lovely evening, in the long twilight of mountain shadows. Shadows, shade, so important in the desert. Somehow she had been drawn into a darker shadow, cast by Rod and Carl, death, and the possibility of a horrible thing called hantavirus. You may be wrong, she reminded herself. You won't know for sure until the lab work's complete. Yet the suspicion lingered, strong enough to justify a search before Rod's trail had grown so cold it could no longer be followed. If she and Whit could findwhere , they might save others from the same death. Kyla wished she had someone to talk to about Whit. About her illogical sense that he formed a watershed in her life. If she could catch Glenda alone...but the reflection from the television screen flickered on the window of the back room, Glenda and Mark relaxing after the busy day. Trace puttered in and out of the garage, putting a new tail light on a bicycle. Carl's bicycle, Glenda said, and the repair-work a form of magic.Don't admit he's gone. Fix the bike and maybe he'll come back . The roar of a vehicle speeding down the street. Only when she felt the stretch in her neck did Kyla realize she had lifted her head and followed the sound of the motor. She leaned back, pushed with her feet, pretending her lifted head had been a prelude to swinging. I'm not anxious to see Whit, she told herself. She had spent the afternoon in the Marshall's kitchen. Friends and neighbors, workers who still had jobs and those who were leaving, they needed to talk. As an outsider she could wash dishes and keep the bowls full. More than once, on trips to the buffet tables, she had felt unfriendly eyes. Twice she turned quickly and caught Dr. Chase staring at her. Hostile stares. After that she made as few excursions to the patio as possible. Kyla closed her eyes on the upward swing. The woman who intercepted Whit behind the junipers had supposed they were unobserved. But the window, however filled with African violets, still gave a view of the side yard. The woman was the type men dreamed of: slender, large busted. Bold. No hesitation in her caress, a hand in constant seductive motion, from Whit's chest to his...obvious what the woman had proposed. Kyla gripped the scratchy rope of the swing as tightly as she had grasped the pitcher she'd been filling at the sink. She had thought about what she carried in her purse, shocked and appalled that she planned the same rendezvous with Whit that this woman...Then the expression of disgust on Whit's face, the length of his strides as he fled. He does not believe in casual sex, said an inner voice. She should not let herself be upset by the scene, but reassured. Her judgment of Whit had been vindicated. But if Whit did not participate in one-night-stands, why did she think their relationship would end after she left Argentia? Heavens! Could Whit be looking for a wife? A wife to replace dead Jenny, the charmer who had played house and put curtains in a decrepit tree house. Kyla dragged her feet and the swing twisted to a halt. She had better square

with Whit immediately. And give him the box stored in her purse to use with a more suitable woman. Kyla eased down the hall until she could see the back of Glenda's head, and appraise the decibel level of the television. Loud enough, she decided to drown out her conversation on the phone. She lifted the thin phone book from the hook. Whiskey Dan's. Whisman. Whispering Creek. Whitaker, Calvin. Whitaker, T. J. She pulled over the high kitchen stool, sat on it, poking at the names, as if touching the print would tell her which number would connect her to Whit. Embarrassing, to have kissed a man, tacitly agreed to have sex with him, and not know his first name. Embarrassing also to reach the wrong Whitaker. In a small town the word would get around. The phone buzzed, she jumped off the stool, had the receiver to her cheek before she recalled there was a phone in the back room, and she should have let Mark or Glenda answer it. "Hello. Fetterman residence," she said. "Ky?" "Yes." She should have let Glenda or Mark answer. Now Whit would think she had been sitting by the phone, waiting for his call. "I laid out tomorrow's route. We'll be able to cover every ranch north of here if we leave at the crack of dawn. Five o'clock too early?" Ranches. Searching for the shack where Rod -- perhaps Carl -- had breathed in the deadly virus. "Then Friday, we'll go to Reno and see Judith." "Judith?" "Rod's sister. She called. She wants me up there to discuss funeral arrangements. As soon as they release the body. I'd like you to come, because you can tell her a lot more about this disease than I can." "The reports came? It's hantavirus?" she asked. "Haven't heard a thing. But you and I know -- " "We don't know for sure, Whit. Only the lab can tell -"I trust your judgment." Good grief! She did not want this man trusting her with anything, most of all his surging libido, if fast on the heels of sex would come a proposal. "Five okay?" "Okay," she said. "See you then. Bye." Explain tomorrow. They would spend the day together, pounding along dusty roads, looking for shacks...They dare not risk going into any building. Maybe she could borrow Mark's binoculars. "Who was it?" Glenda leaned in the door. "Whit. We're going to do some exploring, and try to find where Carl and Rod ran into hantavirus." "I talked to Dr. Chase this afternoon at the party, and he's quite certain Carl died of complications from the flu." "Dr. Chase doesn't like female doctors. I made the mistake of mentioning hantavirus. Now he can't back down from his original diagnosis, or he'll be admitting that a woman came up with the right one. What's Whit's first name? Calvin or something starting with T?" Mark entered the kitchen and threw a soft drink can in the recycling bin. "T.J.

Thomas Jefferson. Calvin Whitaker's his father." He leaned into the refrigerator. "Mrs. Whitaker -- Calvin's wife -- doesn't call herself Mrs. Whitaker, because she's Dr. Something-or-other, a professor of history. She wrote a book about Thomas Jefferson while she was pregnant with Whit." He straightened, a soft drink can in his hand. Kyla dropped her eyes before Mark's knowing smirk. "Whitaker men seem to favor well-educated wives," he said as he popped the top. He squinted, either avoiding the pressure of the gas escaping from the soda, or heaven forbid, considering the consequences of being the brother-in-law of T. J. Whitaker. "I'm helping Whit find where Rod Harris caught hantavirus," she said. "He's afraid if we don't look, someone else will die, an attitude that I consider admirable. Other men just sit back and let -- " But Mark had returned to the television. "Dr. Joan Littleton," Glenda said softly, and Kyla thought, a little sadly. "Whit's mother. I hope...I hope..." Concern and doubt compacted Glenda's face and spread wrinkles from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. "Kyla, Whit's a very handsome man, but he's -- " she hesitated "-- he's moody and eccentric." Neither moody nor eccentric were words with professional meaning. Glenda had chosen them intentionally, to separate her opinion of Whit from the clinical diagnosis of the psychologist. "He owns the loveliest house in Argentia," Glenda continued, "and it's completely empty, he's never seen with a woman -- " "Glenda, I'm not your baby sister anymore. Please don't warn me against men in that patronizing way. Whit and I have a common goal: Find where his friend -and maybe Carl -- were infected." "You know Mom always hoped...the Walkers are a nice family, and good friends, and Neil -- " "We're not going to repeat the conversation about Neil Walker and his millions, I hope," Kyla said in what she hoped was a tone of resigned sarcasm. Glenda gave her a long, hard look before she left to rejoin her husband and the television How much did Glenda know? Or guess? Had she deciphered the meaning of the sharp contours of her purse? Did Glenda have some way of reading deeper intentions, unspoken plans? Heart's desire? *** Whit saw Kyla the moment he rounded the corner, waiting at the end of the driveway, a capacious totebag dangling from her shoulder. She wore shorts that reached almost to her knees, and a demure shirt with white buttons down the front. Low boots. Wide hat. Sensible. The shorts pulled up as she made the high step into the truck, revealing a muscular thigh above her sculpted knee. Very few women had beautiful knees. Whit wondered if a man could die of sensual overload. Hold on, he told himself. It will get worse. He had waited too long before he managed to separate sex from abiding love, and was horny as a buck in autumn. Now that he had found Kyla, he wanted her immediately, and that did not work with a woman's expectations. Lots of waiting ahead, he told himself. She must have stuck her little purse in the tote bag.

No way for him to spy and see if the corners of the box still pushed out points of white leather. "Hantavirus," he said aloud, to drop out of his fantasies, back to the day's goal. "Good morning." "I'm still asleep," she said. "I didn't get to bed until midnight because Trace wanted to talk." "Did you find out where the boys had been since school let out?" "No. Trace wants to meet Rod's sister." "What?" He slammed on the brakes at the corner. Too hard. "Trace and I had a theological discussion, nothing about mine shafts or old cabins, unfortunately. He knows Rod's sister has a house in Reno -- " "Judith. Saying she has a house sounds very...suggestive." "Judith. Trace has heard that she helps people who need medical care, and he thinks Judith's house would be a suitable place for a memorial. It seems Carl was a rather serious child. Glenda says that's to be expected of a kid who's been sick a lot." "Glenda's very wise," Whit said. "Glenda's a psychologist," Kyla said. "Anyway, Carl talked about becoming a doctor, so Trace has concluded that helping Judith's house would be right." Whit experienced a major sinking feeling, thinking of Trace Fetterman tagging along on the trip to Reno. His presence would end any possibility of the right moment just happening to happen. And he and Judith had bad things to talk about, Kyla too, and a twelve-year-old -"However, I don't think tomorrow's exactly the time for Trace to meet Judith," Kyla said. Whit wanted to throw his arms about her, but he dare not take even one hand off the steering wheel, as he simultaneously confronted a sharp corner, a deep ditch to the right, and a rather sizeable pothole on the left. "Later would be better," he agreed. "I'll ask Judith to visit me soon." Kyla nodded. "Anyway, the kids raised more than three hundred dollars at the bake sale and car wash. You can mention that to Judith." "Young entrepreneur," Whit said. Kid's were good at business. They had no preconceptions, and often saw alternatives that adults missed. This summer he would take Trace and his buddies up the mountain, show them how he allocated the cattle on the leased pastures, spend a night or two...No. He dare not take anyone near the range cabin until they had identified the source of the hantavirus infection. "Are you sure we shouldn't investigate the range cabin?" he asked. "But you spent the night there. Helped clean it. And your cowboys -- " "Jim and Vince. They've been in and out of the cabin for the last month." "We'll say it's okay. The road dipped into a dry gully. According to the map, the tracks leading to the Dingo Ranch cut off somewhere nearby. A white square, a realtor's sign, simplified his search. He turned into the ruts, and stopped immediately when he spotted the dried mud flat. "There's no ranch here," Kyla said. "The mud. Water pools here, and Rod may have come down this road soon after the snowfall." In two minutes the scenario came clear. Rod had arrived when the ground was still sodden. He had swung completely off the road to avoid the puddle, and his

rear wheel had left deep imprints. "It works," Kyla said, holding the paper close to the track, comparing them. "I never would have thought to try it." "We'll drive in. There's a little house about a mile from here, and it's close enough to town that the boys might have ridden out on their bicycles." "Any bicycle tracks?" Kyla asked. "Can't see any, but kids on fat-tired bikes would have splashed right through the puddle, and the next vehicle on the road wiped out their prints. Anyway, it came to me last night, this house would be a prime place for mice. The original settlers lived in a cave dug into the bank of the gully. They built their house in front of the dugout, and kept right on using the underground part as a back room. When I was a kid I liked to visit the folks who lived here, because that room was always cool in the summer." "And twelve-year-old boys do the same things, generation after generation," Kyla said wryly. The gully narrowed, the road climbed to the rim for half a mile, then tipped over the edge once more, a steep descent into a little valley. No shack with its tail poking into the hill. Nothing but a disorganized heap of gray, weathered wood, and shingles strewn for hundreds of yards. "Might as well take a look," Kyla said, but she was obviously disappointed. The only prints they found were made by wild creatures. Tracks showed that Rod had not even driven into the valley, but turned around after seeing the collapsed house. From all appearances he had not even bothered to get out of his truck. "Now where?" Kyla asked. "On down this valley, and we find a back road that heads to Penny Springs. It's forty miles shorter than if we backtrack to the highway." Kyla produced a plastic bottle, the outside glistening with condensate. "Lemonade. We'd better drink it now, before all the chill is gone. You want me to pour it in a cup?" "Not unless you have qualms about drinking after me." She shook her head and handed him the bottle. "What's at Penny Springs?" she asked. The lurching of the truck created uneven patches in her voice. "A full scale ranch. House, bunkhouse, corral, barns. There're people living there, but they're not ranchers, only rent the house. The owners leased the grazing land for the winter, but it's empty now, all the cattle driven to higher pastures." "If someone's living in the house, there'll be no mice," Kyla said. "The outbuildings haven't been touched for at least two years." Kyla nodded, staring straight ahead, watching for a smooth stretch, then she gulped a fast swig of lemonade so it did not get into her nose. "The springs flow on the side of a hill, a big stream, and below them water oozes for a quarter mile. The valley's a marsh of willows and cat tails."

"If you know who leased the pasture for the winter," Kyla said, "we could ask if any of his cowboys have been sick." "I leased the land. But Rod wouldn't have had any business around the house and barns. Look in the glove compartment. You'll find a brown envelope." Kyla nearly hit her head on the visor when the truck bounced, but she came up with the envelope. "Inside are the two pages from the land catalog. On the second sheet Rod wrote "Penny Springs" across the top and underlined it." Kyla studied the papers in fits and starts, as the road allowed. "I can't find anything that says Penny Springs Ranch is for sale," she said. "No, but Rod probably thought it might be on the market soon. The owner died two years ago, and from what I hear the heirs pitched into each other, all claiming a bigger share. This spring, whoever's handling the estate rented the house to a flock of kids. They don't have any visible means of support, but have money to spend at Whiskey Dan's on Saturday night." "They're not kids if they can drink legally," Kyla said. "You know what I mean. Young guys who think they're living some TV version of the Wild West. Watched too many reruns of Bonanza and Gunsmoke. It's a good thing the sheriff's stingy with gun permits, or they'd carry six-shooters on their hips. Dan shudders every time they walk through the door, because they boil over if someone looks at them crosswise. They're always just two steps away from picking a fight." "We're visiting the place where this gang lives?" Kyla asked. Whit risked a quick glance, saw astonishment, but no fear. "Got any ideas on how to approach them?" he asked. Kyla said nothing while the truck ground up the hill to the junction of the road that led to Penny Springs. "I figure to tell the truth, that you're a doctor from a research center working on hantavirus, and that -- " "I'm not a doctor from a research center." "Close enough. From the top of this hill you'll see the big green patch below the spring." Kyla twisted under the restraint of the seat belt to peer out the back window. He dare not look, for deep holes pitted the road. Almost like someone had dug them. "Something shiny," she said. "A big patch, glistening here and there. Do kids playing cowboys and Indians plant gardens?" He heard her wariness of the Penny Springs crew in the question. "I'd think they'd be more likely to keep horses." Whit let the truck roll to a stop at the crest, he reached behind the seat, feeling for his binoculars. Kyla dug in her tote bag and came up with a pair. Brown netting hung from a framework covering two or three acres. Where the netting sagged from the supporting poles, morning sun reflected off plastic. Leaves and branches covered about half the netting, and as they watched a truck backed up to the netting, two men climbed out and began shoveling something from the bed. Whit dropped the binoculars, shifted into neutral, and let the truck roll

backwards, down the hill. Only a hundred feet or so and they could not see the ranch. And men at the ranch could not see them. "Marijuana?" Kyla asked. "We are batting precisely zero this morning," Whit said, angry that he had not foreseen this eventuality. If he had not stopped to let the engine cool a bit, if Kyla's eyes had been a trifle less sharp, he would have taken her straight into a dicey situation. "I think we'd better let the sheriff make the next visit to Penny Springs. We'll stroll along the road, anyway, and look for Rod's tracks." It was Kyla who found where Rod had swung wide to avoid a series of potholes. He had taken the same route going and coming. The potholes looked like nothing Whit had ever seen before on a back road. Almost artificial, intentional...Dug by the pot growers to discourage traffic into their valley. "What's that?" Kyla asked. "What's what?" "I heard a whine? Like a hurt animal." Whit grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him. He had never heard of an injured coyote attacking a human being, but...He scanned the hillside, searching for movement. Nothing very large could hide in the low, scattered brush. A four-footed animal appeared on the crest, making no effort at concealment. It walked, but with an unnatural bounce. "A dog," Kyla said. The dog limped toward the truck, as rapidly as it could on three legs. It paid no attention to the human beings, but went directly to the back of the truck, and on the third try managed to scramble onto the wide bumper, then over the tailgate in a noisy, awkward huddle. It yelped when it landed in the bed. Kyla started running, Whit plunged after her, grabbed the sleeve of her blouse just as she reached for the dog. "Poor thing!" she said. "Don't touch it!" He yanked; she fell against him. "You don'tever touch a stray dog in this country, particularly when it's hurt." She looked a bit embarrassed. "Of course. Mom and Dad told us that over and over again, but I guess I never had a chance to put the admonition into practice." "You can today." He used the threat as an excuse to wrap his arm about her waist. Her curves fell against his hollows, a perfect match. Turn her, every so slightly. Her head came up, eyes closed, and he knew she felt the stirring, too. Ready to be kissed. His lips met hers easily, a natural force, like wind and sun. He had waited six miserable years, had given up on ever again feeling the flicker of desire. No need to draw her against him. She stood on tiptoe, leaned into him, wriggled a little. He pulled her head against his neck. "You don't think this is love?" he whispered. Her head moved, yes or no, he couldn't tell which. Her hips stopped wiggling; she pulled back a trifle and lifted against the pressure of his hand. She might be blushing. Then again the color on her cheeks might come from the wind or sunburn.

"Not love, but the next best thing," she said. "I can't say all these sensations are entirely new, but...well, mountains compared to hills. I'm not the woman you're looking for, Whit." "What am I looking for?" "A wife. You're too moral, too honorable to be satisfied with a summer romance." "Want me to go down on my knees?" "Whit -- we met Monday, this is Thursday. Besides, I can't possibly marry anyone. You especially." "What's wrong with me?" "Three hundred and fifty miles between San Francisco and Argentia, that what's wrong." "I've heard of couples, one lives on the West Coast and one on the East Coast, and they meet every weekend." "Weekends I study. No time for meeting in the middle." "Kyla, for the past six years I haven't even looked at a woman. Now there's you. I'm not talking about marriage. My mind hasn't opened that far yet." She turned around, and from the angle of her shoulders he judged she was still trying to make up her mind. He did not want to pressure her into sex. He had pressured Jenny, and the first time had been a disaster. Besides, he wasn't going to make love to Kyla in the bed of the truck, particularly when a strange dog had just claimed it as his domain. In the cab? It was far too narrow for him to stretch out, and the steering wheel got in the way. They could drive north, to Highway 6, and find a motel. But too many of the places had resident women, and bedding Kyla there seemed to equate her with the whores. Not the ranch. Jim and Vince might take it into their heads to come down the mountain, instead of bunking at the cabin. They'd be only too happy to spread the news of their boss' lady friend. Besides, Jenny lingered in the house. He and Kyla must find neutral ground. "What had you figured? About where we'd do the deed, I mean," she asked. A tingle ran down his spine. Kyla had guessed what he was thinking about. Her eyes wrapped a haze of blue about him, caressed him, encouraged him, even as her face retained an expression of innocence. His hands flapped helplessly, with no ready reply to her direct question. "Tomorrow night in Reno? A drive to Bishop some evening? I mean, we won't do a thing until you're sure. I couldn't make hard and fast plans." The innuendo, he swore, came by accident. Hard he certainly was, and when the time came, probably too fast. "Hard and fast," she whispered, and her fingers spread below his belt buckle. "Where's our next station on the hantavirus hunt?" Her quick change from flighty to serious calmed him. "I'd planned to cut through Penny Springs, over the ridge to Malaspina Ranch. Now we have to go back to the highway and around, close to a hundred miles." "Then I suggest we get on the road. Can the dog tag along?" Whit peered into the bed of the pickup. The dog had dragged a dirty saddle

blanket into a corner, now curled up, licking a front paw swollen to three times its normal size. A scruffy, light brown dog. If given a bath he might be a bit golden. Not too thin, so he had not been alone in the desert very long. "He's accustomed to riding in a truck. With that hurt foot I'm not risking a bite by tossing him out. How about you?" She shook her head. Whit took several deep breaths before he crawled into the cab. Kyla fastened the seat belt nearest the door, which was fine with him, because if she scooted to the middle, his right hand would be between her legs in a flash. Absolute silence, except for a faint movement of the wind through stiff bushes. Whit heard the whistle of his own breath, the friction of Kyla's shorts on the upholstery, a scratching as the dog adjusted the blanket. A human sound, a far-away shout. He gritted his teeth. Wild desire had so distracted him, that he had forgotten the threat just over the ridge. He propped himself against the edge of the seat, back to Kyla. "What are you waiting for?" she asked. He put his finger to his lips. A ping from the cooling engine, a faint whimper from the dog. Then, far away, the sound of a motor roaring to life. He climbed in and turned the key in the ignition. "They didn't spot us coming in because they were driving their own truck, and couldn't hear us over the noise of the engine. I waited until they started their motor before starting ours." "You think they'd come after us?" she asked, definitely alarmed. Whit shrugged and smiled to ease anxiety out of his face. "It's just as well that they haven't the slightest idea who spoke to the sheriff." He offered a hand; she grasped it. "Not so tight. I'll have to snatch my hand away when I need it on the wheel." Her fingers loosened, but did not let go. He swung his eyes left, to the door mirror, checking the road behind. If he looked in the rear view mirror too often she would know he was worried. Maybe he should get a cellular phone. But in the mountains and valleys of the Great Basin, cell phones never seemed to work when you needed them. He would call the sheriff from the first wide spot in the road, the sheriff would call in a narc squad, and they would clean out Penny Springs. But until the request worked its way through the county and state bureaucracy, the marijuana field barred him and Kyla from the tool sheds and woodpiles of the ranch. "Too bad we can't get in there," Kyla said, echoing his own thoughts. The second time today he'd had the feeling she read his mind. "From your description -plenty of water and acres of vegetation -- I'd say mice thrive in those outbuildings." She asked his opinion with her amazing cobalt eyes, and his loins contracted. He almost asked, "When?" but was saved by the inability of any sound to pass

through his dry throat. "Any of that lemonade left?" he asked after he coughed. The top half of an eighteen-wheeler raced south, toward Las Vegas. The highway. Kyla pawed through her tote bag. "Glenda doesn't approve of you," Kyla announced as she offered the bottle. "She says you're moody and eccentric, living alone in that house without furniture." "What do you think?" "That there are logical explanations for everything, and my sister doesn't know about them, since you haven't come to her for therapy. Well, maybe your reasoning isn't reasonable. Love isn't logical." "You can say that again," he said, too forcefully. "Whit, who was the woman who made a pass at you yesterday afternoon, behind the junipers?" He approached the intersection slowly, waited for another semi and two cars. How much had Kyla seen? "Moira Chase," he said. He made another check of the empty highway. "Chase? Related to the doctor? Daughter, or -- " "Wife." He did not pull out onto the highway, needing to look at her, catch her reaction. Kyla's brows rose; then she laughed. "No wonder you ran. With his nineteenth century attitude toward women, Chase would come gunning for the man who committed adultery with his wife." Whit made the left turn, breathing easier. Kyla had seen the whole thing, including his rapid departure. No jealousy, no irate question. It occurred to him that Kyla might be the proper person to carry his message to Moira. "Ky, we're pretty close, I mean, I feel I can trust you to keep a secret." "I'd trust you with my secrets, if I had any worth concealing," she said, managing to embed a sense of mystery in the words, then ruined it all by laughing. Whit searched for a circumlocution, found none. "Rod and Moira Chase were lovers," he said bluntly. "You hit the nail on the head yesterday, a woman prowled through Rod's things. She didn't find what she was looking for, but Vince did. I've been trying to think of a way to let Moira know the...thing's been destroyed." "A photograph," Kyla said without even bothering to pretend a question. A clever and perceptive woman. "Photograph. Pretty explicit. Could you find a way to speak to her?" "You think she'd feel better if a woman conveyed the news?" "Yes. If her husband's the suspicious sort, if someone should see me deep in conversation with Moira and tell him, Dr. Chase might put the wrong spin on things." Kyla studied her hands. Her fingers wrapped halfway round her thighs, and he wished their hands could change places. No traffic ahead. If it weren't for the seat belt, he could hug her. "I'll ask Glenda if she knows Moira Chase. That would make it seem natural, one woman introducing another to her sister. But I can't quite figure why she should believe me. Or how I'm to explain how I know about the picture." "Tell her we're lovers," he suggested, then worried at his own daring. She did

not react at all. "The picture? Too blatant." "Very much too blatant. One of these days we'll go to the place and I'll take one of you just like it." The thought of Kyla stripped to the waist, unzipping her jeans, intoxicated him. "Must have been titillating if you want to imitate it," she said. "Very titillating. Just thinking about it makes a man bust his zipper." Chapter Six Whit hunched against the wind-etched glass of the phone booth, his tight rump poking out, catching the sunshine, while he punched buttons on a phone set far too low for him. Kyla dragged her gaze back to the pages from the land catalog. These were all the clues they had in their search; she should familiarize herself with every mark from Rod's pen. She shook herself, turned her back on the phone when she found her eyes sidling to the denim-clad rear end. The truck rocked, the door opened, Whit climbed in. "I'm not sure what county Penny Springs is in, so I called both sheriffs," he said. "Rod checked Malaspina Ranch twice," she said. She slid the paper across the seat, a finger on the vital line. Whit reached blindly and their fingers collided. What has come loose inside me? Kyla wondered idly. Something jostled about, frequently bouncing off her heart. She had to put up a firmer resistance than this. Monday to Thursday, an indecently short time. Yet this morning she had fitted her hips against that ridged buckle and firm bulge, displaying unharnessed desire. Her display of lust had rivaled Moira Chase, and Whit had run off from Moira. "I packed two ham sandwiches and stale cake," she said. "Will we find a shady place to picnic?" "I've never been to Malaspina," Whit said, "although I've heard it's a nice spread, so likely there're trees." She tried to relax, tried to forget the embrace, let the scenery race past, what scenery she could see at sixty-five or seventy miles an hour on flat desert. Power and phone poles whipped by, all featuring a tan band a few feet off the ground. Sand blasted? No, a few steers clustered about a pole, the only vertical thing in miles, and one scratched his back against the wood. A gas station and cafe that seemed to have no earthly reason for existence. Except for the streak of green on the hillside above. A spring. The highway climbed the range of hills, into a scattering of juniper and piñon. Would Whit stop here for lunch? Downhill, out of the trees, the road clinging to the top of a descending ridge in tight curves. Whit slowed at a mailbox with the red flag up, turned onto a road that stretched south, mile after mile, light against the desert. Nothing but the mailbox suggested human habitation. Kyla looked at her watch. Twenty to twelve. Her stomach growled. A bowl of cereal at 4:45 had no staying power. A muscle in Whit's jaw twitched. Moody and eccentric. The residents of Malaspina were home, judging from the flag on the mailbox. She would ask if they might

picnic under one of their trees, in plain sight of the house. That would keep Whit at arm's length, and give her time to contemplate whether she really wanted to start an affair with a moody, eccentric man. The hills on their left grew into respectable mountains. A quarter after twelve. The road dropped into a gully, Whit revved the engine as he plowed through a patch of sand, then a steep grade up the far ridge. Before they reached the top she saw green arrow-points against the sky. A row of tall Lombardy poplars. "Lovely," Whit said when the valley opened below them. Lovely indeed. The small, old-fashioned frame house had not been replaced by a mobile home. In fact, it glared white from a recent coat of paint. No real barn, but a long shed protecting farm equipment. Between the house and a steep bluff stretched irrigated fields of alfalfa. She caught movement in one of the sheds. A dog stepped slowly into the sunshine and eyed them warily. Kyla jumped in alarm when the bark came, almost at her ear. "I'd forgotten the dog," she said. The ranch dog stood his ground, and the cripple in the bed of the pickup slunk back to his blanket. "There's a note taped to the front door, so I imagine that means no one's at home," Whit said. He hopped out, one eye on the ranch dog. The dog took one more step in their direction, then stopped. The sun glittered on the links of the dog's chain. "The dog's tied," Kyla said. "Since our hitchhiker is crippled, I doubt we'll have a dog fight." "'Jake,'" Whit read, tilting his head to the angle of the note. "'Come in and make yourself at home. An emergency in Reno, will be back about noon Friday.'" He groaned. "I didn't stop to look for tire tracks, because I was sure these folks were at home. I thought they could tell us if Rod had been here." "I really doubt we'll find anything on this place," Kyla said, shading her eyes, circling to observe the surroundings. Equipment in precise rows, a neat vegetable garden, a tended border of foxglove that concealed the propane tank. "Too neat?" Whit said. A cat, trailed by three half-grown kittens, slunk around the corner of the house. "I don't think a mouse has a chance. What a great place! No wonder Rod checked it twice." On the west side of the house a bay window faced a vista of distant mountains. Kyla imagined sitting in that window, watching winter storms sweep over the tan desert and dark peaks. Not today, though, only an expanse of blue streaked with jet trails. The long, narrow clouds all seemed to converge on a single point beyond the horizon. Everyone going the same place? San Francisco! To her, Malaspina seemed very distant from her cozy apartment, yet overhead pilots started their approach to San Francisco International. Three hundred and fifty miles shrank with frightening abruptness. "The folks won't mind if we picnic under those trees," Whit said. He headed for the truck.

"I'll walk," Kyla said. Seven hours on the road, with no exercise but the short stroll above the marijuana farm, and her legs ached. Whit had backed into the shade before she reached the trees, and was rummaging about behind the seat. He kicked twigs out of the way, then spread a gray blanket. "I'll get the thermos of coffee and the water jug," he said. "We've drunk all the lemonade." She located the sandwiches, only slightly smashed, at the bottom of her tote. She ran a finger across her purse, hunting for the sharp corners of the box. It was still there. She unwrapped the sandwiches and laid them out on napkins, to avoid chance contact if she handed one to Whit. The cake was only a bit damaged from bouncing around its plastic container. "I like this place," he said, and dropped onto the blanket with crossed legs. "A much more comfortable house than I've got. Three or four rooms downstairs, and a cozy attic. See the little window under the eaves? That's where the kids sleep. The lean-to on the side, that's where they added modern plumbing to replace the outhouse." "How isolated their life was, back in the days when they depended on horses. It would take days to get to the nearest town." "Not so isolated as you think. There's a railroad a few miles northwest. No longer a railroad, just the roadbed, but when this house was built the trains ran everyday to Reno, and there you caught a train to San Francisco, or Chicago or New York. We're the isolated ones, in our cars and trucks." Kyla munched her sandwich and pondered Whit's remark. Much more secure, traveling by rail. A lone woman sat in a car with dozens of other people, and a man who found her attractive would, as a consequence, treat her with excessive politeness. Whit licked mustard off his fingers and stuck the very last corner of bread in his mouth. Kyla shoved the box of cake across the blanket until it touched his knee. "Later," he said. He poured coffee into two plastic cups, handed one to her, and she had no alternative but to take it. And he finagled things so their fingertips touched. "A train used to run right into Argentia, every Tuesday and Friday. No hassle with traffic and self-service gas pumps. You simply amused yourself and let the train crew handle everything. Instead of fast-food hamburgers and bags of chips, youdined . And I would have met you at the station with a team and buggy -- " "I didn't know you last Tuesday." "I'd have met you anyway, because I'd have been at the station to pick up the new gear for the sprinkler pump, instead of waiting days for the parcel service." Whit turned the plastic cup in his fingers. Long fingers. We're talking trivia, but both thinking the same thing. He's wondering how to get the ball rolling, and I'm wondering whether or not to play. Kyla

scrambled to her feet and jogged down the row of poplars. Lombardy poplars, natives of Italy, that uncannily flourished in the desert west, if they got their roots into permanent water. Too narrow for expansive shade, reaching up like a tower, like a...She stopped, laid her hands on her cheeks, and the flame of rising blood seemed hot enough to burn her fingers. She should simply march up to him and say, "Whit, let's have sex," and get it done with. An engine in the distance. The owners of Malaspina were coming home a day early. But this was a monotone, not the sound of a car or truck pulling the last strenuous mile to the ranch. Not on the road at all, she realized, but straight overhead. The small plane slanted downward, and from Kyla's perspective almost grazed the poplars. She held her breath as it crossed the valley, fearing it headed straight for a smash against the bluff. The plane disappeared, instead of a crash, a light puff of dust as it touched down. "I think Jake's arrived," Whit said, and Kyla stiffened at finding him beside her. She had been so intent on the plane she had not heard his footsteps. "We'll drive over and explain why we're here, so he doesn't come running with a gun." "Let's walk. I'm stiff, and my...well, I'm a bit numb in certain places from sitting all morning." He grinned. They followed a fence-row, circling the equipment shed so they did not excite the chained dog. In the distance a motor sprang to life, a small pickup bounced down a steep road, heading for the house. The driver leaned out the window when he came even with them. "Want to start by looking at the house?" Jake asked. Whit explained their presence. Jake's face fell. "I'm supposed to meet some folks from Los Angeles this afternoon. I saw your truck as I came over the trees, so naturally thought...But I can show you the place anyway," he said eagerly. Whit shook his head, asked about Rod, Jake nodded, his expression turning properly solemn. "Heard about it," he said glumly. "Gossip said it sounded like hantavirus. Not good for business, people dying of that damned stuff. It's rare, but the moment the news gets on TV, everyone thinks we're keeling over out here, like flies hit with bug spray. Wish the doctors and hospitals would keep their mouths shut. Hurts property values. Sure you don't want to look around?" A phone buzzed. Jake pulled a tiny black instrument from his pocket. "Yes. No. Hell and damnation! Tell them to wait right there, I'll be back in forty-five minutes." He clicked the phone shut. "The stupid clients went to the office. Thought I was flying them out." He shoved a card into Whit's hand, waved as he turned the small truck around. "Good to meet you. If you're ever interested in property, get in touch." When they got back to the poplars the bed of the truck was no longer in the shade, and the dog had climbed out and curled up on the ground. Whit poured water into the broad cup from the top of the thermos and slid it close to the dog's nose. It got up without putting weight on its right front foot and slurped

noisily. The plane wobbled into the air, circled, and headed northeast. "Cake time now?" Kyla asked, a little too gaily. "Oh! yuck!" The shadow of the tree had moved beyond the box, and the chocolate frosting had melted all over the two plastic forks she had packed with the cake. "We can eat it with our fingers," Whit said. He took the smallest slice; it fell to pieces, depositing frosting on his jeans. Kyla grabbed a napkin, made a dive for the viscous glob before it slid to the inside of his leg. His thigh jerked beneath the pressure of her hand, his fingers closed on her hand, he kicked the box of cake out of the way. She had time to think, "Here it comes," before his lips caught hers with a weight that sent her flat on her back. The last thing she noted with any certainty was a gulping sound. The tan dog had found the cake. *** Kyla peeked at look at her watch. Three-thirty. Where had the time gone? She wasn't sure when Jake had left, but he would certainly be back soon, and neither she nor Whit had a stitch on. Well, he wore socks. "Whit," she whispered. He lifted his head, looked around as if uncertain where he was. "Huh?" "Jake said forty-five minutes one way, so don't you think we should maybe...?" He groaned, rolled over, but instead of sitting up he pulled her on top of him. "Okay?" he asked. "Okay." A little fast at the finale, but the preliminaries had been the stuff dreams are made of. He'd moved so easily, it had taken them at least an hour to get their clothes off. Her bra had stumped him, and to her surprise he had been shy about asking, wasting several minutes until she pointed out the front fastening. "You didn't come." Kyla shook her head. "Out of practice." She decided not to let Whit know how little practice she had had in her life. "Next time." "You'll give me a next time?" he asked lazily. Kyla lifted her head and pretended she gave the question a great deal of thought. "Yeeees," she said, dragging the word out to convey doubt. "Reno, tomorrow night?" She nodded. "I'll make reservations. You have any preferences. Big hotel? Or small and private?" "Where do you usually stay?" "Small and private." "Sounds good." "Great horned toads!" She did not hear the drone of the airplane until he lifted her clear of the thud of his heart. She crawled after her scattered clothing, slipped into her blouse without the bra, because she could not find it. Her panties lay at the edge of the blanket; she grabbed them, her shorts and headed for the truck. "Your shoes," Whit yelled. He threw them into the bed of the pickup, along with his boots and the blanket. The dog yelped. He must have climbed back into the bed of the pickup to nap after food and drink.

Whit stood on one foot, struggling with his jeans, at the same digging his heel in the soft ground. Burying the condom, Kyla realized. "Sorry, pooch," he muttered into the truck bed. "Probably hit that sore leg." "The tote bag," Kyla said. She stuffed the remains of the picnic in the bag, found her bra dangling from a dead branch. She made it back to the truck before the branches of the poplars danced in the plane's wash. Whit looked at his watch. "We don't have time to do the fourth ranch. We'll leave early tomorrow, and detour on our way to Reno." Kyla resigned herself to another five- o'clock morning. "How was it for you?" Kyla asked as Whit shoved the truck into reverse. "A release." His mouth worked, he rubbed his hand across his mouth, hard. "A wonderful release. I'd forgotten." "Then we'll count the afternoon as a good beginning. If, within a few days, there are no jets lifting off or tumbles off precipices, we might reconsider the relationship." "Single engine private plane doesn't count?" His mouth twitched, coming close to a smile at his own joke. "It made for a strange ending," Kyla said. "It won't be strange tomorrow night," he said. "Very quiet, with all the time in the world." "Thanks for taking so much time. I hope that part doesn't change." "The point of ecstasy, that's what we strive for, but it never comes straight out of the blue." The point of ecstasy. She had a little more than a week to find it with Whit. But if Whit excited her to the climax of passion, what if he spoiled her for other men...he was so blasted GU! *** Whit pulled onto the shoulder of the road a mile from the edge of town. He was almost half an hour early. He glared at the bright spot in the eastern sky where the sun seemed stalled in some cosmic traffic jam. He watched the numerals on his watch change. 4:37. 4:38. He had missed her all night, as he would miss an arm or a leg. Wrong, terribly wrong, to make love and then part. Through every dark hour the loneliness had weighed heavier and heavier, and he wondered how he had put up with it for six years. How quickly he had yielded to lust when the right woman appeared. A very special lust, of a very high order. He had not expected to miss Kyla with such a deep ache. That had not been part of his plan. Missing, longing, these words reeked of love. Forgive me, Jenny. For the hundredth time, a steady pleading confessional into the night, hoping some ghost heard, and would convey the message. No sense arriving on Elm Street before five. He imagined Kyla walking to the end of the drive with her big tote bag. Or perhaps more substantial luggage this morning, since they would stay near Reno tonight. How had Kyla broken the news to Mark and Glenda Fetterman? Glenda disapproved of him, because he was moody and eccentric. Did Kyla think him moody and eccentric? He would guard against it.

The sky in the east grew so bright he could not stand to look. A fiery crescent bulged over the horizon. Mid-June, nearly the longest day of the year. A man jogged toward the truck, chasing a long shadow, panting too deeply to do more than lift a finger in greeting. Past retirement age, still working to maintain the trim shape that had come naturally when he worked in the mine. Whit rolled down the window to enjoy the aroma of the desert as the first sunbeams warmed the sage and greasewood. Reflected in his side mirror, he saw a woman jogging up from behind. Instead of cutting into the road to pass him, she entered the narrow space between the truck and the ditch. The sun shone directly in her face and reflected from mirrored sunglasses. Whit made out a wildly patterned jogging bra and tight shorts. The woman dodged the mirror, and as she did so gave him a sour look. Moira Chase. She jerked the glasses off, made a graceful, circling halt in front of hood, and strolled back. Her low-slung shorts exposed an inch of skin below her navel. "Good morning," she panted. Her breasts poked over the stretch bra, rising and falling. "Hello." He put his hand on the button to close the window, then remembered it did not work unless the key had been turned in the ignition. She leaned on the door. "Shy?" "You needn't make the effort. I burned the picture." Her mouth smiled, but her eyes reminded him of the little window on a calculator. "But I didn't burn my copy. Either of them. I'm not ashamed of what Rod and I did. You'll find out whenwe get together." Copies? Of an instant photograph? Take that gross thing to a photo shop? No, a color copier...everything so simple now. "Rod said I was the best. Didn't he tell you? I thought all men bragged about the pussy they fucked. I'm truly disappointed." A mock frown. "I'm not free this morning." A real frown this time. "Be here same time tomorrow, the doc's got surgery." She grimaced with distaste at the open bed of the truck. "I wish you cowboys would get campers. They make adultery so simple. But Rod found a place. I'll show you." Whit turned the key; Moira stepped back and almost fell in the ditch. Whit dared to look in the rear view mirror only after he had gone half a block. She stood at the edge of the road, staring after him. He swung into the empty parking lot of the grocery and left the motor running until his lungs stopped hurting. He lowered the passenger side window and turned on the fan. Flush Moira out of the cab. At least he had not noticed perfume that he would have to explain away. Moira's copy of the photo still existed, along with another that featured Rod. Moira hadn't cared about Rod, so why should she keep the pictures? The sun flooded the parking lot with gold, and in that instant Whit felt the arrival of

mystery. If Moira did not care who saw the picture, why had she searched Rod's apartment and attempted to break into his pickup? She wanted something other than the photo. "What --?" He turned to the passenger seat, broke off the question when he realized Kyla was not there. He looked at his watch -- 4:58 -- turned the key in the ignition. Kyla had guessed that the thief had been a woman. She would come up with an answer this second question. On second thought, he did not look forward to telling her about meeting Moira. Not this morning, nor this afternoon. Wait until the languid aftermath of love, after he had brought Kyla to an orgasm. She must never think that he found Moira tempting. He had spent half the night designing sensual experiments, and if they were to come to fruition, he must not upset her. He nearly missed Elm Street because the tree was gone. He slammed on his brakes, made the turn, and glimpsed the figure waiting half way down the block. He looked at his watch. Two minutes after five. "Sorry I'm late," he said, leaning across and opening the passenger door. "Just got out here myself," she said. She yawned, stuffed a backpack among the boxes in the bed of the truck. "What are we hauling?" she asked. "Some of Rod's things. Papers, stuff Judith might need." "Where's the dog?" "Sleeping on a blanket on the back porch. The creature was a bit testy while Vince pulled the cactus spines out of its foot, but after some food and water it settled right down." She slid to the middle and fastened the lap belt. He waited until they were out of town before he kissed her. A simple, lip to lip welcome. Her tongue brushed his upper lip. "No you don't," he said, pulling back so fast his head bumped the window. "We've got a long day ahead, lots to do before we cuddle up in the hotel. Yesterday was okay, but nooky's more comfortable in civilized places." She leaned her head on his shoulder and in two minutes he heard slow, soft breaths.Nap. Sleep, because I'm keeping you up half the night . North on back roads, where they met only two cars in the first half hour. Moira kept the photos. Natural for a lover. He treasured every picture of Jenny, and pictures would be all Moira would ever have to recall her young lover. Dangerous when you had a husband who thought you loved him. But nothing in Moira's behavior suggested the slightest affection for Rod. She had used him to supplement her inadequate marriage. Like catsup on a dry sandwich. A big juniper hid the mailbox he was looking for until he was right upon it. He braked harder than he intended; Kyla jerked awake. "Where are we?" "Liberty Cap Ranch. It's about five miles off the highway."

Kyla fished about in her purse -- no sharp corners, she must have taken the condoms out of the box -- found a little purple rectangle that with a twist became a comb and brush. She worked at her short, dark hair. "Your hair's sticking up in back," she said. The brush scratched his crown. "There, that looks better." He had forgotten -- or maybe had never known -- the possessiveness of women once they'd become intimate with a man. Jenny had never become comfortable, correcting his appearance. Once he had run about for an hour with his fly gaping before she whispered in his ear. Kyla would tell him right away. In fact, she probably would have said something even before yesterday afternoon -"Trees," Kyla said. A dark grove loomed ahead, and the road vanished in the sudden shade. He managed to stop before he crashed into the side of a cabin. Not just one cabin, he saw as his eyes adjusted to the light. Three. Four. No five if you counted the heap of wood fifty yards away. Decrepit buildings, long unused, the walls sagging, the ridgepoles dipping. "This is what we're looking for!" Kyla had her hand on the lever of the door. "Stay here," he snapped, cold fear nipping at the back of his shins at the thought of Kyla charging into a polluted cabin. He shifted into reverse and backed into the sunshine. "Let's look for tire tracks before we expose ourselves to hantavirus." "Last night I dreamed we had to go back to Malaspina," Kyla said, "because we forgot to look for tire tracks on our way out. Then this morning I remembered the flying realtor had told us Rod had been there." Her cheeks flushed to her eyes. Something else in the dream, obviously, and Whit thought he could reconstruct it, because her dream must have been similar to his. A dream that jerked him awake at three-thirty. Which is why he'd been so early heading into town. Which is why he had met that slut on the road. They found no tracks around the grove but their own. "Let's walk back a quarter mile." He offered his hand; she took it. He tapped her palm. She scratched with a gentle fingernail. "What else was in the dream?" he asked. Kyla bit her lip. "I'll tell you about my dream if you tell me yours." "You didn't have any pants on," she said, "all the way back to Argentia, and then I got all flustered because Glenda would see." "I went into Rod's apartment, and you were on the bed with the bronc rider--" "Bronc rider?" "It's a statue. A Remington bronze. Except in my dream he came alive, but that only bothered me for a minute, because I became the bronc rider." "I don't think I want to hear any more." She pulled her hand from his and ran ahead, but looked over her shoulder, a game of tag. He rushed to catch her, saw the track -"There!" He squatted. Rod had turned his truck around on the rise above the cabins. "He came in the afternoon," Kyla said, peering downhill, a hand shading her eyes. "We didn't see the cabins until we were nearly on top of them, but with the sun behind you, they'd be visible from here." "That means that Rob probably didn't pick up hantavirus at any of the ranches north of Argentia. Except we don't know about Penny Springs. After the sheriff cleans out the pot growers, we'll have a look around."

Kyla wore stringy white sandals. Dust billowed over her insteps as she walked. Her dress was light blue, with darker blue flowers, cut with a demure high neck. But it stopped just above her knees, and in the back it dipped radically, nearly to her waist. His hand reached to stroke the curve, but pulled back. Wait. A puff of happiness lifted him like the dust, as if he walked with his feet inches off the road. Moira Chase, nearly naked, had not roused him in the least, while Kyla's back brought an ache in his loins. "How many ranches did Rod visit east of town?" she asked. "Six. We'll need two days to hit all of them." "Are there any close to Argentia." "One. Why?" "I keep remembering Carl Goulding. It seems to me we're looking for a place close enough to town that the boys could go round trip on their bikes in a day." "Has Trace said anything?" "No, that's the problem. Last night I asked him flat out if they'd visited any old cabins or mines. He didn't answer. He said, 'It makes me sick to think of it,' and left the room. You were a boy once. What makes a twelve-year-old sick?" "Finding something dead, with vultures so stuffed they can't take off. The smell's awful. Maybe stepping over human bones. A white skull grinning up at you from the bottom of a wash. Even worse when there's still a little hair clinging on top." He hesitated a second before mentioning sex. "Mushy behavior. With girls, I mean. Funny, a year later you're in the corner of the school yard, speculating on which girl will let you touch her breasts." "Happens fast, doesn't it." He tightened his hands on the steering wheel and beat down the urge to pull off the road and take her in his arms. "Maybe Trace and Carl walked in on some older kids making out in a shack," Kyla suggested. "But then we'd have a rash of hantavirus among older boys and the girls who hang out in the coffee shop." "Right," she said. "Blows my theory. The girls looked healthy enough." And Moira Chase looked healthy, hardly panting from her exertions. Where had Rod taken her for their adventures? Had he cleaned out a house left empty by an unemployed miner? A house surrounded by trees, a concealed drive that could hide a pickup truck in dawn twilight. "Why so glum?" Kyla asked. "Maybe Glenda's right. You're too moody and selfcentered to be a good lover." "You talked to your sister...about me?" "Glenda's a psychologist, and she thinks that gives her the right to pry. I cut the lecture short last night by talking to Trace." He wouldnot be moody. The first words came tight and slow. Then suddenly he could not stop talking. How he had met Moira Chase, her vulgar proposition, the photographs, her contempt for Rod. Kyla patted his leg. "I'm sorry. Something like that happening early, rather blights the day, doesn't it."

"No. Not when you're here." Surprising, but Moira's shadow faded with every word he spoke, and now the morning had a gloss he had failed to notice before. An anticipation of the day and of the night to come. Telling Kyla had lifted the burden. That realization brought a deep sense of uncertainty. His feeling of deep friendship did not coincide with lust. Lust was lust, a surface desire, satisfied by physical pleasure. "Would you mind a short stop in Carson City? The only boot store in Argentia closed last month, and I'm wearing my last decent pair." Easier to talk about boots than what was really on his mind. Chapter Seven Kyla sat at the kitchen table with Whit and Judith, sipping coffee she did not want, but drinking it for something to do while they talked. She felt awkward, an intruder into other people's mourning. Her sorrow at Rod's death was second hand, a sympathy for Whit's grief, and now for Judith. She studied Judith over the rim of her coffee cup. She had expected an ethereal woman, glowing with a placid inner light that came from faith and good works. Instead, Judith glowed with physical health, a solid, rawboned woman, at least six feet tall, who expressed even her grief in a booming voice. She had run down the front steps and thrown her arms around Whit, almost sending him to the ground. She wept without any attempt to conceal her tears. Judith's square hands spread on the table. Blunt fingers, the nails cut short. Her brown hair had been cropped with no regard for style. She wore faded jeans and a T- shirt that advertised some obscure music festival. Her red eyes and roughened cheeks were not her natural complexion, Kyla thought, any more than the tears collecting in the corners of her mouth would appear on a normal day. Judith wept for her brother, had been weeping for days. "No report yet," Judith said, her voice so strong it seemed impossible that it and the tears came from the same person. "But you say it was hantavirus." She turned to Kyla. "Dr. Temple suggested it might be," Kyla said carefully. "But from what we've learned from other sources, I tend to accept the diagnosis." "The lab says they'll have the results next week," Judith said. For the first time she brushed away tears. "Do you have any idea which ranch Rod intended to buy?" "I rather suspect the Malaspina, but there's no way to be sure. We talked to the realtor, Rod had visited the Malaspina but hadn't made an offer. This weekend Kyla and I'll look at other places he visited." Judith nodded. "No great rush, but I'd like to scatter Rod's ashes on the land he planned to buy. Maybe I'll buy it. His share of Dad's money comes to me, and I thought I might start a ranch school for kids in trouble. A memorial." The last two words sounded almost a question, soliciting Whit's advice. Kyla recalled Whit's opinion of the boy's camp, stared at him, but could detect no tremor of disapproval. Not a man to question another's dream. "I hauled up several boxes of papers. You'll want to go through them and look for Rod's will," Whit said.

"It's here, in my safe. But except for bequests of personal possessions it's meaningless. Until Rod married, the two of us kept our investments in joint accounts. Even Dewfeathers -- " she gestured broadly to indicate the house in which they sat "-- is in both our names." Dewfeathers? Kyla had already choked off a question about the name of the house. It made her think of a wet chicken, which certainly could not have been what Judith intended. Some biblical reference? "There's Rod's girlfriend to think of, even though she and Rod hadn't got around to marriage," Judith said. "Tell me about her." Whit's lower lip sprang out. Judith playfully smacked his hand. "What kind of innocent do you think I am? Did you suppose you could hide it from me, T. J. Whitaker? I guessed the last time Rod came here. Little smiles for no reason at all, and that means love. But he kept it a mystery, said they couldn't marry for some time." She shook her head. "Although if he'd found a ranch he wanted to buy, I can't see why they -- " "She already has a husband," Whit said, so harshly Kyla shrank. Judith's hand went to her mouth, she gulped, controlled herself, and mimed relaxation. But Kyla caught the flash of shock, the momentary clutching of the rough hands. Judith stared at Whit, asking for more, while tears overflowed in a new torrent. Kyla held her breath. Whit would not be so cruel as to tell Judith the whole story, would he? She wanted to slap her hand over his mouth, and hiss. Be still. "The woman made an unfortunate marriage," Whit muttered into his cup. "I didn't know anything about the romance. I guess I'm blind, because the cowboys had figured it out. From all indications, Rod loved her very much." "And she him," Judith said flatly. "Everybody loved Rod. I pity her, for how does she mourn, under the circumstances? A questionable relationship, but forgivable if love is strong and true." "I can't speak for her," Whit said miserably. He shoved his chair back from the table. "I'd better bring in the boxes. Not good to leave a Remington bronze in the open bed of a truck. Where do you want them?" "Here in the kitchen," Judith said, staring after Whit. The screen door slammed. "I'll help," Kyla said, taking a final swallow of coffee. "No, stay here. I'm glad Whit's found a friend. A woman friend. It's been too long." Kyla studied the thick dregs of the coffee at the bottom of the mug. Whit had introduced her as a medical expert, helping him find the source of the hantavirus, but Judith saw beyond that fiction. "Has he told you about Jenny?" Judith asked. "He told me." "When a man loses the woman he loves, and in such a horrible way, he tends to idolize her. In Whit's memory Jenny's become an angel. She wasn't, of course. Simply a lovely, fun girl. So far as I'm concerned, if she's an angel now, she's a dark one. A baleful influence. The shadow of the angel of death. It strikes me that you're the ideal woman to get Whit back on track. Hard-nosed, practical, not given to flights of fancy. I recommend a few nights of hot sex." She grinned unexpectedly, and Kyla nearly toppled off the chair.

"Pictures of Jenny still all over?" "I've been no farther than Whit's office." Judith's mouth twisted in disapproval. "The first day I went to Whit's house, there was a photograph beside the computer, a dark- haired woman, leaning out the door of a desert shack. Next time it was gone." "Good sign!" Not a good sign, Kyla thought, but she did not feel like explaining, and perhaps starting a disagreement. Whit had snapped the photo of Jenny leaning out the door of the tree house. He had probably taken it on the day before the night they had made the best love ever. A wonderful memory for Whit, until he learned about hantavirus. Until he learned that Jenny's death in all likelihood resulted from her preparations for that evening. Whit hadn't removed the picture for the sake of a new love, but because it caused him unbearable pain. The screen door slammed, Kyla opened the swinging door for Whit, then went out to the truck to do her share of the carrying. The flap of a box had loosened and a long envelope stuck through the gap. Kyla pulled the flaps apart to replace the letter. A new envelope, without name or address, yet it contained a sheet of cream-colored paper. "What do you have there?" Whit asked. "The box started to work its way open, and this letter was nearly lost. It has no name on it. Do you suppose Rod could have written it just before he died?" As Whit fingered the envelope, his face darkened. "Not the sort of paper a cowboy buys," he said. The stiff sheet crackled as he unfolded it. "Hell and damnation!" Kyla leaned across Whit's arm.The Last Will and Testament of Rodman Harris . Hand written.I leave my entire estate to Moira McCurlan Chase, the woman I love. "Dated two days before Rod died," Whit said, his voice descending into a snarling bass. "Written on Moira Chase's paper." "How do you know the paper's hers?" "The picture I burned was wrapped in paper just like this." "But Rod took that photograph. There would be no reason for him to fold a sheet of Moira's writing paper around it." "Moira borrowed the picture long enough to make a copy. She gave it back to Rod with a piece of her stationary." He crushed the paper in his fist. "Moira didn't break into Rod's apartment to find something. She wanted to leave something, a fake will, and she scattered papers around to make it look like a burglary." "Then why did she try to break into his truck?" Whit shrugged. "Is it Rod's handwriting?" "Makes no difference. You heard what Judith said, she and Rod were partners in their investments. Joint tenancy, everything passes to her automatically." "It doesn't make sense, Whit," Kyla said, trying to sort what she knew from what she only supposed. "Why should Moira come on to you if she's trying to grab Rod's money? She should be playing the grieving lover." "Women like Moira are ruled by their loins," Whit said. He thrust the paper into

the envelope, rolled it untidily and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "Don't say a word of this to Judith. She'd die of -- " "Judith is a bit more worldly that you suppose," Kyla said, hefting two boxes and heading for the front door. Judith had her back turned when Kyla entered the kitchen, sorting the boxes by size to make neat towers. "Why do you call the house Dewfeathers?" Kyla asked. "It's from a poem by Tennyson. 'Dewy-feathered sleep.' I hope people sleep well here. At first I meant to give the house a religious name -- Christian -- but people of all religions come here. I've had Buddhists and Moslems, Jews, even a fellow who worshiped an oak tree. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable -put upon -- when they're sick." "I believe you're the angel," Kyla said, but followed this remark with a smile to make it less serious. Judith threw back her head and laughed. A great booming amusement as strong as her inexhaustible tears. "My nephew, he wants to create a memorial for his friend Carl." "The boy who died of hantavirus." "We don't know that it was hantavirus," Kyla said carefully. "Trace thinks, since Carl wanted to be a doctor, it would be appropriate if the memorial had something to do with your house. The kids made almost $300 in their car wash and bake sale." "I'll think of something," Judith said without hesitation. "That's part of mourning. Making sure the one who's gone is remembered." "A boy's ranch named after Rod," Kyla said. "Maybe. New drapes for the front room upstairs? No, they're too temporary." Judith scratched her head. "I have an artist friend. The kids could buy one of her paintings and we'll have a little brass plate made, 'In memory of -- '" "Carl Goulding." "Getting the money together helps the kids cope with their friend's death, and buying the picture helps a starving artist. I'll make sure the subject of the picture is suitable to a boy, something that cheers sick people. That works for good all around." "Thank you." Kyla retraced her steps to fetch another box, relieved that she had good news to take back to Trace. Whit passed her in the front room, grim-faced and that reminded her of the paper in his pocket. Nothing in the bed of the pickup, except for a small duffel and her rucksack. Whit stood on the front porch with Judith, one of the boxes still in his arms. "Go with God, you two. Don't try to drive all the way to Argentia tonight. Four hundred miles, too much for one day. Plenty of beautiful spots to stop along the way." "We'll think about it," Whit called. The strained mouth and bitter eyes had vanished. He looked, Kyla thought, like the cat who had swallowed the canary. Judith had said something that cheered him up. Whit very carefully tucked the box against the front of the pickup. "What are you grinning about?" Kyla asked. "You're right, Judith's a bit more worldly than I've given her credit for."

He hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand, and his smile made it triumph, not frustration. "She showed me Rod's will. Bequests to friends. My inheritance is in the box." "Did you show Judith the paper in your pocket?" "No need for her to see it. Moira Chase won't have a chance to present the will in probate court, because legally, Rod died penniless. Except for a fancy watch and his Remington." Kyla knew instantly what the box contained. "He left you the Remington?" "Yep, the bronc rider. I hope you're not a big fan of twisted aluminum triangles, or women without heads, or sculptures made of stuff from the dump." "I have no opinion on sculpture at all," Kyla said. Whit grinned. "All the better. For you and me, I mean." *** Whit juggled the heavy box and his duffel bag on one arm, and positioned himself so he could see the expression on Kyla's face when she stepped into the hotel room. Fireplace, antique bed, and a view down Gold Canyon. "Wow!" she said. She paused on the threshold and he collided with her naked back. His weakened hand dropped the duffel, he had the presence of mind to slide his free arm about her waist. "I couldn't imagine where you were bringing me," she said. "Coming up the hill, I thought Virginia City, but then you drove straight through. I had no idea there was anything left of Gold Hill." She slid out of the circle of his arm, walked to the window, to the view of scattered ruins. The light cast a tempting shadow on her skirt...Slow and easy. Since they had left Reno the only distraction from his bounding libido had been the pressure of the new boots on his right little toe. He kept hearing Judith's words when she thrust the box into his arms. "Come on, cowboy! Take the lady for a ride!" She had laughed, told him quite bluntly that his face had turned bright red. No wonder, because what was in the box reminded him of his dream, the bronc rider nestled between Kyla's thighs. He dropped the box on the bed, stepped to the window, and wrapped his arms about her loosely. "Not much left of Gold Hill except the hotel. But it's the best. The oldest operating hotel in Nevada." And, he added silently, a place that held no memory of Jenny. He had discovered it two years ago, and now made it a regular stop on Reno trips. Until now, always alone. Kyla leaned back so heavily he had to spread his legs and brace himself. She reached her arms around him, looped her thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. "Better shut the door," he muttered. He had to move his duffel bag to close the door, and found he was so tense he could hardly bend over. He heard the French door open. Kyla stepped onto the narrow balcony. Don't look at her, don't see the shadow of her legs through her skirt. He opened the box and pulled out the bronze statue, scattering balled newspaper.

Why are you delaying? a voice whispered.She gave the signal. She's ready. He hunted for a place to put the statue. Not the bedside table. Too small. He deposited it on the luggage rack. "That's it?" Kyla asked. Walking across the room, his toe hurt, and he decided to get rid of the new boots. He sat down on the bed, sighed with relief as he freed his foot, lifted his head to find his nose pointed straight at blue fabric printed with dark blue flowers. Hillocks of flowers. The backless dress had given no suggestion of a bra. "T. J. Whitaker, do we have something to talk about?" she asked, her mouth so close to his face he could not draw a breath without it being her breath, too. "Not...not that I know of." She pulled up her skirt, straddled him, her whole weight on his legs. From the corner of his eye he saw a white spot on the rug, turned his head just enough to determine that the maid had not left trash behind. Kyla's panties. Kyla's fingers worked expertly at his belt buckle, the button of his jeans, the zipper. "I am frantic," she whispered, a determined whisper with just enough tremolo to rouse his fever. He got a hand under her skirt, higher and higher, until it spread on her stomach. Swollen and hot. She embraced his erection. "Look in my pocket," she said. He dug through the rumpled folds of the skirt and found the foil packet. "I think," she said as she helped him with the condom, "you should have bought large." "I didn't know. It seemed rather vain." No vanity at all in the press of her weight, and their quick combining. She cried out his name, half strangled, as if shaken by an earthquake. The power of her orgasm rippled on his full length, his loins surged wildly. He tumbled in free-fall, fear and hope mingled. Kyla's solid flesh softened the impact. He heard himself babbling, without being quite aware of what he was saying. Had he called her "Jenny?" No, the phrase he repeated over and over was more surprising: "Marry me, Ky. Be my wife." Her hand closed his mouth. He kissed the damp palm. "Sitting next to you all day, I got so hot I came, bingo! The moment you got inside me." "Then you'll marry me?" A long pause. She collapsed on his chest, and he felt her rapid breathing. "It's a bit too early in our acquaintance, don't you think?" "I don't want to think, I want to feel. You're right for me. I'm right for you." "It's called geographically unsuitable. Three hundred and fifty miles, Whit." "We'll think of something." "We'll think of something before we discuss marriage, not after. You wouldn't want me to turn into a Moira Chase, all alone on the streets of San Francisco." "If you ever again mention that woman's name when we're in a position like this -- " He made a mocking gesture toward her throat. She giggled; he groaned at the pleasure of it, at the startling renewal of his erection when he was just recovering from climax.

"Dinner?" she asked. "Before round two?" Had she felt him stir? "Stay on top of me for a few minutes." The thought of leaving her warmth caused pain. She wriggled her hips to secure the fading connection, sighed, and relaxed against him until the parting came naturally. They showered together, she put on a demure blouse and a skirt that was really full pants, a garment he could not get his hand under. He manfully stuffed himself back into his jeans. It was as uncomfortable as thrusting his sore toe into the new boots. Fortunate that the restaurant was just downstairs. She walked ahead of him on the narrow stairs. No room to embrace and kiss until the dim landing. "How did you meet Rod and Judith?" she asked. "We started college the same year. Rod and Judith are twins." Kyla said nothing as they descended the second flight. Another pause on the landing. "Did they look alike?" "Not really. Judith was always bigger than Rod, from the time they were babies. She grew to six feet; he stopped at five-eleven. She mothered him, took care of him. First day at college she walked him from class to class, so he wouldn't get lost." Kyla paused on the final step, he leaned out far enough to see her face, and found her entranced. "This is part of the original building," he said, "built in 1859. It was here when Mark Twain came to Virginia City, and he probably got drunk in this very place. Want to join him in the bar for a before dinner drink?" "If you'd..." She hesitated "But you'd rather not?" he said. "I'm high already," she whispered. "So am I." Everything right between them "Any deep meaning in Rod leaving you the Remington?" she asked after they had been seated and were studying the menu. "I can't imagine what it might be. There's a compartment in the base, where he hid his cash." He did not want to mention the photo. Did not want to think of it tonight. "Nothing but cash?" she asked. "He might have left something he intended for you to see. A clue." "The picture of Moira was with the money, the picture I burned," he said after a long silence. "There's no way Rod could leave a clue to his death, because Rod didn't know he was dying, let alone what was killing him. A man twenty-six years old doesn't say, 'I've got a fever, this is my last week, my last day, my last minute.'" She frowned, but it was a frown of agreement. "No more of this," he said. "I'm tired of wandering in Rod's shadow. Tonight's for us. I've never dared order the ostrich. Want to try?" "Eating an animal I stare at in zoos seems...unseemly." He caught the flicker of her eyes to her right. "Quit looking at the price

column. Tonight's a celebration." "Beef Wellington for two," she said, choosing the most expensive entree. Her mouth twitched as she watched for his reaction. "Beef Wellington it is. And it's not the most expensive thing on the menu. You didn't look up top and see the Beluga Caviar." "You want caviar?" she asked. "No, eating something that could turn into a fish...well, to a fisherman that's heresy." "You're a fisherman?" Her question reminded him how little they knew of each other. Strangers, actually. Except upstairs, less than an hour ago, he'd asked her to marry him. "I fish every chance I get, once the snow melts around the High Sierra lakes. Now explain to me, how much longer do you have in med school, and what comes after that?" "You're serious!" Kyla said, suddenly alarmed. "About...about -- " "Marriage. You're afraid to say the 'M' word." "I'm not afraid, just practical. You asked me in an absurd moment. A man isn't in his right mind during orgasm. Besides, 'Marry me' comes after 'I love you.' And you haven't come close to falling in love with me." "How do you know?" he muttered. Clear turbulence, a tornado invisible to all but himself, and in the midst of the turmoil a whisper, "I love you, Whit." Jenny. He would never be allowed to forget, for the memory had no mercy. The waitress saved him with the salads. She smiled, displayed a great phallic symbol at a suggestive angle. "Fresh ground pepper?" she asked. "Plenty," Kyla said. She winked. Go easy on dinner, he warned himself. Heavy physical exercise was bad on a full stomach. Beef Wellington had been a bad choice. Should have ordered salmon or calamari. "None for me," he said, mostly to get rid of the waitress. "Last night," he said when they were alone, "I wanted you beside me. I imagined you in my arms." "I'm afraid I crashed to sleep the moment my head hit the pillow." "You were up late," he said, excusing her lack of romantic longing. "Talking to Trace." "Carl -- " she began. Whit wanted to kick himself. He had reminded her of hantavirus and death. "Carl had a secret he shared with Trace. Something he didn't want his parents to know." "Hardly unusual for twelve-year-olds," Whit said. "What did you keep secret from your parents?" "Experimenting with cigarettes, snitching whiskey. My father's Scotch. Neither were long term secrets, because I found both disgusting. I concluded that as people aged they lost their taste buds, and that it made sense to reserve alcohol for those over twenty-one. Couldn't stand it earlier." "Sex?" Kyla asked playfully. "Not at twelve. Secret sex came later." Good, she had swung the conversation back into its proper sphere. "Seventeen." "High school sweetheart?" "God! No! I was petrified that I'd get a girl pregnant. A class trip to the capitol, and some of us boys sneaked off to a whorehouse. The woman was very nice, and I was embarrassed as hell." He stared at the platter and carving knife the waitress placed before him, pretending he was contemplating just how to attack the Wellington. He had never told Jenny of his first sexual encounter.

Why could he mention it to Ky so casually? Confident that she would not condemn him. Because you love Jenny. Your relationship with Kyla is purely physical. But that seemed to put Ky in the same category as the whore. Which was not right. Not true. I won't bring her to the house, Jenny. I won't have sex with Ky in your house. Chapter Eight "Okay, come clean," Glenda said. She grabbed the ropes of the swing, trapping Kyla. "About what?" Kyla asked, trying for wide-eyed innocence. "A woman takes an overnight trip with T. J. Whitaker, the most eligible bachelor in the county, not to mention one of the best looking. She comes home smug, looking like the cat with cream still dribbling off her lips -- " "Oh, come on, Glenda! I didn't ask you about your wedding night." "I'd tell you, but it wasn't pretty. We were so tired we went to sleep." "Whit and I did not go to sleep. Hardly at all. I'm exhausted." "That's obvious. Don't do this too often or you'll have bags under your eyes before you're thirty. Good?" "Look up 'good' in a thesaurus, find the highest possible superlative, and you've described T. J. Whitaker in bed," Kyla said. She sighed. Instead of being pleased, Glenda bit her lip. "Mark's delighted. He says Whit needs to fall overboard in love, so fast he doesn't know what hit him." "Love's got nothing to do with it," Kyla said. "I met him Monday, today's Saturday." "I hope you're not wallowing in nonsensical myths, like love at first sight and meeting Mr. Right," Glenda said in her therapist voice, as if Kyla had not said a thing. Mr. Right. Straddling him, with all of two minutes foreplay, she had been thrown onto a wild carnival ride before he got all the way in. Between nine and midnight they had explored, with a thoroughness that would do credit to the first astronaut on Mars. "Whit should offer correspondence courses," Kyla said, grinning at her sister. "Correspondence?" Glenda asked, mystified. "Oh! There's a letter for you." Kyla welcomed the distraction, for twinges of super carnival started whenever she thought of Whit, which was almost constantly. A letter? No one at school knew where she had gone for her vacation. The folks knew, but they would simply pick up the phone. Glenda handed her an envelope with just her name. No address. "This didn't come in the mail," Kyla said. "Someone stuck in it in the mailbox. We do that around here, to save the postage on birthday cards and such." A single, small piece of paper. Stop ranting about hantavirus, or I shall contact the dean of UCSF and charge you with a violation of medical ethics. No signature. She turned the paper over. A prescription form. Augustus Chase, M.D. All pleasure vanished. Kyla felt she was suffocating, drowning, grasping for a rescuer. Glenda? Telling her sister her troubles made her fell like a little sister again. Whit! He had said, on the way home, that he had to stop in town. Maybe she could still find him. *** Whit drank the beer in small swallows, making it last until he could catch Dan

for a private word. He hoped no one sat on the stool beside him. As it was, only a single space separated him from three Penny Springs' men. To avoid meeting their suspicious stares, he picked up a glossy brochure stuck in the menu holder, where no menu stood because Dan served only steak and fried potatoes. A FUTURE FOR ARGENTIA in bold red letters edged in black. BE PART OF IT. A photograph of Fellows Canyon filled the lower half of the sheet, but doctored on a computer to include a line of buildings that looked like a movie set for a western town. Behind the false fronts, in terraces up the hill, row upon row of doors. A hotel. Hole-in-Rock Resort Casino. A high-end destination resort for those seeking privacy and desert solitude, combined with the fabled pleasures of the Old West. Fabled pleasures of the Old West. Code words for drinking, gambling and whoring. Hole-in-Rock would service men and women who wanted plusher accommodations than a truck camper for their adulteries. At the bottom of the picture, phone and FAX numbers for investment information. "Uncertain? Talk to a man or woman from your own community who has already invested, who knows the potential of Hole-in-Rock Resort Casino." Dan wiped his way down the glossy counter. Whit folded the brochure and stuffed it in his hip pocket. "How's it going?" he asked when Dan came close enough to justify conversation. "Not as slow as I thought it would be, with the Pollux shutting down." He appraised the crowd. "But the salvage crew has only three, four months they tell me, and then they'll be outa here." He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "That's when it'll get bad." "I need some information," Whit said, lowering his voice. Dan wiped a part of the counter he had already polished to a high gleam. "Moira Chase." One corner of Dan's mouth turned up. "I gather she picks up men on the road south, when she jogs in the morning." "You gather?" Dan asked, suggestive, but at least he kept his voice down. "I've pretty solid proof she picks up men. I need to know where she takes them for the main event." "Wish I knew," Dan said, with a wistfulness that might conceal thoughts of carnal relations, or maybe blackmail. "Hey," he yelled, and the chatter died. "Anyone know Moira's boinking hide-away?" Whit examined the cracks in the plank floor, but failed to spot one big enough for a man two inches over six feet. "She likes men with campers," said a disgruntled voice. "And I ain't got one." "More than campers," another said. "I fixed mine up soft and tried to get her in, but she gave me the finger. She asked me where I'd hid my million. Whit, Moira would rip those shiny pants, she'd be so anxious to get them off for you. She'd get down in the ditch for you, with the sticker bushes and broken bottles." Money, Whit thought. More important to Moira than the camper. He took another swallow of beer, didn't like the taste. He threw a five on the counter. Behind him the door whooshed, swinging against the stream of air from the cooler. A

whistle, a hoot of appreciation, told him a woman had entered Whiskey Dan's. He turned, slid off the stool, took a long stride to put himself between Ky and the leering drinkers. She opened her mouth to say something. "Let's get out of here," he said. She stumbled on the threshold, thrusting a paper into his hands before they had cleared the door. He read it by the lurid dance of neon. "He could ruin me," she said. Her voice trembled with tension and fear. "How? You haven't done anything." "Who will the administration believe, me or an M.D.? He could say I practiced medicine without a license. That I discouraged people from seeking medical advice. Anything, he doesn't need facts. He can make up a story. I think I'd better go home." "No. We're not done yet." "Whit, he could do me in. Forever!" "Move out to the ranch," Whit said, desperation rising like the smoke in the saloon. "He'll think you've left town. Ky, you can't abandon me now. We haven't found the place where Rod got hantavirus." We've only started learning to make love, he wanted to add, but instead he read the note again. "Chase can't do anything. You can show this note to the people at the school, prove that he threatened you. By next week we'll have the lab report, and it'll say that Rod died of hantavirus." "Chase will deny he sent this note. It's not signed. He probably got his nurse or receptionist to write it, so it's not in his handwriting." "One more day to visit the ranches out east," Whit said, an arm around her back to persuade her. Remind her of the passion that would ride with them. "Tomorrow early. No, we'll leave right now, sleep in the truck so by dawn we'll be at the first ranch." A long silence. He tightened his arm. "I'll have to go to the house, get some things. Tell Glenda." "Where's your car?" "At Glenda's. I walked down here." He pulled her along beside him, almost lifted her up the high reach to the cab. "We'll be gone all day tomorrow, tomorrow night you drive out to the ranch and put your car in the barn. You can stay with me until we get the lab report. Once we have that, Chase will be forced to admit there's hantavirus around." Silence. "You can help me with interior decorating. I've got to decide where the bronc buster should go," he said, hoping for a lighter mood. She did not respond, except by fastening her seat belt. The one nearest the door. *** For the second night running she slept in his arms, half upright in the cab of the truck, wrapped in the old gray blanket he kept behind the seat. The moon danced in the branches of the spindly trees of the rest area. Whit jerked awake, out a dream that disappeared the moment he opened his eyes. Except that part of it had been the moon tangled in the branches of the elm tree.

He moved as little as possible so he did not wake Kyla. He had dragged her into this, now he must get her out. The note from Chase made no sense. The doctor would have to be pretty stupid to write a threat on the back of his own prescription form. Chase must understand that in Rod's case, the diagnosis would be official. Either hantavirus or not. So that left someone who had easy access to Chase's office. The receptionist, the nurse. Both women's livelihood depended on Chase, who's practice would decline with the closing of the Pollux Mine. And how many patients would switch from Chase to Dr. Temple when they found out Chase had made a bad mistake in diagnosis, if he and Kyla discovered where Carl had caught hantavirus? Whoever had sent the note had known exactly where to find Ky. The nurse had come to town less than two weeks ago. Very unlikely that she would know Kyla Rogers was Glenda Fetterman's sister, or even where the Fetterman's lived. The receptionist? Moira Chase? Did Moira know the Fettermans? Yes. He had seen Glenda Fetterman and Moira Chase standing side by side, selling pie and ice cream to benefit the charities of the women's club. Moira knew Glenda through the women's club. She had most probably been at her house for meetings. Moira had written and delivered the note in a frantic effort to keep her husband's practice viable. To keep the stream of custom-made jogging shoes and diamond rings flowing, while she satisfied her -Suffering horned toads! Maybe Moira had offered him sex in return for keeping quiet. A good time in the sack would buy his silence about the cause of Rod's death. Whit tapped his tongue behind his upper teeth as a substitute for a thoughtful hum. It would be interesting to know if Moira had offered Dr. Temple a piece of her action, trying to bribe him to write something other than hantavirus on Rod's death certificate. Temple, not bad looking, in his thirties, but married with a family. No married man...yes, some married men would. Some married women. That reminded him of Ky's remark last evening.You want me to be the Moira Chase of San Francisco ? She had grown up in a traditional family, mom, dad, kids, all living in one house. What would she have thought of the Whitaker household before his parents retired? The house in Argentia, the condo near the university in Sacramento, the plane from the Castor Mine shuttling his mother home after her last class on Friday, back again on Monday, her shopping bag heavy with essays and exams to grade?Every weekend's a honeymoon, Dad had told him once, after Whit had complained that kids teased him about his irregular family life. He hadn't understood then, but he did now. Whit woke with the sun in his eyes. Woke gladly, because he had dreamed he was in the tree house, making love to Ky, and Jenny floated overhead, watching every move, and keening in a disembodied wail.You promised.

He would hide the photographs of Jenny. Push them to the bottom of his sock drawer. Not really a memory, for he and Jenny had never made love in that room, in that house. He made more plans for the days Ky would be with him, more excuses, rationalized, and despised himself for his weakness. *** Kyla adjusted the binoculars. The sun heated the black tubes until they were uncomfortably hot to the touch. A decrepit house came into focus, the ridge pole bending in the middle, threatening to collapse in the next strong wind. The barn looked in better shape, in fact a light colored plank showed where it had recently been repaired. "The doors of the barn are closed tight," she reported to Whit. "Let's look for prints," he said. They followed tire tracks into a corral between the house and barn. The remains of a light fixture rattled atop a tall pole. Hooves had stirred the ground to a powder, cattle, horses, here and there the prints of a deer. A broad dent that looked like the prints of an overgrown house cat. "Bobcat," Whit said. "Animals come right through here, heading for the water." A hundred feet behind the barn a new windmill creaked, lifting water into stone tanks. "They've wiped out Rod's footprints, if he left any." Kyla examined the wooden latch that fastened the door at the corner of the barn. Heaped with dust. But that could be the deposit of a single windy day, and Rod might have been here three or four weeks ago. A hasp and rusty lock secured the double doors, wide and tall enough to admit a loaded hay wagon. "I don't think this place would have impressed Rod after he'd seen Malaspina," she said. "Do we know, did he come here before or after visiting Malaspina?" "I have no way of knowing. He didn't write dates." Three ranches this morning, and to Kyla, none fit the profile. The first had had no standing buildings at all, and at the second the owners, an elderly couple, invited them in, fed them cookies and iced tea, and showed them pictures of their great- grandchildren and the condo they had purchased only two blocks from the kids. Yes, Rod had looked at the ranch. Yes, he had nosed into every nook and cranny. He'd told them about his sister in Reno, and his fear that this place might be too far from her, because his sister lived alone and he liked to keep an eye on her. Whit nodded coolly, but Kyla noticed his chest heaving with imprisoned laughter. The man showed off the pump house, the coop where a dozen chickens roosted out of the heat, the garage -- all clean enough to dine in. The equipment sheds -ditto. "What now?" Kyla asked after Whit started the truck. "I'm ready for lunch," Whit said. He looked at his watch. "It's half an hour back to Tonapah." "Same place as breakfast?" she asked. "That was good."

"You were starved this morning, and would have described toasted lizard as novelle cuisine. The coffee was terrible." She stared sightlessly at the little valley and the ridge beyond. Whit gunned the engine, spinning the wheels on the uphill.We're spinning our wheels . Only three ranches left. That didn't count Penny Springs, of course. Maybe one of the pot growers would be rushed to the hospital, deadly sick with hantavirus, and solve the puzzle for them. Although those men had no reason to nose around the old outbuildings. Their irrigation system would be built of new, totally reliable parts. And with their crop in the ground and under cover, they would spend their time watching for strangers wandering the back roads. Whit turned onto a paved road, smooth enough that she could read. She opened the folder on the seat between them, extracted the ranch lists. "Whit, the three ranches farther east, the checks beside them are in blue ink, not black. Done with a different pen. Rod visited them all on one trip." He nodded. Quiet, thinking about the significance of blue ink versus black. Or was he daydreaming about tonight, when most certainly she would sleep at the ranch. Tomorrow she must spend the day with Glenda. After all, she had come to Nevada to visit her sister. The day after that she would drive home. She had told the temp agency she would be available a week from Monday, but they might have something a few days early. She would call them from Glenda's tomorrow. Whit? No reason they couldn't get together occasionally. Maybe he'd visit her in the Bay Area. Straight ahead a plane lifted into the air, reminding her of Jake flying over their trysting place. She stole a look at Whit; he winked. Sharing the same thoughts, and that seemed a bit too intimate for a summer fling. She pretended to be enthralled by the landscape until he pulled up in front of the cafe. Whit picked up the folder. Beneath it, half concealed in the break of the seat cushions, lay a wrinkled brochure. She fished it out and offered it to him. "Something important?" He shook his head, but stuck the brochure in the folder. After the waitress brought water and took their orders, Whit opened the folder and smoothed the flimsy sheets from the catalog. "Do you have the feeling we're on a wild goose chase?" he asked. "Rather," she said as neutrally as possible. Quitting had to be Whit's decision. "He told Mr. and Mrs. Foster their place was too far from Reno. Why would he go a hundred miles farther east, toward the Duckwater Range?" "Curiosity? A fun drive on a fine spring day? When he carried a blue ball-point pen, instead of a black one." Whit moved the paper directly under the hanging lamp. "Look through the calendar," he said suddenly. "For blue ink." Rod's thin calendar advertised the local grocery. It contained only a single picture for the whole year, a multi-pronged buck standing on a rock, rather like the final scene ofBambi. Nothing but black ink in June, she flipped to May.

The first weekend of the month. "What does GBNP mean. It's written in blue ball-point pen, across both Saturday and Sunday, with two exclamation points on Saturday and three on Sunday." "GBNP?" He frowned and turned the misted water glass, making a pattern of circles on the tabletop. "Whatever, he had Moira along," Kyla said. "Why else the exclamation points?" "He took Moira to see three ranches in central and eastern Nevada," Whit mused. "I wonder if Doc Chase was out of town that weekend?" "Obviously," Kyla said dryly. "GBNP?" Whit grinned slyly. "I can come up with all sorts of phrases to describe a wild weekend, but none fit for your ears." "Tell me. You were wrong about Judith. You're wrong about me." He leaned across the table. "Good balling pussy." "You left out the N." "Naked." "Great big naked prick," Kyla whispered, and to her delight Whit's cheekbones flushed pink beneath his tan. She coolly lifted the wrinkled brochure. "Was this Rod's?" "No. Found it at Whiskey Dan's. Some local businessmen expect to save their necks by building a fancy resort in Fellows Canyon. They claim it will prevent Argentia from becoming a ghost town. But they must be having trouble coming up with the financing, to go to the expense of spreading this brochure around the Great Basin." His mouth dropped open, he shoved at the table and the water glasses trembled. "Great Basin National Park!" "What?" "GBNP! Rod went to Lehman Caves. He told me, weeks ago. The official name's Great Basin National Park. There're summer homes up there. Maybe he rented a place that had been closed -- " He shook his head. "No, Moira's healthy as a horse." The waitress thudded the sandwiches in front of them. "Not worth the time and gas," Whit muttered, gesturing with a long French fry. "Tell you what. Let's forget about Rod and hantavirus for the afternoon. Have you ever been to the fossil beds? Sea-going dinosaurs." Kyla shook her head because her mouth was full of hamburger and green chilies. "Just eighty, hundred miles out of our way, and only fifty or so of that's dirt." Only in the Great Basin, Kyla thought, was a hundred miles on secondary roads considered a side-trip. Her hips were sore, bouncing on the hard bench seat. But in a few days she would be back in San Francisco, everything in walking distance, her legs enjoying the daily exercise, her -Her face warmed when she considered that another activity might account for her aching hips. *** Kyla followed Whit's taillights down the twelve miles of gravel. He blinked his lights to warn her they had reached the gate. By the time she turned the corner he held it open. The truck swung under the trees, floodlights blinked on. Motion sensitive

lights, or perhaps he had a remote switch in his truck. No lights in the house, but one window in the apartment complex glowed. A rectangle of brighter light joined it as a door swung open. Kyla pulled her car beside the truck and climbed out. "Boss?" Two men scurried from the open door, the two cowboys Whit had talked to on the day of the barbecue. "You heard?" "Heard what?" "So you don't know. Dr. Chase's lovely bride flew the coop." "Moira Chase? Run off?" Kyla dashed around the truck, then felt a bit awkward standing close to Whit, as if he belonged to her and she had a right...But the cowboys did not give her a second glance. "Run away for sure," crowed the one with the beard. "She went jogging this morning and never bothered to go back home. Sheriff Neligh's taking it real serious." "Chase?" Whit asked. "We're not supposed to know, but Colton told us privately that the doctor's cool. He keeps saying she'll come home. He wasn't the one who reported her missing. The ladies of the women's club did, because they had a meeting this morning...were supposed to meet at the Chase house. They got there and no Moira. No cookies and tea." "Ky," Whit said, "this is Jim -- " he pointed to the man with the straggly Vandyke beard "-- and Vince. Kyla Rogers." "You been gone so much lately, I expected you to introduce Mrs. Whitaker," Vince said. He grinned at Jim, Jim winked, so vigorously the beard twitched. Whit frowned, the beard settled into position. "Does anyone have any idea where she's gone? Mrs. Chase I mean." "Moira's gone hunting better prick," Vince said heavily. He turned to Kyla. "Sorry, ma'am. No offense meant." "Colton says she left her purse, with two hundred dollars in it," Jim said. "Left behind the big smashing diamond Chase gave her to get married with. We helped Colton hunt the low spots off that road where she jogs. Colton thinks Chase got fed up with her shenanigans and did her in. Easy for a doctor, who knows just where to put the knife. Colton says wherever we go, keep our eyes peeled for fresh dug ground." Kyla fought the sensation that the green chili-burger was on its way up. "The search -- " Whit said. "Called off until daylight," Vince said. "Sheriff says if she's with a younger Sugar Daddy, they're in Vegas by now. He's got in touch with her old haunts down there, and they'll call if she turns up. He expects to hear by morning." "Old haunts?" "She was a lounge singer in a casino so far off the Strip you never heard of it." Vince grinned, conveying without words his opinion of Moira's secondary occupation. "Okay. We'll call the sheriff first thing in the morning and ask if we're needed. Ky, give Vince your car keys and he'll move your car around back of the sheds." "Back?" Vince seemed stunned. "There's someone who doesn't want Miss Rogers in town. She's staying here tonight." Leering grins, dissolving to happy smiles. Vince folded himself behind the

steering wheel and moved the seat back while Kyla pulled her rucksack from the shadows. Enough clothes for one more night, but only because they had not undressed last night. Whit stood beside her, his arms full of box. The statue. It had been riding in the pickup all over half of Nevada. Whit put the box on the floor of the entry hall and led her left, not right. A hall with windows on one side and pierced arches on the other, through which she could see the long room. Living room, except there was nothing in it to liveon . Only a light tan carpet. Into a short hall. He opened a door. "There's only one bed in the house. I'll bunk out in one of the apartments and sleep -- " "No one's opening any unused room on this ranch," she said firmly. "Without a face mask and disinfectant, anyway. Do you think I don't want you with me? This afternoon we nearly made love on top of an ichthyosaur!" "We didn't know Moira Chase had been ab...was lost then," he said. He didn't want to upset her by saying abducted. "I'd like a bath," she said. "Bath!" he cried. "Have I got the thing for you! Wait, let me get a towel." He came out of the bathroom bearing a heap of light blue. Into the hall, another door, a light that glared uncomfortably on the bare walls of another empty room, through it to a bathroom the size of the average suburban living room. "You can't turn on the jets," he said, pointing to an oval tub, "because I don't maintain the pumps and filters. And there's no bubble bath." "Fine." He dumped the towels on the long pullman, placed a new bar of soap on the edge of the tub. "Wait, I'll get you a robe." A mirror covered the wall above the huge tub, and the wall opposite, so the unhappy truth about the width of one's hips and the cellulite on one's thighs would be reflected and re-reflected. Did Whit intend to get in with her? Not a bad beginning to the night, and it would help her forget the image of the scalpel slitting Moira Chase's throat. She peered into the bedroom. The wall at the other end bent in an identical curve. The gentleman's bath. Square in the middle sat a carpeted dais, large enough for a king-sized bed. Hooks in the ceiling showed where, once, regal drapes had hung. "Here. It's clean." He handed her a dark blue cotton robe with a golden dragon on the back. "I'll get my shower. Don't worry about hot water, each bathroom has a separate instant water heater." So he would not join her. He did not close a single door, and she could hear the pounding of the shower across the hall. She adjusted the water temperature, but in her grimy impatience could not wait for the tub to fill. She lowered herself into a shallow puddle that barely covered her legs. Marry me. Be my wife. This fabulous, illogically-situated house could be hers,

if she were materialistic enough to take Whit at his word. If she had no future of her own. His shadow preceded him, water came with him, dripping from under the towel wrapped around his hips. She moved aside, an invitation to join her. He dropped the towel. "I was pretty dirty, and didn't want to foul your bath water," he explained. "Here, let me wash your back." Not the slightest smirk at finding her naked. No moment of awkwardness as he knelt behind her, the tip of his penis gentle on her back. Like husband and wife, accustomed to one another. Married, to Whit and to this crazy house. Chapter Nine Whit woke to the martial strains of John Phillip Sousa. Ky clutched his shoulder so hard her fingernails must be drawing blood. "Doorbell!" he yelled to calm her. "Doorbell?" she whimpered. "Push the right buttons and the doorbell plays music suitable to the season." He hunted for his jeans, where he normally dumped them on the floor. If he got married he would have to start being neater. He recalled that he had stuck his dirty jeans in the clothes hamper. He searched blindly in the closet, touched denim, broke the plastic hanger as he dragged them free. "I don't know how to change the songs, but Jim figured it out. I guess he's ready for the Fourth of July and wants to show it off." "Stars and Stripes Forever?" Kyla said. She looked half asleep. "How romantic." "Valentine's Day, 'Till the End of Time.'" Whit plunged down the hallway as the march began a second run through. Only a hint of dawn visible through the front windows. He would strangle Jim for waking him at this unearthly...Fists pounded on the solid wood door, and someone begged hoarsely for admission. Not Jim. He knew the door wasn't locked. The outside lights and one in the hall had switched on automatically the moment feet touched the front walk. Through the one-way glass of the side-light Whit made out a figure in baggy clothes. He opened the coat closet, checked for the revolver in its holster hanging on a hook. He jerked the door open just as the Stars and Stripes embarked on another chorus. Chase. In gray sweat pants and shirt, dirty athletic shoes. His face looked gray as his clothes. "Moira," he choked. "Just tell me she's okay." "How the hell should I know -- " Whit stepped back, suddenly wary. Someone had told Chase his wife had the hots for T. J. Whitaker. "She's here," Chase said, determined, but he made no move to step over the threshold. "Just so I know." "She's not here. Why should you think she is?" Chase sagged against the stone facing of the porch, leaned on the doorbell, and the Stars and Stripes Forever rang out. "You swear?" he asked, anguished, disbelieving.

Whit raised his right hand. With the musical accompaniment he felt foolish, like a swearing-in scene in a patriotic movie. He wanted to giggle, except Chase looked to be as distraught as any man he had ever seen. "On my honor, Mrs. Chase is not in my house, has not been in my house since I got home at dark last night. She was not in my truck at any moment yesterday." "Oh God!" Be kind to your web-footed friends."Get away from the doorbell." Chase shuffled to the steps. "Heard you were out of town, so naturally supposed that you and Moira...Then heard you'd come home, and you didn't drop her off. I called her friends in Vegas, even the girl who moved to Mesquite, and the -- " "Chase." The doctor lifted his head without meeting Whit's eyes. "Go back to town, get two or three cups of coffee at the new coffee shop. They've got some very good blends. Then go home and get a shower. By that time it'll be light enough for everyone to start searching again." Chase nodded, stood very still, as if digesting the orders, then turned his back and shuffled off. Whit closed the door when the motor of the pickup turned over. Coffee. Not a bad idea. His toes kicked something. The box containing the statue. He carried it into the family room, opened it, and placed the horse and its rider on the only flat surface, the counter of the wet bar. He would have to think about getting a table or something for it to sit on. The clock on the microwave flicked to 4:28. What coffee today? A blend of Kona and Colombian. He cleaned the electric mill so not the slightest residue of New Guinea remained to contaminate the new beans. He fitted the filter, poured water in the top of the coffee maker, left it to gurgle while he turned on the computer in the office. Back through the kitchen -- coffee not quite ready -to the family room. The light from the hall cast a shadow of the bronc rider across the tan rug. A ghost in an empty room. He had once seen a Remington displayed on a pedestal of weathered wood. Very effective. Very western. Come fall, when there wasn't so much work demanding his attention, he would round up some planks from an old shack and make a stand for the thing. Or perhaps a heavy, rough-hewn coffee table, so visitors could sit on the couch and see the thing at eye-level. Except he didn't have a couch. "Whit?" Her shadow crossed that of the cowboy. "I'm making coffee. Come into the kitchen." She wore the blue robe. It had no buttons, only a belt, and flipped open with every step, revealing most of her thigh. "Sit down." He searched through the cupboard for two unchipped mugs. He should buy some thin china ones, better for appreciating the taste of fine coffee. He turned around, and all the muscles of his back cramped in sudden spasm. She sat at the mahogany table, leaning on her elbows. Leaning on Jenny's table,

the one she had spotted in a roadside store on her way back to Pasadena, the table he had picked up on his way home from Arizona, crowding the heifers. He had not thought of the table when he brought Ky here, had not considered anything but the comfort of Ky's body next to his. Jenny, I'm sorry.A sudden concern that he had spoken aloud. He listened for echoes. Heard nothing.I don't love her, Jenny. It's lust, it's because it's been so long since the night in the tree house, and a man can only wait so long, Jenny . The crash of the mug jarred him out of his trance. Ky came out of the chair like a gun had gone off. A mug he seldom used because it was too small, printed with his name and Plum Sky Ranch, a gift at a cattleman's convention in Reno. He saw his hands shaking when he put the remaining mug beside the coffee maker. "Where's the broom?" Kyla asked. He started to push the shards aside with his foot, realized at the last second that he was barefoot. Amazing, that he could stay upright. Open the closet; pull out the broom. She set to work. "Watch your feet," he said. "I am." She stepped back, holding the broom at arm's length. He found another pristine mug -- picture of a prospector, I Lost my Ass in Reno. His father had bought thatbefore the final coin in the slot machine. "Who was at the door?" she asked as she poured the coffee. Just like a wife. Like a woman who has the right to inquire into a man's business. He had allowed himself to be drawn deeper than he wanted to be. Too deep. "Chase." She put the mugs on the table, slopping a little coffee, and dashed for a paper towel. As she leaned over his shoulder to mop up the spill, she said, "He knows I'm here." "No, he was looking for Moira. Seems he expected to find her with me." She sat down and her eyelids sank to half-mast. Either not completely awake or thinking. She embraced the cup, as she had held his shaft last night in the tub. Such a blatant, sensual gesture, and on Jenny's table. "This may sound silly, but I woke up wondering -- " "Nothing you say is silly," he protested. "If the hide-away where Rod took Moira...How far is Chase's house from the road where Moira jogs?" A careful present tense. In the midst of love she had cried out, shocked at the possibility of murder, and had quivered in his arms. "Across town, but across Argentia's not all that far." "What if Moira woke feeling a bit under the weather. Maybe she hadn't slept well. She thinks, 'A run will straighten me out.' But instead, running makes her feel worse. She might go to the shack or house or trailer, whatever it is, where she and Rod made love, to rest before walking home. She lies down, the fever comes on, she's feeling worse and worse." "Hantavirus, from some cabin near the national park. But it's been at least

six weeks," he said. They should have driven to the other three ranches yesterday, but he had been negligent, playing instead of searching for hantavirus. "Not necessarily. What if Rod picked up hantavirus when he cleaned up the shack to create their love nest? Rod got full exposure, lifting dust with a broom. Moira wasn't in the place until the next morning, so she's okay, up to now. But Rod didn't clean out the mouse nests beneath the floor. Maybe they took a thermos of coffee and a couple Danish. After they leave, the mice come to feast on the crumbs. Even the warmth of the blankets, the mattress..." He drank half his coffee, knowing what she meant to say. Sex would leave a residue attractive to mice. "No use hunting until it's a bit lighter," he said. "You got any ideas?" "I noticed a road on the edge of town, a bunch of trailers parked on both sides." "Generator Flat." "Generator!" "That's the local name for the place. Generator Flat, because there're no electric lines, and the people living in the trailers run their generators for lights and TV. They congregate there because the owner lives in Wyoming, or maybe its Colorado, and doesn't bother collecting rent. No water pipes either, so they haul in five-gallon cans to fill their tanks. Dan charges twenty-five-cents a can to fill at his back faucet, but if they watch, when the deputy goes on patrol, they can fill for free at the sheriff's station." "I'll get dressed," she said. "Not until full daylight," he said. "Too many irresponsible men with guns live in Generator Flat. I'm not prowling about in the twilight." She took a long drink of coffee. "You awake enough to go back to bed?" To his relief she stepped away from the table; to his delight, when the blue robe fell open, she did not snatch it closed. He opened the front door as they went by, pushed the doorbell, marched down the hall, experienced a fleeting thought that Jenny would be appalled by such foolishness. He had Ky on the bed, was on top of her before the music ended. "Ta-dah-ta-dah, ta-dah-ta-dah, ta-ta foreeeeeeeeever!" And at that instant he meant it. *** Where the dirt track met the main road, the trailers ranged in a semblance of order, most facing the "street." But Whit noticed that the farther he drove, the more disorganized the settlement got, until the road itself disappeared in a fan of ruts, each leading to an aluminum box. He parked, got out of the truck to survey the situation, and heard Ky slam the opposite door. He hesitated to intrude on a path that some resident considered a private drive. Beside three of the trailers, laundry flapped on clothes lines, a sure indication that they were occupied. "The farthest one," Ky said. "See, in those bushes in the gully. Rod's pickup wouldn't be visible there." She lifted her binoculars, but dropped them

because at that instant a boy emerged from the thicket pushing a bicycle. "Sorry," Ky said. "Jumping to conclusions." The boy's long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the tying had been done yesterday. Or even the day before yesterday, for hair straggled over his ears. He wore jeans cut off at the knees and a dirty T-shirt. "That's the kid I saw at the meeting for the Pollux miners," Whit said. "He came out wearing one of those gold pins." "I don't think that's the person to make inquiries of," Ky muttered. "A bit too young -" "Aunt Kyla?" Kyla turned so fast gravel flew from beneath her heels. Trace scrambled off his bike. "Trace?" Kyla looked alarmed, then embarrassed at being caught spying. "Andy and I decided we'd help hunt for the lost woman," Trace said. "Is that what you're doing?" "Yes," Kyla said with relief. "We're helping the sheriff." "I figured, when you didn't come home last night, you were hunting for Mrs. Chase." "That's Andy?" Kyla asked, jerking a thumb to indicate the kid still struggling to get his bike up the rocky track. "Andy Ferrill. He helped me get all the kids to work at the bake sale and the car wash." "Introduce us," Whit said. Andy had washed his face that morning, but the soap and water had stopped well short of his ears. Whit hunted for an innocuous remark to get the conversation underway. "I'd like to meet your mother, Andy. You and Trace can leave your bikes here, and I'll drive down -- " "Mom don't live with me." "Your father? Has he already gone -- " "Dad's gone job hunting." "Andy's alone while his dad's out looking for work," Trace said, and from his expression, Whit thought he envied Andy immensely. "Alone?" Kyla asked, alarmed. "For how long?" "It's okay, Ky," Whit reassured her. "Out here, a day or two is no reason to go hunting the child welfare people." He returned his attention to Andy. "I suppose you get up early, Andy, to ride your bike and visit your friends before it gets too hot." Andy nodded. "We're looking for an empty house or trailer, where a man and a woman used to come early in the morning, stay for about an hour, then leave." Andy worked at the bent lever of his front brake. "We think the woman may be the one who's lost. She may be sick and alone in this place." "Man a cowboy?" Andy addressed the rear brake lever, his voice low. "Yes, a cowboy. He drove a white pickup with a black stripe down the side." Andy squeezed both levers and leaned over, watching the front brake pads move. "She's not there," he muttered. Whit dropped to his knees and looked up into yellow-brown eyes. "You know this woman and this cowboy?"

"Don't know names." "How would you like hotcakes and eggs and sausage at the Gold Rim Grill?" Andy's eyes sparkled. "Throw your bike in the back. You, too, Trace. Or did you eat at home?" "Nothing but cereal, toast, orange juice and bacon," he said. Whit clicked the latch but held the tailgate in place, surprised. The dog, curled up on the ragged saddle blanket against the front of the bed. "Pooch?" he said. The dog stood up, on all four feet, and wagged his tail. "What's he doing in here?" Kyla asked. "Whoever owned him taught him to ride in the pickup," Whit said. "Now that his foot's healed, he's back on duty. Careful with those bikes, boys. Don't scare him." But the dog showed no concern at all, in fact seemed to understand what was going on, and returned to his bed. With four people in the track, even though two were skinny twelve-year-olds, Kyla was forced very close. Whit felt his thigh move against hers. He must keep her at the ranch one more night at least. The thought of being alone troubled him far more than Moira's disappearance. The waitress bent over the big oblong booth at the front window of the Gold Rim, her wet cloth making wide circles on the plastic surface. Whit held the boys back until she had finished. They had barely slid across the plastic seat when she bustled up with menus and the coffee pot. Bad coffee, but stimulating. The boys turned up their noses at coffee. Andy ordered Coke. "Mom won't let me have Coke for breakfast," Trace said, another envious stare at Andy. "We'll call this brunch," Kyla said. "Coke, then." Whit waited until forks scraped on the china before he faced Andy. "I saw you at the meeting where they gave the Pollux workers gold pins. You had one." "Dad told me to collect his, and that man from New York, in the suit and tie, he told Mr. Marshall it was okay." "I'm glad you did that for your father. Tell me about the woman and the cowboy. If it's a secret, I promise I won't say a word to anybody, and neither will Ky...Miss Rogers." "Aunt Kyla can keep a secret," Trace said, with a sideling glance at Ky. Andy played with his fork, making patterns in the residual syrup. "Dad left a long time ago," he began. "Right after Easter. He got me a chocolate rabbit, half price, when we went to the grocery to stock up, so I wouldn't run out of food." Two months! Kyla opened her mouth, Whit poked an elbow in her ribs to keep her quiet. She obeyed, but with a frown and a glare. "Maybe Dad's found a job and had to start right away?" Andy said, hopeful and doubtful at the same time. "Probably," Ky whispered, cutting what remained of her short stack into tiny pieces, but not putting one in her mouth. "He left me twenty dollars, which was all he could spare from the gas money, but it's gone, and I can't haul water but a gallon at a time on my bike. That cowboy came, and he hauled the cans in his truck, and filled the tank right up to

the top. He gave me ten, sometimes fifteen dollars if I let him and the woman use Dad's bed." "Oh God!" Ky said under her breath. Andy faced her directly, smiling a superior smile. "I know what a man's pecker's for. Don't you dare tell anyone I'm out there alone, 'cause Dad says they'll haul me off and put me living with rat-catchers who abuse kids for the money the county gives them." "What's your water situation?" Whit asked. "Only a bit. Got to be careful until that cowboy -- " "He's not coming back. He's dead." Andy slumped against the vinyl cushion, as if someone had slapped him in the face. "And that's the woman who's gone?" he said. "Yes." "Don't make me talk to the sheriff?" he begged, all the cockiness gone. "Dad'll come home and find me not there. When a trailer's left empty in Generator Flat, next thing you know the door's pried open and the frig's gone." Ky squared her shoulders, and smiled the fakest smile Whit had ever seen. "Well, then, we'd better get out to Generator Flat and load the water cans into Whit's pickup. We'll fill them at Trace's house." She fished around on the floor and drew up her little white handbag by the shoulder strap. Whit hissed before she had the purse open. "Give a kid money, the last thing he'll buy is groceries," he whispered in her ear. He leaned around her to see Andy. "After we get the water I'll take you to the grocery, and stock the cupboards again." Andy toyed with his empty orange juice glass, tipped it high to drain the final drop. "You want another orange juice?" "You mean I can have another?" "Another orange juice. How about you, Trace?" Trace nodded, wide-eyed. "When Dad takes us out for breakfast, we never get seconds on orange juice," Trace said. The bell over the door tinkled, and was immediately joined by a heavier jingle of metal, the accoutrements of office hanging from the sheriff's belt. He surveyed the cafe, his eyes settled on the front booth and he walked in their direction. "Can I have a word, Whit?" No surprise that Sheriff Neligh came looking for him. By now Chase had told him of his early morning visit. "Finish your breakfast," Whit said to Ky and the boys. "Outside," he muttered to the sheriff. Neligh leaned against the used brick facing of the cafe. "Chase finally confessed, he thought his wife was with you yesterday, which was why he didn't report her missing. He wasn't worried until last night, when you sailed right through town and didn't drop her off. Moira Chase with you?" "No, neither yesterday nor last night. Chase turned up at my door about half past four this morning, looking like he'd been on a week's bender." Neligh nodded. "He's finally got the message. Moira's run off, or been taken off." He shifted his eyes and his chewing gum, which he had lately

substituted for tobacco at the behest of county authorities. Chewing tobacco, they had pointed out, was not a proper model to the youth of the community. "Why should Chase think his wife's with you?" Whit considered the question for a moment, and decided the truth could do no harm. "Twice in the past week Moira has very seriously propositioned me. Once at the barbecue, then day before yesterday, when I drove into town early on the road where she jogs." "You stopped to talk to her?" "I stopped because I had an appointment and I was fifteen minutes early. I stopped to watch the sun come up. I found -- find -- Moira Chase repulsive." Neligh laughed and nodded. "You swear you slept alone last night." "That's none of your business." Neligh's eyes swiveled to the front window of the cafe. "Nice looking gal, Glenda Fetterman's sister." That subtle remark let Whit know that the news had spread all over town. Now that the sheriff was in the know, he would spread it all over the county. "Chase said there was some kind of party going on at your house. Music at half past four in the morning?" Whit laughed. "The door bell. Chase kept leaning against the button and Jim already has it programmed for the Fourth of July. The Stars and Stripes Forever." It was Neligh's turn to laugh, which he did with gusto, bending over as far as his wide belt and growing paunch allowed. "I remember first time I punched that button, and the damn house played Silent Night at me. I began to wonder what kind of beer Dan had in that cask." He pushed himself away from the used brick. "Get in touch if you think of anything." Silent Night. The doorbell had played Silent Night when he and Jenny looked at the house. Hardly appropriate for May, but no one had lived in the place since Christmas. Jenny hated the doorbell, thought it tacky, and said they would replace it with chimes. Whit detoured by the truck on his way back to the cafe, leaned over the side and negligently patted the dog. He should bring what was left of the hotcakes and sausage out on a paper plate. He had disconnected the doorbell without even bothering to figure out how it worked. But Jim said two bare wires sticking out beside the front door didn't look good on such a fancy house, so Whit had handed him the owner's manual, making it plain that if he ever heard Silent Night he'd smash the thing. Now another memory: The Stars and Stripes Forever. A memory he would treasure for a long, long time. Or one he would rather forget? Ky must visit at Christmas. That's when Jim programmed the machine to play the birthday song. He and Ky could celebrate together, on Christmas day. *** "Drive all the way into the back yard," Kyla said as he turned into the Fetterman's driveway. "There we can fill the cans with the hose without taking them out of the truck." "Someone's truck's in the way," Whit said. "What's Mark doing home on Monday morning?" she asked no one in particular. "Dad said the sheriff had asked some of the miners to help in the hunt,"

Trace said. Whit left the truck with the hood protruding into the street; they all piled out and headed toward the sound of voices. Mark, Glenda, and their neighbors, the Marshalls, sat at the picnic table under the tree. "I'll make another pot of coffee," Glenda said the moment she saw Kyla. "Oh, Mr. Whitaker." Her face froze. "Don't bother for me," Kyla said. "I'm floating." She turned to Whit; he shook his head. "Glad you're here, Whit," Mark said. He tapped a map that covered half the table. "You know this country. Marshall and I are trying to figure out where we should concentrate a search. The whole salvage crew from the Pollux will go out, and half the shift from the Castor." "Can I fill up my water cans?" Andy asked, tugging at Kyla's sleeve. "Trace and I can lug them back here." "There's a faucet out front, closer to the truck," Trace said. The boys trudged out of sight. Glenda slid off the bench and gestured for Kyla to follow her. "I'll make another pot of coffee," she announced. She slammed the kitchen door rather more firmly than necessary. "There's a message for you. Something about a job. They called just a few minutes ago." Kyla studied the bit of notepaper stuck on the wall beside the phone. A position starting next Monday with a medical supply company. "Be at the temp office at 7 a.m. sharp, to get information." "Dr. Chase told Sheriff Neligh that Moira was with Whit," Glenda said the moment Kyla lifted her eyes from the note. Kyla shoved the paper in the pocket of her shorts. "Moira was not with Whit. I was. We drove north and east of here, looking at ranches that Rod visited, and met some nice people named Foster and ate lunch at Tonapah. Then we -- " "Why should Dr. Chase even think -- " "How should I know?" Kyla exclaimed, her temper rising. What she had spied behind the juniper, what Whit had told her on the way to Reno, these were his secrets, not hers. "At first I didn't believe it," Glenda said. "Moira Chase? She's a married woman. Whit always seemed woman shy, understandable because of the way his fiancée died. But after I thought about it, how he moved in on you so quickly, well, maybe he'd not an angel." Kyla looked at the ceiling and took several deep breaths. "Whit isn't an angel. But he hasn't been shacking with Moira Chase, either." Kyla considered telling Glenda about Rod and Moira, then decided that was Whit's secret, too. "But why should Dr. Chase think -- " "You asked me that before, and I still don't know the answer. Hadn't you better

start the coffee maker." Glenda splashed water down the front of her shirt as she rinsed the coffee pot. "It's just...just that this has all happened so fast, you and Whit I mean. My little sister comes to visit me, and suddenly she's not home for three nights. What do I tell Mom?" The cry of a big sister, twelve years older, and nothing to do with a therapist. "Mom called?" Kyla asked, startled by the guilt she felt. "No. But she might." Kyla breathed again. "Tell her I'm out with a friend. I promised Whit I'd help him look for hantavirus sites, and that's what we're doing. Except yesterday afternoon he took me to the state-park with the dinosaurs, up north." Glenda shoved the pot under the faucet. "Just so he's not using you." "Maybe I'm using him. Did you ever think of that?" "The water's running awfully slow." "It's the boys, filling Andy's water cans. The water tank in his trailer's nearly empty." Kyla hesitated, then decided someone should know. Someone who could take action if necessary. "Glenda, that little boy lives in Generator Flat all alone. His father worked at the Pollux. He took off weeks ago to hunt for work in Idaho. Andy's afraid someone will report him to the county, and that the authorities will carry him off, and the trailer, left empty, will be vandalized." Glenda concentrated on pouring the water in the top of the coffee maker. "Is there something you want me to do?" "I don't know. I just thought...someone should be aware. Does Mark have contacts at mines in Idaho? Could he find out if Andy's father applied for work? The kid tries to act like everything's okay, but he's worried." Glenda nodded. "I'll speak to Mark. Later. This business with Moira Chase has us all upset, because every woman in this town has at some time or another gone walking alone, and we let our children wander about the countryside. What if it's not safe anymore?" The coffee sizzled on the hot plate, awakening Glenda to the pot still in her hand. She shoved it under the stream. "Dr. Chase hadn't given Moira a second thought. It was only when we turned up for the women's club meeting, and no one was there. You could see she'd started getting ready. China cups and crystal glasses on the buffet, and jars of sun tea brewing on the patio." She turned a bleak face to Kyla. "Moira Chase did not run off. Someone took her." Dr. Chase. Hadn't Jim and Vince said as much last night? Or might it be the man who'd slept with her before she took up with Rod. Maybe her abandoned lover resented being shoved aside for a handsome young cowboy with money to buy a ranch. Unless Moira turned up soon, Whit would have to tell the sheriff that Rod had been Moira's lover. Glenda handed her two mugs. "Take these out." The men leaned over the table, heads close together, jabbing at the map. The boys came around the corner of the house, clothes dripping. Filling the water cans had obviously ended in a water fight. Trace leaned in the back door. "Hey, Mom! You got any lemonade in the frig?" "Stay outside until you've dry," Glenda said. "I'll bring the lemonade out." "No one's walked this gully," Mark said, his finger tracking a two-inch line

on the map. "Most of that's visible from the highway," Whit said. "I wouldn't think -- " His eyes flicked over the boys, and he closed his mouth. Kyla shivered, realizing the men were discussing places to look for a body. Or a grave, dug safe from prying eyes. Glenda emerged with a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and the coffee in the other. "Kyla, run in and bring out some paper cups for the boys. Andy, could you refill everyone's mug?" She thrust the full pot at the boy, who grasped it with both hands. Kyla stared at Glenda. Trusting her new coffeepot to a twelve-year-old? The corners of Glenda's mouth twitched for a split second. "I'm afraid I've been critical of Andy," Glenda whispered. "The way he dresses, no haircut...I didn't understand. Trust is a two-way street. Best all around if Andy finds some adults to trust, under the circumstances." Chapter Ten Kyla admired the play of Whit's arm muscles as he hoisted the water cans, tipped them up, emptied them into the trailer's tank. No matter how assiduously a desk-bound man worked out in the gym, he could never achieve this easy, natural strength. Trace tied a hand-drawn map to his handlebars, a guide to the area he and Andy would search. Another of Glenda's plots to draw Andy into a circle of adult friendship. "Come on, Andy," Trace said impatiently. "If you spot anything unusual," Kyla said, "come back for the sheriff. You could destroy vital evidence getting too close." "You told us that before," Trace said. "Go ahead," Whit said to Andy. "I'll leave the water cans under the trailer." Andy nodded, but looked back more than once as he and Trace pushed their bikes up the rocky slope. "I hope they don't find anything," Kyla said. "Marshall and I gave them the least likely spot, a long gully, almost all of it visible from the highway." He heaved the last water can from the truck. Kyla gathered the empties and stuffed them under the trailer. "Do you think it's possible that Dr. Chase killed Moira?" Kyla asked. "You saw him this morning." The splash of the water changed tone as the tank filled. "Chase looked awful, but I've never seen a murderer on the morning after, so I can't judge." He eyed her, questioning. "You still thinking of going home today?" As they climbed into the truck, Kyla told him about the message from the temp agency. "Dr. Chase is too busy right now to make trouble for me. I'll stay until Sunday. What's today's itinerary?" "There's hardly enough left of the day to nose around the national park and those three ranches," Whit said. "We'd have to stay overnight, and with this latest development -- " "Sheriff Neligh expects you to stick around," Kyla finished for him. He nodded,

turned the truck toward the ranch. "The sheriff asked you about your friendship with Moira?" "Naturally." "I expected him to come in the cafe and quiz me," Kyla said, "since I'm the witness to your whereabouts." "My word's good in the county. How about helping me shop for furniture?" "Furniture? You're not joining the search?" "Searches like this turn up exactly nothing. They just make everyone feel better. Either in the next day or two Dr. Chase gets a phone call from a very contrite wife, or toward fall a hiker or a cowboy calls the sheriff to report bones in a wash. Neither very pleasant for Dr. Chase. The first ends in a nasty divorce, and the second in a belated funeral." "There's something even worse," she said. "Silence. Never learning what happened. I hope she phones." "So do I. Now, I want you to look at the family room and tell me where a couch should go. And a coffee table. Measure it, so we'll know what size we need. No sense making two trips to Bishop." Whit hit the doorbell as he opened the front door, and the music set Kyla tingling. "I need more light," she said, standing in the middle of the room. Whit pushed a button, the drapes slid apart, revealing an expanse of glass, and beyond a flagstone patio and the blue plastic of a pool cover. "A swimming pool?" "I don't heat it. Just let the sun do its work. It's nearly warm enough for evening dips. Just a second, I'll get a measuring tape." He disappeared into the kitchen. A light fixture made from a wagon wheel hung in one corner of the room. To light the eating area or perhaps a game table. Should the couch face the patio, or the fireplace? On one side the stonework of the fireplace extended well beyond the hearth, and water stains marked the stones from floor to ceiling. "Whit, something's leaking," she said when he appeared with a tape measure. "See, water's run down these rocks, and not just a trickle." "Leak?" He laughed, ran his fingers over the whitish deposits. "That's the humidifier. Fill the tank, turn on the pump, and water comes out little pipes near the ceiling and spills down the rocks, into a trough at the bottom. The guy who built the house saw one just like this at Scotty's Castle in Death Valley. Of course, modern humidifying systems work much better, but this is more elegant." "I want to see it work," Kyla said. She licked a finger, rubbed it across a stone. Agate, that wet would glitter in a spectrum of color. The fountain, she realized, determined the color scheme of the room. The tan rug, the pale green tile of the wet bar, the desert-red of the drapes. Whit filled a pitcher at the wet bar, unscrewed a cap set flush in the floor, and poured the water in a narrow stream. He pushed another button -- the whole house seemed to operate on tiny silent motors -- the wall gurgled, air hissed from pipes long dry, then a dribble of moisture, a cough, another dribble. The

sheen started at the top, and flowed downward like undulating silk. The rocks had been arranged to create minuscule creeks, ponds, and waterfalls. "Incredible!" Kyla whispered. Whit stepped to her side and slid an arm about her waist. "It's beautiful. Thanks for asking. I never turned it on before." "Never? In six years?" He said nothing. He faced the glistening stone, but his eyes were closed and a muscle worked in his jaw. Jenny. He regretted that Jenny had never seen the fountain? Kyla turned out of his embrace, and lay the tape measure on the floor. Judith had warned her. The lost angel who possessed Whit would never let him go. "Now," she said briskly, to break the spell of the fountain, "it looks like something six or seven feet long would do. What style of furniture do you have in mind?" He shook himself, like a man suddenly awakened. "The statue. Something to match the Remington and show it off. I saw one mounted on a pedestal made of barn wood, but it might be more restful on a coffee table, where you could sit down to look at it." "Western style, then. Wood and nubby upholstery. Maybe tile on the coffee table, just so it isn't too slick. Terra cotta, to match the entry hall. Nothing elaborate, because you've got two very dramatic, rough-hewn focal points." "What?" he asked. "Would you mind speaking English?" "The Remington and the fountain wall." "How do you know these things?" "My Aunt Edith, my mother's sister, is an interior decorator. You learn by osmosis. She never visits but she gives lots of good advice that mother never takes. Mother believes the best décor is EYS." "EYS?" "Early Yard Sale. Mother's Saturday mornings are a dead loss if she doesn't hit at least two sales. If we needed a table or chest of drawers, we waited until she hauled one home. This is going to be an adventure! I've never bought new furniture before." "And on the way we'll look for fresh tire tracks heading off on side roads. I'll get a map." Kyla found a few loose yarns of the carpet against the baseboard, and with a pair of nail scissors carefully clipped a smidgen of the drapery fabric from a seam. She hoped nothing came of tire tracks on side roads. Sickness and death in a hospital, that she found acceptable, but dead bodies in the desert?Stiff upper lip , she told herself. For a woman who had wanted to be a doctor since she was ten years old, she was dreadfully squeamish. The moment Whit started the truck, the dog came tearing around the house. He ordered it away, and it slunk to its lair with its tail between its legs. "I suppose," he muttered as he turned the pickup around, "I'd better buy some dog food while I'm near a supermarket. It seems I've got a dog. Open this." He pulled a map from under his leg, a detail map of west central Nevada. "Look for

secondary roads west of Argentia that follow the bottom of a gully, or go over a ridge right after leaving the main road." The map accordioned open and a paper skittered off her leg, onto the floor. "What's that?" Whit asked without taking his eyes from the road. A legal-sized sheet folded into thirds, scribbles here and there over printed text. Circles and arrows on a crude sketch. Hole-in-Rock Resort Casino. "A mock-up of that brochure," Kyla said, wary, knowing she held something not intended for a stranger's eyes. "A first draft, a printer's proof, I don't know what to call it." Whit pulled to the edge of the road and reached for the paper. "You haven't seen it before?" Kyla asked. "What's it doing in your map?" "Not my map," Whit said. "Vince brought it into the office with the stuff from Rod's truck." He tipped the paper away from the bright sunlight, studied both sides, refolded the map with the paper inside. "We won't bother with side roads. You aren't too anxious, are you?" "No," Kyla said. "I'm not anxious at all. Do you think Dr. Chase might be right, that a woman's too emotional to be a good doctor?" "Exactly the opposite. No human being should be so callused that a dead body isn't a shock. If death, any death, ceases to be awful...Well, that's how we get mass murders and wars." *** Odd thoughts, mismatched pieces of a puzzle, came together and separated in Whit's head. He drove slowly, knowing he should keep his mind on his driving, but irresistibly drawn to the mystery. Would Ky interpret his silence as moodiness? He felt an unaccountable desire to prove that he was neither moody nor eccentric. He stopped at the wide spot below the ridge. "Ready for a little walk?" he asked, making an effort to smile. To his surprise, as he moved the muscles in his face, he felt better. "To the top of kissing ridge?" "I guess that's the destination. But today we'll talk. You've got to help me sort something out." He waited until they scaled the rocky place, delayed until they admired the stunning view, which never lost its impact, no matter how many times he saw it. He embraced her and let the deep kiss drag on and on. Easier today, for they had learned a great deal about each other since last Wednesday. "What's your problem?" Ky asked, running a fingernail up and down the zipper of his jeans. "Chase knew that Moira had propositioned me. Stop it, I can't think logically when you do that." She stepped back and saluted, but that did nothing to relieve the pressure, because the military gesture reminded him of the Stars and Stripes Forever. He had a vision of all future Fourth of July parades, him standing on the curb with a hard on when the high school band marched past. "Moira didn't accept every man who approached her," he said. "How do you know?" "A fellow at Whiskey Dan's said she only went with men who had money. This brochure in the map, I'd say someone gave Rod the scoop on Hole-in-Rock weeks ago, before the news ever went public. Colored brochures don't get printed

over night in this country. The job has to be sent to Carson City, or Reno. Which means, the brochure was designed before the county even gave tentative approval to the project." "So, whoever's developing the place, he knew Rod had cash, and gave him word about Hole-in-Rock before anyone else knew. How much money does...did Rod have?" "A lot more than I do. Rod and Judith divided something over eight million dollars." "Eight million!" He nodded, and used the moment of her distraction to bring her back into his arms. She frowned, concentrating. "Moira Chase has Las Vegas connections," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe she knows the people who're behind the resort, and they told her to round up more investors. She went after Rod, using her most formidable talent." "Makes sense so far." "Rod dies, Moira's frustrated, then plants the fake will in his room to get the money for herself." "Or at least part of it. Probably she planned to bring the will to probate court, Judith would offer half a mil to buy her off, get the thing settled and save legal fees." "At the same time Moira goes after the other big money in the county. You." "No big bucks here. My money's tied up in the ranch. Remind me to show you -" "Moira doesn't know your bank balance. But she's heard the story of you winning on a slot machine. The story's probably been told at least once a week in Whiskey Dan's, which seems to be the center of gossip in Argentia. The amount you won grows with each retelling, so you're considered a multimillionaire. Now, the question is, does Dr. Chase know Moira was raising cash with extracurricular affairs? Who exactly is behind Hole-in-Rock Resort?" "I don't know. I've never tried to find out, because the project will never get off the ground. Fellows Canyon has no big snow basin above it. Nothing at all like the one that feeds Dead Man Creek. This time of year my stream's running full, but Fellows has dwindled to a trickle." "But there's a ranch out there," Kyla protested. "It's listed in the land catalog. Fellows Canyon Ranch." "But you notice that Rod didn't check it as a possibility, because he knew it's not really a ranch. There's eighty acres, an old mining claim, half of it running straight up the mountain. A great place to harvest rocks." Kyla sighed, and Whit felt like doing the same. "Has anything we've said made sense?" Ky's shrug turned into a shudder and she leaned against him. "Glenda's certain Moira's been kidnapped. Maybe she needed Rod's money to pay off a shady debt." "Wild speculation," he said, tightening the embrace. Ky's idea might be worth considering, but he dismissed it because he hated to see her frightened. "It's none of our business. Let's forget it." "Forget it," she whispered. She stood on tiptoes. "I can't forget this morning." "You like musical accompaniment?"

"Whit, for the first time you came to me smiling and jolly, not serious and woebegone. You whooped and sang -- " "I couldn't remember the words. I was silly." "You were not silly. You were loads of fun." "Probably was the coffee. Kona-Colombian blend." "We'll patent it as an aphrodisiac, and grow fantastically rich." Her kiss came without warning, sparks biting before their lips touched. All the long minutes she held on, Whit had the troubled feeling that their conversations merely skimmed the surface, disguising what happened on a deeper, mystical level. Her feelings and thoughts intruded on his, converting singularity into duality. Whit and Ky, no longer two separate people, but something new, a blending -She ended the kiss, gasping, but he kept her very close, and cleared his throat. "I don't know what's come over me, and I don't know where all this is leading." "Wild passion has come over you, not unexpected after years of celibacy. It doesn't have to lead anywhere, so quit worrying. We make good love, and that's an end in itself." "At the hotel in Gold Hill I asked you -- " "In a moment of insanity. I don't believe sob stories from street beggars, kids' explanations as to how the Tiffany lamp got broken, and proposals made in the heat of passion." "Good of you. Fortunately I don't own a Tiffany lamp -- " "Wouldn't go with the house," she said. "By the way, neither does that Queen Anne mahogany table. It crowds the kitchen. But, it would be even worse in the family room, beneath that wagon wheel light fixture. We'll look at something in pine, or natural maple." Whit tightened his throat to cut off the cry of protest, then realized that every other muscle in his body had tensed. "What did I say wrong?" Ky whispered. "Nothing," he lied. "It's just I hadn't gone so far as to think about anything but a couch and coffee table." Disbelief shadowed her blue eyes, and took away what breath remained in his lungs. "The chandelier?" she asked, her eyes piercing like needles. "The table? Ah! The table. It's a family piece?" Whit shook his head. Ky read him so easily, she would drag the truth out sooner or later. "Jenny saw it at a roadside shop on...the last trip..." She slipped from his numb arms and facing the snow-capped peaks. "I'm sorry, Whit, but I didn't know. You must correct me when I make these gaffes. Don't feel shy about putting things, places, topics off limits. Love sanctifies." "Love sanctifies," he muttered. But love did more, when it fell upon a living, breathing woman. The revelation stunned him. He considered throwing his arms about Ky, declaring his love. He loved her because she respected his six-year obsession. He'd grown so tired of the women and men who offered themselves as therapists.It's time you put Jenny's death behind you. You must progress through the stages of grief.

But he had coped with the world only by clinging to that grief. As a man thrown from a ship clutches a life preserver. Grief supported him, until a week ago today he fell into blue eyes, and wondered at the complexities of the woman behind them. Did Ky feel the love settling around them? A substance as wispy as fog, but its fragility eternal. If Ky mentioned it, he would admit he felt it, too. He would step into the future, stripped of Jenny's comforting presence. "Shall we go furniture hunting?" she asked. "Or would you rather go back to the ranch, and I'll get my car from behind your equipment shed and leave?" She offered him a choice, and his love for her expanded. The fog turned pinkishlavender. Plum Sky. She waited for him to decide, absorbed by the mountain-view. He touched her shoulder. Jenny, I'm sorry, but you're dead, and Ky's alive. She took his hand with a wan smile. "It's not forever, Whit, although you warbled rather dramatically this morning. Can we go one step at a time, and when the trail gets too steep for either of us, we reserve the right to say stop?" "One step at a time," he whispered into her hair. This step had been a giant one. Love, his love for her, had kept him from tumbling backwards. I'm alive, he thought as they walked back to the truck. Ky's alive. He decided to hold the words in reserve. He must not pressure her. Until one night in his arms, Ky admitted she loved him, too. He drove slowly over the pass, down the winding road into the heat of the valley, contemplating love at first sight, love that did not die, two loves coexisting. He had always thought that impossible, but -- "Jenny wanted to replace that wagon wheel fixture." "That was BBR," Kyla said, and she grinned with delight at confusing him. "If you're going to hang around with a med student, you'll have to get used to acronyms. Before Bronco Rider. He's a bronze tyrant." "I wonder if Rod knew he'd be disrupting my life by leaving that statue to me? Be just like him. He's hovering up in those clouds, chortling and slapping his legs at the trouble he's causing." Whit pulled into the parking lot behind the bank and backed the truck into a space near the furniture store, just in case they found something worth loading. "Whit!" Ed Harnell dashed from the automatic teller machine, stuffing bills in his pocket. "What's this I hear going on over your way?" He skidded to a stop before he was out of the traffic lane, just as Ky emerged. "So it's true! You did abscond with the doctor's wife!" Forty miles and a state line between Argentia and Bishop, and the news had preceded him. "No, I didn't abscond with the doctor's wife," he said, wishing he could say it even more firmly. "This lady is a doctor herself, helping me track down hantavirus, with the help of the Center for Disease Control in Georgia." Ky's eyes opened wide, alarmed at the deception. How did he know she was alarmed? Because he loved her, and love communicated without words. "Kyla Rogers, from University of California, San Francisco. This is Ed Harnell,

who ranches on the border." "Hantavirus?" Ed said. "You got a case?" "A suspected case," Ky said. "Maybe two." "Perhaps you'd bring Dr. Rogers out to my place for supper some evening," Ed said, removing his hat, a great sacrifice because they stood in full sun. "She might look about the ranch, tell me things I should do...those damned mice congregate everywhere." "Dr. Rogers would be pleased," Whit said. Kyla hissed from the corner of her mouth. "Don't let me keep you standing here in the sun, away from your business," Ed said hastily. "The machine's a fast way to bank, but it's cooler inside." "We aren't banking today, we're redecorating." Ed's eyes narrowed. "Miss Rogers learned the principles of interior decorating from her aunt, and I'm mining all her talents while she's here." Ed grinned, then changed to a frown in stages. He slammed his hat on his head. "You conniving buzzard! You'd think by now I'd be able to guess when you're pulling my leg. Ma'am, I suggest you get back to your good husband ASAP, and let Argentia and Bishop return to their normal run of dull gossip." "No, Ed, really -- " But Ed heaved into his truck, started the motor, and rolled out of the parking lot. "I'm afraid we told ourselves lies up on the mountain," Ky said sadly. "I didn't lie," Whit said. He not only hadn't lied, he had barely skimmed the surface of the truth. "About dismissing the Moira affair, I mean. Moira's being thrust upon you, and she becomes your business." "I don't want to think even a stray thought about Moira," he said. "But I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Sheriff Neligh turns up on your doorstep this evening." Whit mulled over that possibility. "If they haven't found Moira, Neligh'll be there." More positively. "But by evening she'll call in. And right now we're furnishing my family room. Oh my God! The family room. We've got to hurry. I left the fountain on, with only one pitcher of water in the tank. When the water evaporates, which is what it's supposed to do, the pump will overheat -- " "Inside," Ky said. She grabbed his arm, turned him toward the door of the furniture store, the way a woman steers a man she knows very, very well. A man she has claim over. *** "Damn, I'm hungry," Whit said, adding a little groan in an effort to garner sympathy. Past mid-afternoon, and they had not dared stop for lunch because of the blasted humidifier. And he was not sure there was a thing in the refrigerator -"The sheriff's beat us," Ky said, leaning forward, trying to see the house through the dust. "I can see his truck." Neligh had parked the high four-wheel-drive as close to the front door as possible, and still stay in a spot of shade. No way to unload the furniture with the sheriff's car there. Whit rolled down the window the moment he braked, and the sheriff ambled slowly toward them, his mouth scrunched, moving his wad of chewing gum, looking anything but pleased. "So, you finally decided to bring her home. Where you had Moira stashed?" He

leaned in the window, and his carefully cultivated lawman's frown collapsed. "You're not Moira Chase!" "Guilty as charged," Ky said. Her giggles expanded into gales of laughter that came close to being insulting. "Sheriff Neligh, Kyla Rogers, Glenda Fetterman's sister, who's visiting town, acting as consultant on my interior decorating project." The sheriff's anger affected the angle of his shoulders. "Interior decorating?" He stared at the back of the truck suspiciously, then lifted the corner of the blue tarp covering the couch. "Move your car so I can back to the door. Give me a hand carrying the stuff, then we'll fix something to eat and share our thoughts on the Moira Chase affair," Whit said. The sheriff shrugged and headed for his truck. He spun the wheels pulling away, raising a cloud of dust as a symbol of his irritation. "Police arrogance," Ky exclaimed. "No different here than in the cities." "Different, because Sheriff Neligh has to run for reelection next year, and he'll go out of his way to please the voters. He's just frustrated." "He's fiddling with his radio," Ky reported while he had his head turned, backing. "If you were missing, you'd want him to be fiddling with his radio." "I guess you're right. Absolutely you're right. Since we didn't stop at the market, what's in the house for lunch, dinner, supper, whatever I'm putting on the table." "You don't have to -- " "I'd rather you did the talking to Neligh. I'll cook. It gives me an excuse to hang in the background." "Right now, run in the house and pour a pitcher of water in the tank." "How could I forget!" she cried. She flung open the front door, on the way through hit the doorbell. Whit nearly cursed 'The Stars and Stripes Forever,' thought better of such unpatriotic behavior in front of a lawman. "So that's last night's squeeze," Neligh muttered, staring after Ky, trying to untie the rope that held down the tarp without looking at the knot. "A very good friend," Whit said. "Good. Everyone'll be pleased. I'll tell Mary Lauber over at the county building you got a lady -- " "You'll keep your mouth shut." "But she'll be pleased to hear you're finally working through your grief." "Hell, Neligh, a man doesn't 'work through his grief.' Grief ebbs and flows on its own and a man submits. Mary's been feeding you that psychology crap. She makes excuses for the kids who set fire to shacks. They did it because their mamas have to work to pay the rent, or their daddies have lost their jobs, or their big brothers teased them about the size of their pecker when they were five year old." Neligh grinned. "New furniture has nothing to do with the cute Miss Fetter -" "Rogers. No it has to do with my inheritance from Rod." "Rod Harris left you his fortune?" "No, his Remington, a statue of a cowboy riding a bucking bronco. It requires a table and somewhere for people to sit while they admire it. Now you wait until I pull this end of the couch out. I'll do the walking backwards because I know where the steps are." The sheriff shook his head. "You're crazy as ever. If you'll give me some

good leads on Moira Chase, I won't tell Mary Lauber you're building a heathen temple to a blasted bronze cowboy." "Tell her anyway. In a county this small, the mental health files are pretty skimpy. I'd hate to have her think I'm turning normal, threatening her job." "Cheese omelet and fruit salad do?" Kyla called from the door. "Fine." "Experienced girl," Neligh said as he took the weight of the far end. "Knows both ways to a man's heart." Whit ignored the innuendo. Kyla played traffic controller, directing them to the spot the couch was to occupy before they dropped it. "I'll get the coffee table," Whit said. He heard Neligh's boots clicking on the tiles, following him out. "With that girl in the way, you'll not tell me everything," Neligh said when they reached the front steps. "Give me the raw parts about Moira Chase right now." "She hasn't phoned from Vegas or Salt Lake City or Reno?" "You know she hasn't, if I'm out here." "Then in my opinion you're looking for a body. The gossip at Whiskey Dan's say that Moira turned down most of the men who offered to cuddle her buxomness, miners and ranch hands without gobs of money. Follow the money, you'll find Moira alive. Find out who she insulted, you'll trip over the bloody knife, or figure out whose hands still tingle from wrapping around her throat." "You and Rod Harris got more money than anyone in the county, not counting absentee ranch owners and stockholders in the mines -- who don't hang out in Argentia anyhow." "Rod's a week dead, and I had -- have -- no use for Moira Chase." "Can see why," Neligh said. Whit lifted the coffee table out of the truck. "Who's gonna get Rod's money?" Neligh asked at the front door. "His sister already has it. Joint tenancy of all investments and property. Wait here, I got something to show you." Whit dumped the table in the entry hall -- the tile on the top matched the floor perfectly -- ran to his bedroom and searched through the tumble of dirty clothes. He found the fake will mashed in the bottom of his pocket, probably by the energy of Ky's first embrace in the hotel. "I'd appreciate you not making this public, but I found it in Rod's things," he said. "Dated two days before he died." "Rod's handwriting?" "I don't know. I haven't checked. Blast it! I boxed up all his papers and took them to Judith. There's no way to compare...Yes there is, if he wrote his name in his books. Rod collected Nevada history." Dust had already settled on Rod's things. The two rooms smelled shut-up and abandoned. Whit selected a book from the second shelf.History of the Esmerelda Mining District. "Luck's with us," Neligh said, smiling broadly as he pulled a thin sheet of paper from inside the books front cover. Rod's angular handwriting recorded where he had purchased the volume, how much he paid for it, and a brief description of its contents. Thin, costly paper, acid free, Whit supposed, so it didn't damage the book. "Find another sample," Neligh ordered, sitting down at the desk. He shoved

the will from one book to another, comparing. "Good try, but not good enough." "What do you mean?" "Look here! Rod hardly ever crossed final T's. Whoever wrote this does, and couldn't break the habit. If it can't get by an amateur like me, a handwriting expert will demolish it." Neligh shoved the books aside. "Now, you tell me the truth. Why did Colton come out here last week, then turn in a vague report on damage to your irrigation equipment? When you ranchers lose a pump or a hose, you give a detailed description, down to the serial number, so I figure Colton's report concealed something." Whit leaned against the door. "I'd rather it didn't become common knowledge, about Moira and Rod that is. Rod's sister is a religious sort." He stopped before he called Judith unworldly. Judith was stronger than most people, because she knew the world so thoroughly. She accepted the truth, that human beings were capable of great evil. She knew the weaknesses of men and women, and could forgive. "Why does it make any difference if people know?" Neligh asked harshly. "He's dead and she's disappeared, maybe in danger. You gonna keep facts secret when they might save Moira's life?" "I don't suppose it amounts to a hill of beans," Whit said. He summarized what he knew of Rod's relationship with Moira Chase, regretting every word. He didn't mention where they carried on their affair, lest Neligh be side-tracked onto the case of Andy Ferrill. Mary Lauber would love to get her hooks into the kid. Much better if the Fettermans absorbed Andy in a loose, informal guardianship, until someone tracked down his father, or the irresponsible fellow came home. Whit stopped cold when he heard the tinkling of 'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' "Dinner's ready," Ky called. Maybe he should reprogram the doorbell to play a love song, tell her subtly -"I'd think that doorbell would drive you nuts," Neligh said as they instinctively marched across the yard. "The light on the answering machine's blinking," Ky said. Whit left the office door ajar, and noted that Ky tilted her ear in that direction, like a woman who has the right to listen to her man's conversations. "Hi, Whit," Judith's voice said. "Score one for Kyla. Hantavirus pulmonary syndrome. You'll probably be hearing from the state health people. I told them there might be a second case down there, misdiagnosed." Ky, in the act of putting a platter on the table, jumped like she had received a death threat. "Second case?" Neligh asked. Whit met Kyla's eyes, asking permission to tell the sheriff. What fun! Talking without talking. No wonder men and women stayed married for decades, for better or for worse. Ky gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Carl Goulding," Whit said. "Chase diagnosed his illness as complications from

the flu, but Carl's symptoms were almost identical to Rod's, and the information from the Center for Disease Control -"What do you know about disease control?" Neligh asked. "On the Internet." "Guess I better get a home computer," Neligh grumbled as he sat down. "But it's bad enough having to fiddle with the thing in the office. And there, when things don't make sense, I can turn it over to the youngsters who understand that sort of crap." Chapter Eleven "We can't be of much help in finding Moira. It's time we got back to our own business," Kyla said over the rush of water from the kitchen facet. She handed Whit a wet plate, he fitted it into the dishwasher. "Which agenda? Hantavirus or...um...personal?" "Hantavirus." Whit, Kyla feared, was becoming more and more wrapped up in the sexual aspects of their relationship, and neglecting the reason she had agreed to spend time with him in the first place. "For your own peace of mind, you must find out where Rod picked the stuff up. And we'd better figure that out soon, because if I'm around when the state people arrive, Dr. Chase will go after me for sure." "Dr. Chase is totally absorbed in the case of his missing wife," Whit said. "Lets get back to work, so we have hard information to offer the state health people. I'll get the folder out of the truck, we'll spread everything on the table and decide on the next venture. Maybe east to the park." Kyla wiped the mahogany table carefully. The previous owners had not been careful with the top. Two scratches went all the way through the veneer, and in one spot the finish had worn through, leaving the bare wood exposed. Jenny's table. Jenny's taste in furniture. Under her direction the house would have shifted from western casual to a more formal European style. Judith had prepared her, and for that Kyla felt grateful. Whit clung tenaciously to the memory of love, and any woman who tried to compete with Jenny's perfection would only hurt herself. Whit had relaxed his guard enough that he could enjoy a physical relationship, but beyond that? Kyla warned herself that she must never expect avowals of love from Whit, or the most tenuous of emotional ties. There could be no secret signs, no knowing one another's thoughts, no "our song." Unless you counted the doorbell. Heavens, they had passed right through Bishop and not stopped at the drug store to resupply. She had shaken the box this morning and found it close to empty. They simply could not get enough of each other. Would sex ever again be so exciting? Too bad, if it turned out that Whit spoiled her for future love affairs with men more suited as permanent lovers, or husbands. Whit opened a folder and scattered papers on the table. He had emptied the truck of every scrap, even the receipts for the couch and coffee table. He unfolded the map and pulled out the mock-up of the resort brochure. "I think I'll call Jake," he said. "Jake? "The Flying Realtor. Any real estate salesman who's prosperous enough to maintain an airplane probably knows the status of every piece of Nevada real

estate" He stirred the papers until a business card came to the top. Kyla shoved the coffee table to its place in front of the couch, but after one experimental heft decided to leave the moving of the bronc rider to Whit. Except for the tinkle of falling water, the room lay silent. If Whit intended to leave the fountain running, the tank should be full. Well, she could take care of that. Kyla was making her third trip with the pitcher when Whit reappeared. "There's a way to fill the tank automatically, through pipes connected to the water system somehow," he said. "But I'll have to read the notes I took six years ago." That made sense, Kyla thought. Any house with motorized drapery pulls and a musical doorbell would certainly have a more convenient way to supply water to the humidifier. "Jake gave me a lead on one ranch near Ely. His descriptions of the other two don't sound promising. He doesn't know who's promoting the Hole-in-Rock resort development, but he's certain they haven't actually bought Fellows Canyon Ranch. Only an option to buy, which is why it's listed in the catalog." "Move the statue to the coffee table," Kyla said. "I want to see how it looks." "I've never seen the secret compartment," Whit said, tipping the statue far over. "Vince says there's a little sliding door." By stooping, Kyla spotted a rectangular depression in the center of the felted base. She explored with her fingertips, found a ridge, and with a slight pressure the door slid aside. "How much room in that hole?" Whit asked. "Space enough for a small jewelry box. The kind that hold a ring or coiled necklace." She ran her fingers the length of the cavity. "Whit, there's something in here. Something round, flat against the top." She withdrew her hand. Whatever was in the hidey-hole, it was not hers. Whit carried the statue to the couch, where he could lay it on its side without risk. He fished about in the cavity. "I can feel the thing, but my hands are too big to get at it," he said, sitting back on his heels. "You try." Kyla worked a fingernail under the edge of the flat packet, pulled, and it came away. "It hasn't been in here long. The tape's still flexible." She dropped a metallic disk in Whit's palm. Their foreheads touched when they leaned over to stare. It was a trifle larger than an old-fashioned silver dollar, and gold in color. Whit bounced the disk in his hand. "Too light to be solid gold." He turned it to catch the sunlight. "Betsy Allen's Jingling Silver Casino. Las Vegas. A casino chip." Whit snorted. "Impossible!" "What's impossible?" Kyla asked, craning her neck to read the black letters. "One hundred thousand dollars." Whit got to his feet, and as he was rising tossed the chip at her. It slid through Kyla's hands, rolled between her knees. She finally corralled it against the baseboard. $100,000. Impossible. Casino chips did not come in such ridiculous denominations. She had never seen anything larger than...what, $10 or $20 maybe. A fake casino chip. She scratched at the number, half expecting it to peel away. "Why should Rod hide this chip if

it's fake?" she asked. No reply. She looked up and found herself alone, the door to the kitchen still swinging. When she caught up with Whit in his office, he was already on the phone. "The sheriff's got a radio in his car, doesn't he?" He did not allow time for an answer. "You get in touch with him and tell him to get back to Plum Sky Ranch. And look in Moira Chase's file and remind him what casino she worked for in Las Vegas." He slammed the receiver. "Whit, how do you know this thing doesn't belong to Rod? He might have had a successful night at the tables." "Rod's a businessman. Was a businessman. His money didn't sit in a bank account, except when necessary, when he moved from one investment to another. Rod wouldn't let $100,000 gather dust in the bottom of a statue." Kyla turned the chip over, searching for more information. For clues, but she found nothing. Not even the name of the manufacturer. She flipped the chip into the air, caught it in her fist. "Your call." "Tails," he said, and patted her backside. "But what's heads and what's tails?" "That is the climatic question." His arms snaked about her before she had a chance to prepare herself. Only a few seconds, and every curve found its niche. She dared a quick look at the clock. How long until bedtime? "You don't think that chip's been in the statue long?" he asked. "Tape turns brittle with age, and when you pull at it, it breaks," Kyla explained. She opened her hand, held it against his chest so he might see the chip and the flexible tape still dangling from the back. "How long? A few months?" "In this dry climate, a few weeks," Kyla said. "You think this is what Moira was hunting for in Rod's apartment?" "I don't know what to think anymore." He pinched the chip between two fingers, wearing the expression he would use upon finding something spoiled in the refrigerator. What was the strange whine? Maybe the pump on the fountain had overheated for lack of water. But she had filled...The whine turned into a siren that grew louder and louder. "The sheriff didn't bother to close the gate," Whit said. "He probably thinks you've found Moira in the front closet." The scream echoed around the bare walls, stopped suddenly, but Kyla's ears continued to shriek. Sheriff Neligh stormed through the front door. "This had better be good," he yelled. Kyla tried to break out of the embrace, but Whit held her tightly with one arm. He offered Neligh the chip. "We found this in Rod's private hiding place." Sheriff Neligh turned the chip over in his thick fingers, he held the edge, stretched his arm at full length. "Left my glasses on the desk," he explained. "Betty Allen's Jingling Silver Casino, Las Vegas, $100,000," Whit said. "Didn't know they made chips for that amount." "Maybe they don't," Whit said. "Fake?" "You don't know?" the sheriff asked. "I gambled once in my life," Whit said. Neligh rumbled with what Kyla supposed was his version of a chuckle. "Did the dispatcher tell you the name of the casino where Moira worked before

becoming Mrs. Chase?" Whit asked. "Jingling Silver," Neligh said. "What's your take on this Whit, that you rushed me back here? And for God's sake, can't you get enough lovey-dovey when I'm not around?" Whit's arm dropped, Kyla slid her feet so a few inches separated them. "Nothing makes sense," Whit said. "All I've got is a bunch of jumbled ideas. If the chip's real, maybe Moira stole it. Maybe the owners want it back." "And our Moira's tied to a chair in the back room of the Jingling Silver, with hard- eyed men puffing on cigarettes and grinding glowing tips into tender places," Neligh said. Kyla retreated to the kitchen, but propped the door open with a chair so she could still hear the conversation. But she did not want Neligh to see her tremble when he spoke of torture. "Then again," Whit said, "Moira kept some rather...indelicate photos of herself and Rob, not caring whether her husband found them or not. But she gives Rod a casino chip to hide, away from her own house?" "Why didn't you take it to Vegas and cash it in?" Neligh asked. "I hear Vegas police can be pretty hard on people who counterfeit big value chips." Neligh leaned into the kitchen. "And you, Miss Fetter -- " "Rogers," Kyla said. "You didn't feel any desire to hie off to Vegas?" What had she felt? That the chip was a rather insubstantial thing to be worth a hundred thousand dollars. "I didn't think it was real and I still don't. Vegas casinos give away chips and decks of cards, pens and mugs. It looks like a souvenir to me." Neligh's professional glare weakened, and in a few seconds turned into a smile. "Guess I can trust you as well as I can Whit. I don't know anything about his taste in women -- didn't know he had any taste at all -- but we'll assume you two're cut from the same honest cloth. Now, I can't waste a deputy's time tooling off to Vegas, but you two are getting a reputation for dashing from one end of the state to another. I'll deputize you, Whit, you can go down and find out if this thing is real. I'll call the Jingling Silver, tell them you're on your way." "Both of us," Whit said. "Both what?" "Deputize both of us. Kyla, Miss Rogers, too." Neligh ran his hand over his chin. Kyla could hear the rasp of his beard. Neligh nodded, his mind made up "Go by way of the court house, pick up I.D. and badges. I'll have it all arranged by the time you get there." "It's too late," Whit said. "The court house will be closed by the time we get there, and it'll be midnight at least -- " "Go around to the back, knock on the door. And Vegas never sleeps." Kyla came very close to cursing. Bedtime stretched far off in the distant future. *** Mr. Escobar studied the I.D. cards, and checked the numbers against notes on

a pad. Whit swallowed hard to stifle a yawn. Well past his bedtime. "Sheriff Neligh reported that you found a chip purporting to be from the Jingling Silver Casino," he said quietly. "He says it relates to the disappearance of Moira...Mrs. Chase. I regret to say that Mrs. Chase has made no attempt to contact this casino or, so far as we know, anyone who works here. But then, it's been three years, and most of her friends have graduated to better things." Or worse, Whit thought. Whit unbuttoned his shirt, pulled out the slim passport case he had used during a short trying-to-forget trip to Spain five years ago. He placed the chip squarely in the middle of Escobar's leather desk pad. Escobar studied it with a magnifying glass. "It seems to be one of our chips. You will, naturally, want to be present when we check for authenticity? My security chief assures me we have no chips of this denomination unaccounted for. Would you please replace this in whatever secure spot you carried it, and follow me?" The corridors and rooms lay silent except for the whir of the air conditioning. This might have been the sleeping operations of a laundry. Mr. Escobar pushed a number pad beside a blank door, flicked on the light, and stepped into a room as white and stripped an operating theater. He removed a plastic cover from a small, unimpressive machine. He indicated that Whit should produce the chip. "All our high value chips are assembled in this room, from materials delivered by a reputable chip-manufacturer. A single, trusted employee does the work, making theft highly improbable. Each chip contains an electro-magnetic strip, something like the bar on a credit card, but much smaller and rather more sophisticated. Please slide the chip through this slot." Whit pinched the edge, the chip slid easily into the notch. A digital display blinked. "The chip contains no strip at all," Mr. Escobar said. "It's a fake." Whit head Kyla's sigh of relief right behind him. "I would very much like to retain the chip, however, to show our casino security and the local police." Whit tightened his grip, shook his head, replaced the chip in the passport case. "You'll have to take that up with Sheriff Neligh. The chip's a clue in the disappearance of Mrs. Chase." Escobar nodded. "I understand." He led them back to his office. "The Jingling Silver has no hotel," he said in his monotone. "If you should like to spend the night, I will contact a friend who can furnish you accommodations." "Thank you," Whit said. "That's very kind." Escobar extracted a tiny phone from a slot in the desktop, punched two buttons, said a few words, and dropped the phone back into place. He held out a business card. "Present this to Mr. Dickenson at the reservation desk of the Hotel d'Alain, one-half block east of this building. I believe you will find it comfortable. There will be no charge,

naturally. The threat of false chips concerns us all. Good night." "Wait!" Escobar seemed startled, as if he had forgotten Kyla's existence. "Do you ever make dummy chips as souvenirs for big winners? Or big losers?" she added ironically. Escobar's eyes clouded. "There may have been...one or two instances." His left sideburn moved. He was not as calm as he appeared, Whit decided. "But they would have been inscribed as souvenirs. They would be obvious." Whit touched Ky's arm, conveying a subtle hint that they should go. A throb behind his eyes threatened to grow into a full-scale headache. She shook him off. "Moira Chase was a singer?" Escobar nodded. "I want to see where she performed. The lounge. How do we get there?" "I will escort you and tell the bartender to furnish you with such refreshment as you desire." "Nothing," Kyla snapped. "We're on duty." Mr. Escobar's shoulders squared, as if he had gained a new respect for Kyla. Whit did not look forward to the noise of the casino floor or a loud band. In the elevator he tried to think of a way to persuade Kyla that none of this was necessary. The elevator slid to a silent stop at the third floor. The door opened with a faint sound of air suddenly thrust aside. Dim lights, a piano pianissimo, hushed voices. The warble of a husky alto. Escobar led them to a curtained booth, Whit sank into a plush seat. "I shall not stay," Escobar whispered. "The waitress will lead you to the exit when you desire to leave." "Thank you," Kyla said. The waitress, clad in a brief skirt and a wisp of a halter-top, looked to Whit, but it was Ky who said "Two ginger ales." The girl's eyebrows went up, she nodded, and scurried away. The curtains cut off most of the room, except for a narrow view of a slender blond who stood in the spotlight, listlessly crying the blues. My man left me, I'm so down. Whit supposed the singer was beautiful, but the over-elaborate loops of lacquered yellow hair reminded him of polished brass. The waitress arrived with two frosty glasses. "Seen enough?" Kyla asked. "I don't know what we're supposed to be looking for," Whit said wearily. The next time the waitress passed, he signaled that they wished to leave. He waited until they were on the sidewalk before he so much as cleared his throat. "You were right, the token's fake. Now explain why it was hidden." Kyla shrugged and crawled into the truck. Whit drove past the Hotel d'Alain without spotting it, but on his second pass caught a dimly lit brass plate on a brick pillar. A uniformed valet took the truck, a bellboy took his duffel and Ky's rucksack. "Will a two bedroom suite be appropriate?" Mr. Dickenson asked. "Fine," Whit said. The clerk who stood behind Mr. Dickenson examined Ky too intently, questions in his eyes. Dickenson himself escorted them to the third floor. Their bags already stood in the central room of the suite, leaving the issue of who slept where to their own discretion. "I'm dead on my feet," Whit said. "Come to bed." He grabbed the luggage and headed for the bedroom on the right. He pulled off his boots before he picked up

the phone. Neligh's cough, and foggy "Neligh here," told Whit he had been asleep. "What you fin' out?" "It's a fake. They put coded strips inside high money chips, and this one's empty." "Enjoy," Neligh said. A click and the line went dead. Whit collapsed across the bed. A damn wild-goose chase. *** Kyla explored the suite while her bath ran. She began in the sitting room with its dominating, big-screen television. Beside the sofa stood a lacquered cabinet that proved to hold a well stocked bar, plenty of assorted munchies, and a stack of slick magazines. On either side of this room were identical bedrooms, each with a locked cabinet that might hold spare linen, but then again might contain much more interesting equipment. The walls were painted a gray that hinted at blue, with touches of a green so dark it verged upon black. Yellow cushions on the deep sofa begged,Sit down and take a load off your feet! Glittering yellow and gold drapes turned the beds into horizontal thrones. Switches built into the headboards brightened and dimmed the lights. Kyla emptied a small bottle of bubble bath under the stream of water, stripped and sank through the foam. The clerk at the desk had seemed distracted, renting a room to a woman who did not meet the beauty standards of Betsy Allen's Jingling Silver, or the Hotel d'Alain. Moira Chase and the singer in the lounge might have been twins. Moira had stood on that platform and exhibited herself. Did the blues singer have a choice about which booth she patronized, or was she ordered to entertain the man who bid highest? Neither the warm water or the rose scented bubbles gave Kyla much pleasure. She did a hurried job of washing, pushed the lever to drain the tub, dried, and pulled on her unlacy, opaque robe. Whit lifted his head when she sat down on the edge bed. Bleary eyes, stubbly jaw. "Maybe you'd prefer that I sleep in the other room," she said. "No." He swung off the bed, stripped and dropped his clothes on the carpet. He flipped the passport envelope on top of the heap. "Put that under your pillow," she said. He obeyed like an automaton. "Come 'ere," he muttered. She turned the switch to off, darkening the room completely, and slid in beside him. "I don't give a damn about Moira," he said. "Let Neligh figure it out. I want to know why Rod died." "We'll forget about Moira," Kyla whispered. He doubled the pillow into a lump, and in thirty seconds she heard him breathing with raspy shores. Forget about Moira. Except now she knew what Moira Chase had been before she married Chase. Moira treasured one thing from that shady past: the fake chip from Betsy Allen's Jingling Silver Casino. Chase knew nothing about it, and

Moira meant to keep it a secret, for hadn't she hid it where her husband would never search? I'll think about it in the morning, on the drive back to Argentia, Kyla promised herself. I'll wake Whit early. Maybe... But it was Whit who woke her, hands on her breasts, mouth seeking hers, his unshaven cheek prickling her face. "Ky. Ky." She lifted to him, found him eager, insistent, overpowering. Massively ready, entering her unprotected. She made one futile attempt to push him away. Then trembling flesh touching deep, a jolt, lifting her, out of control, her cry of protest and pleasure. Perhaps her cry woke him. In any event, Whit rolled away so fast he dropped off the edge of the bed. She crawled across what seemed like acres of satin until she looked down on him, sitting on the floor. "Oh, my God!" he muttered. "I dreamed we were making love, and when I woke up, we were." Around the window a strip of gray natural light. "What time is it?" he asked. "I don't know. There's no bedside clock." Kyla stepped over him, pulled the drapes, and let in a stream of sunlight. The window overlooked a grubby alley, the scene rather diminishing the elegance of the room. A vagrant leaned into a dumpster, a skittish cat vanished into a trash can, and the neon of Betsy Allen's Jingling Silver Casino blinked and blinked and blinked, an eternal cascade of coins. Whit rummaged through his clothes and came up with his watch. "Eight-thirty!" he roared, shaking the watch, holding it to his ear. "Battery powered digital watches do not tick," Kyla said. "Eight-thirty-one It'll be afternoon before we get to Argentia." "What's the hurry?" Whit considered the question, almost comical in his needless distress. "None, I guess. The day's shot anyway you look at it. Let me shower and shave." He stood before the mirror naked, the doorway a perfect frame to his shoulders and rump, his long legs. The muscles of his back moved with his arms. Before he visited her in San Francisco, before they met some Friday night in Reno, she must find a better mode of birth control. Something that allowed bonded nerves, flesh and blood in close ecstasy. Except, if they gave up condoms and safe sex, they must pledge monogamy. She would have no other lovers, and he would sleep alone. That seemed a great deal like marriage. Too close to marriage. Flesh of one flesh. The steam of his shower flowed through the open door, rose to the ceiling, and touched the golden drape. Kyla regretted that their first experience of unfettered sex had occurred here, where women unlocked the cupboard and fulfilled their customer's kinky request. Selling sex, like groceries at a checkout stand. Had Moira served her clients in this very bed? Very good, my love, but the chains will cost a trifle extra. The shower ceased to pound, Whit came into the bedroom wriggling his backside against the towel. "Let's get out of here," Kyla said, snatching her clothes from the chair.

"Something wrong?" he asked, disappointed. "Yes, I feel dirty." He stared at her, baffled, then understanding crept over his face, like the sweep of sunlight down a morning mountain. I am not falling in love with T. J. Whitaker, she said to herself as the elevator made a bumpy stop at the ground floor. Chapter Twelve Whit steered onto the freeway ramp, a plastic coffee cup balanced in one hand. "Got any thoughts?" he asked. Kyla waited until he merged into the traffic before she unwrapped the breakfast sandwiches. She placed his within reach on the dash, then hungrily snatched a bite. Sausage, eggs a bit tough, but the biscuit freshly baked. "Tasty," Kyla said. "I didn't mean your thoughts about food. About Moira." "They may have found her by now." "Hadn't at midnight when I talked to Neligh." "We said we'd forget Moira, remember? And get back to hantavirus." "Answer a hypothetical question, then. Got any fresh thoughts about Moira?" "In her glory days, Moira worked at the Jingling Silver as a high class hooker. Technically a lounge singer, but like the woman we saw last night, she performed little better than an amateur. The Jingling Silver puts women on display, like dresses on a rack, and if I hadn't been with you, the waitress would have shown you which button to push for a keno runner and which would signal that you were willing to pay for a private session with the singer." "Lacquered hair doesn't turn me on," Whit said. Kyla laughed. "I thought we were talking hypothetical, not you. The women take the men upstairs, where the management keeps the rooms stocked for any request. There's probably some way she can signal to the office which services she's providing. Maybe the locked cabinet contains a computer terminal, where she punches in codes, and the bill comes automatically. Itemized." "What locked cabinet?" "The one you were too sleepy to be curious about. Hotel d'Alain is not designed for drop-in business." "You can say that again. All that well-watered vegetation blocks the entrance." "No parking except by valet, no slot machines in the lobby. Mr. Escobar said the hotel was half a block from the casino, but in actual fact there's only the width of an alley between them. The casino elevator went below the main floor, if you noticed." "I didn't notice," Whit admitted. "B floor. Suitably indicating brothel." "Okay, so Moira worked in a high class joint." "This isn't hypothetical anymore. I'm tired of Moira," Kyla said. She took a large bite of her sandwich and chewed thoroughly. "If we let ourselves get dragged into the Moira business, we won't have anything significant to tell the state health people," she said. "This hypothetical hooker learns interesting secrets about her customers," Whit said. "Men from all over the world. She might see names and addresses on

driver's licenses, and take a few notes." "That could be very dangerous." "So she transfers her written notes to film, and hides the film in a place where no one will look." Whit keep his eyes on the road while he passed a truck, but after he swung back into the right lane he stared at her. "The chip?" "But," he added doubtfully, "that would bring the fellow who makes the chips in on the secret." "Not a fellow," Kyla said, recalling the dented rubber mat in front of the work counter in that white room. "A woman. The mat showed the crescent marks of narrow high heels." Whit hissed. "This is all speculation, of course, until Neligh opens the chip. But what if some very powerful man learned that Moira kept track of his kinky tastes -- " "He might have her kidnapped." "I'm tired of worrying about Moira. It's distracting us." "Sure is. For example, I'm ignoring the question: Am I, at the very moment, caught up in irrational passion?" Kyla sucked in her breath a little noisily, then decided to pass the remark off with humor. "You'll have to tell me. One can't always judge by outward appearance." She pretended to study him closely. "But the upper lip's not sweaty, no clenching of fists, no erratic movements of the hips." "Please marry me." Kyla kept her hands busy by wrapping what was left of the sandwich. Very stiff waxed paper, she said to herself, so the operation took all her attention. Whit stared at the road and said nothing, but his expression expected an answer. "Whit," she finally said, "marrying you would destroy all my plans for the future. My life would become your life, and I have no great inclination to be a ranch wife." "It doesn't have to be -- " "I've seen women marry men whose jobs take them to far corners of the world. My sister, for example. Glenda was top in her class at college, she had a great future as a clinical psychologist. Now she's so far out of touch she won't let her son have a computer, and she spends her time -- " "It doesn't have to be," he said so insistently that Kyla felt a momentary threat, and pressed herself against the door. "You've had contradictory experience?" she asked testily. "My father was superintendent of the Castor Mine, but my mother taught history at Sacramento State." "Glenda told me. But I don't see how -- " Kyla recalled Mark's words.Whitaker men like well-educated wives. "Airplanes. Mom flew to Sacramento on Monday morning, Dad and I would bach it until Friday. As she got more seniority, she was able to schedule her classes four days rather than five. Sometimes Dad and I picked her up in Sacramento, and we went to the beach for a long weekend. And she spent every summer in Argentia. After I got older Dad confessed he rather liked the arrangement. 'Every weekend a honeymoon,' was the way he put it."

"That works with older kids, but when you were a baby?" "I traveled back and forth with her." "What a dreadfully disruptive life for a child?" "What a wonderful varied life for a kid." Whit said in spirited rebuttal. Kyla hated to think what character flaws Glenda would ascribe to such a mixed up childhood. An inability to settle down? But Whit seemed determined to spend his life on Plum Sky Ranch. A fickle heart? But six years devotion to a dead woman rather contradicted that judgement. Moodiness? But she never truly found Whit moody. Just thoughtful, sometimes quiet. A relief, really, to be with a man who found silence no threat. No need to keep up a line of senseless chatter. But medical school was not at all like being a professor. And residency and internship. "We can talk about this when I'm through school and am job hunting," Kyla said. "Too far in the future," he said. "Under the circumstances, with you in school, I'll do the dashing back and forth, of course. My work's much more flexible. I presume you have an apartment in San Francisco." "A studio. You'd just about fill all the space when the bed's pulled down." "Apartments can be changed." Kyla unwrapped the tag end of sandwich and took a bite to end the conversation. Whit's foot came off the accelerator, and he stared into the rear view mirror, horror struck. "Damn! But I'm not speeding." A siren screamed a short burst as the police car closed the gap between them. "It's Neligh!" she said. Whit slammed on the brakes the moment he hit the shoulder, forcing Neligh into an undignified, skidding stop. Whit jabbed at the button that rolled down the window. "Give me a heart attack!" he yelled. "I'm not jumping out for him. Let him walk." "Fake, huh?" Neigh grunted when he leaned in the window. "You figure Rod thought it was real, thought he had $100,000 in that statue?" "I figure Rod was hiding the chip for Moira, who knew it was fake. But I could be wrong." Whit pulled out the passport case, took off his hat, dragged the cord over his head. "Here. It's all yours. Break the thing open and find out what's inside." Neligh worked at the edges of the chip with this thick fingers. "Not here!" Kyla yelled. "Carefully, at your desk." "Give him your I.D. and badge," Whit said. Kyla dug in her purse for the wrinkled envelope, and Whit shoved the papers at Neligh. "Now, leave us alone. We've got other things to occupy our time." "A man can only do that so many times in twenty-four hours," Neligh said wickedly. "When you're ready for a break -- " The window shot up, Whit stomped on the gas and left Neligh dangling the passport case from his hand. We have other things to occupy our time, Kyla thought. Hantavirus and a debate

over marriage. Marry Whit? Incomprehensible. Not because she doubted Whit's sincerity about a long-distance relationship. But because of what he had left unsaid. Whit had never told her he loved her. *** The papers lay scattered on the kitchen table, just as they had left them. The bronc rider reclined inelegantly on the couch, and only a thin stream of water trickled over the stones. "I'll fill the humidifier," Kyla said, "while you make the coffee. Then we'll study the map and decide our next move." "I'll convert you yet," Whit said. "Convert me to what?" "Gourmet coffee. And my way of thinking," he added with a smile. Kyla was dumping the tenth pitcher of water in the tank when Whit brought two steaming mugs into the family room. "I thought we'd sit at the table in the kitchen and go through all the papers one more time," Kyla said. "Yesterday, I believe it was yesterday but it might have been a month ago, for all I know, I spent good money for a couch, which I haven't even sat on." He lifted the bronze and centered it carefully on the table. Kyla filled the pitcher for the eleventh time. The tank seemed bottomless. "I should figure out how to get the water running automatically." "Yes, you should," Kyla said, dropping to her knees. "But this should hold it until this evening. I can't believe so much evaporates." "The penalty of living in a desert. Now, come here and appreciate my inheritance." Kyla sat down and grabbed the mug of coffee before Whit had a chance to embrace her. Delicious. The horse stood on his front feet, his back legs high. The cowboy sailed above the saddle, off balance, and would fall on the next buck. "A lovely thing. Too bad we got distracted yesterday." "Too bad we got so distracted this morning," Whit murmured in her ear. He put his coffee mug, still half full, on the table. "I didn't want to stop." "But you did, and I thank you." "I want it like that soon," he whispered. "Not a damn thing between us." Kyla ducked under his arm to get rid of her coffee. "So you've figured it out, too," she said. "That naked pleasure comes only with monogamy." Whit nodded, at the same time following her lips to find a kiss. She dodged. "And you think it might as well be legal?" He nodded, and accidentally caught her mouth on the upswing. His tongue eased past her teeth and explored the roof of her mouth. Her heart fluttered, turbulence in her belly, made worse as his hand crept under the leg of her shorts. She drew her tongue back, avoiding his, delaying the irresistible paroxysm caused by that intimate touch. His fingers reached their goal, Kyla gasped, her tongue collided with his, and set off sparks that produced a lightning flash that illuminating her desire. Naked. Pulsing. Please, Whit! Keep your senses because I'm lost in this fury of lust. Let him in, learn if their nerves vibrated on the same wavelength, if she might feel the soft warmth of his ejaculate bathing her? The ultimate mating.

He loosened the waistband of her shorts and pushed them down, past her hips. "Not naked today," he whispered, "but soon. I can hardly wait." She loved him for his restraint, and for the love he could not speak. She worked the silver buckle open, then the zipper, and released his strength to her embrace. His weight carried her down, the rough cushions ridging her back. He dug in the pocket of his jeans, somewhere down around his knees, and handed her the foil packet. "Ky," he whispered as he penetrated her. Reassuring himself of her identity? She loved him for that, too. Whit made sure of the identify of the woman beneath him, so in the moment of frenzy he did not say the wrong name. He eased to depth, then came the lance thrust of a satyr, again and again. She wanted to object, to shriek, but the sound became pure energy, no voice or thought, and without line to separate them. *** He lay upon her, so heavy her chest muscles ached. Half the cushions were on the floor, dislodged by the violence of their coupling. He panted so hard his chest hair rubbed on her nipples. "Easy," he said, but his hips still probed, relieving the final dry spasms, transferring energy that echoed the memory of orgasm. He lay still, satiated, limp. A sunbeam tipped through the window, glittered on the bronc rider, and cast its shadow across their coupled loins. The shadow of the cowboy who had brought them together. After Whit's grief eased, after they found the source of Rod's disease, did she and Whit have anything in common? Kyla thrust her fingers in his hair, lifted his head, lowered it, shocked by the expression of misery. No celebration of the most intense sex they had every shared. "We gave your new couch a mighty introduction," she whispered. "Yes." Nothing more. One word, but it contained the agony of his struggle. Their coming together had surpassed the tree house. She searched for words to comfort him, but found none. Whit must fight the angels and demons alone, Kyla finally decided. Nothing she said would banish the love he bore for the dead woman. *** Kyla poured the cold coffee down the sink. "It's too late to head east," Whit said from the office. "We'll go tomorrow. Besides, I'm beat." His first, oblique reference to their dynamite love mating. "I didn't think to check the answering machine. The light's blinking." A click, a whir as the tape reversed itself. "Mr. Whitaker. Jake here. I couldn't find out the names of everyone involved in that Hole-in-Rock development, but I found one that might help you, since the guy lives in Argentia. Augustus Chase. A doctor, he's been in on the deal since the ground floor. He'd be happy to fill you in on the scheme. As I told you yesterday, the developers haven't actually bought the place, only an option, so if you want to make an offer give me a call." Click. Whir. "Chase!" Whit yelled, barreling into the kitchen and leaning over her

shoulder. "Why shouldn't he be involved?" Kyla asked, wondering at Whit's excitement. "They want local investors." "Chase has been in on the scheme since the beginning. Maybe he's the one who thought the whole thing up. He got the brochure printed, anyway." Whit shuffled the papers until he produced the black and white proof sheet. "How else did Chase got the info to Rod before the brochure was even printed?" "But that means Dr. Chase knew Rod and Moira...knew they were lovers." "Yes. Which explains why Moira didn't have to hide the sexy photographs. She and the doctor probably laughed over them. I can see them hoisting their wine glasses, celebrating her easy victory over the dumb cowboy, whose money would make Hole-in- Rock possible." "And when Rob died, Moira settled on you as her next victim," Kyla said soberly. "So what's in the chip?" "Neligh will tell us soon, I expect." "But none of this gets us any closer to hantavirus." "Fellows Canyon Ranch. What the developers call Hole-in-Rock." "But Rod didn't check Fellows Canyon Ranch. He didn't go -- " "He did. That's where he took the picture of Moira. At the rock with the hole." "Hantavirus in a hole in a rock," Kyla mused. "I suppose if its -- " "Not the hole. I should have thought of this days ago. I'm one of the dumber men you'll meet in your life, Ky, so you have my permission to ignore that proposal of marriage. There's a house on Fellows Canyon Ranch, originally the mine office. The rest of the buildings have collapsed, but one owner after another keeps propping up the house, thinking they'll make a go of the ranch." "When do we leave?" Kyla asked. "Right now." The dog bounded around the house the moment the truck door opened "Hop in," Whit said in amused exasperation "You'll be disappointed, dog. We're only going a few miles." The dog did not curl up on the blanket, but balanced in the bed of the pickup, head pointed into the wind. Kyla opened the gate, pleased that Whit no longer thought it necessary to ask with an apologetic glance. Past the green fields, to a fork in the road. The heavily traveled right fork led to Argentia. Whit took the left. "Actually, Fellows Canyon Ranch - its only eighty acres -- abuts my property, and the houses are only two miles apart, but that ridge blocks the way." He nodded toward a sharp, rock-crowned tongue that protruded from the mountain. The road curved up the alluvial fan, toward the mouth of a canyon. "Who lives on this place?" Kyla asked. "No one. The present owners gave up two or three years ago." They passed a weathered for sale sign. A few well-aimed bullets had erased the phone number. The road forked again, the broadest track heading for the canyon. Whit swung onto double ruts with spiky plants growing in the middle. "Most people who come out here go up the canyon, but we're interested in the house." He took his foot off the gas, rolled to a stop.

"That's new." A brilliant white sign, wired to a leaning gate post, warned trespassers they would be prosecuted. What had been the gate lay by the side of the road, a scattering of timbers held together by rusty wire. "Maybe we should ask the realtor to bring us here," Kyla said. "We'll drive to the top of the hill and turn around," Whit said. "We can see the house from there." The house proved to be a weathered box with a sagging hip roof. Kyla slumped, disappointed, but jerked erect when she realized the yellow patches marked areas of new lumber. She hit the button to open the window, leaned out, and felt a chill climb from her feet, up her legs. "Boarded up!" Whit exclaimed. A sheet of plywood blocked the door, and planks had been nailed across the windows, spaced so closely no one could climb through without prying off one or two. Whit set the brake. "Let's see what's up. I can't imagine the present owners laying out money to close the place, and Jake says it's still for sale." Dr. Chase's pickup truck, loaded with fresh lumber. Dr. Chase in work clothes. The dog whined. "Come on," Whit said. Kyla clutched at his sleeve to hold him back, but he bounded down the hill, pulling her after him. He stopped so suddenly she spun past him, and would have fallen except that he had his arms around her. "Whit. Dr. Chase boarded the house up," she gasped. "Chase?" "The morning I spoke to him about Carl Goulding, he was impatient to leave. His truck was full of new lumber." Whit did not look at her, but studied the ground in front of the blank door. Wind had cast the sawdust into slanting dunes. Nails glinted in the dust where a nervous worker had dropped them. The dog sniffed at boot prints. "Come!" Whit snapped. The dog left the sawdust. "Chase's boots," Whit said, tracing a print with his finger. "Not Moira's. Chipped heel. Nail starting in one sole. It was Chase who broke into Rod's apartment and left the fake will." He circled wide before approaching a window. He bent to peek through a narrow slot. "Can you see anything?" he asked. Kyla found a peephole at eye level, cupped her hands about her face and waited for her vision to adjust to the dim interior. A beam of sunlight slashed across peeling linoleum and cast the shadow of a tottering rocking chair. The sunbeam climbed the opposite wall. Shelves. Kyla wanted to cry out, but her throat seemed as dry as the dust of Fellows Canyon. "What do you see?" Whit begged. "Books. Two shelves full of books." "Let's get out of here." His fist tightened on the back of her shirt, pulling her away from the window. He knows what I know. The sequence of events unfolded in two heads simultaneously. A bookish boy, a collector of Nevada history. By the time they reached the truck Whit was panting, not from exertion, Kyla realized, but from the impact of finally knowing. "Pull a book off the shelf, blow the dust away -- " he choked, coughed, cleared his throat "-- open the cover to read the flyleaf, see who claims it, wonder if anybody'd mind if you carried it away." "Breath in mouse urine and feces," Kyla said. "Chase knew! He lied, he lied --

" Whit's hand steadied her and stopped her shouts. The dog's toenails rattled on the metal of the truck bed. "Let's drive up the canyon," Whit said. "It's shady there. Cooler. We can talk. Look out that side, warn me if I get too close to that rock." Kyla had not noticed a rock, but when she looked closer she saw a hump of gray beyond a low bush. The stiff branches scrapped on the undercarriage as Whit backed. "Fine," she said. Whit shifted into first gear. "Wait!" She had the door open and sprang out before he asked why. She plunged her hand between the rock and the bush, to the glitter of red, had her fingers on the brightness before it occurred to her she should have checked for snakes. A red reflector, attached to a hemisphere of chrome. A twisted bracket. Kyla climbed into the truck. "Tail light from a bike," Whit said. "Yes. Carl's tail light. He and Trace were here, and for some reason Trace won't tell me." Whit spun the truck's wheels, drove too fast past the no trespassing sign, skidded on the sharp turn. The road narrowed, until Kyla might have touched the vertical canyon wall with her outstretched hand. Whit parked where the ravine widened a bit, tight against the rock so most of the truck was in the shade. "There. Hole-in-Rock." She saw nothing that resembled the photo on the brochure, but by following his extended arm spotted a reddish-brown stone, hardly taller than she, the hole a bit off-center. A skim of water made a shining stain on a boulder above the holed one, and damped the sand in front of the rocks. On every side, trash. Beer cans and bottles, potato-chip bags and cracker boxes. A closer search of the rocks, Kyla suspected, would turn up condoms in varying stages of decay. A party place for kids. The girls, for example, who hung over the counter in the coffee shop, who had not, thank heavens, bothered to investigate the house. "The picture on the brochure shows the rock as tall as the buildings," she said. "A wide-angle shot overlaid with computer generated graphics." "It's a fraud, then?" "The picture's fake. But the eighty acres - privately owned -- exists. Plenty of room to build a resort, if someone can develop a water supply." "So it's all connected somehow," Kyla mused. "The hantavirus, the resort, Moira's disappearance." "Maybe not Moira's disappearance. It seems to me that Chase not only knew about Moira's affairs, he directed them. She pulled in investors. First Rod, then me. That's why Chase came to the house looking for her, and why he nearly collapsed in shock when she wasn't there." "He couldn't let anyone know where Carl and Rod picked up the infection," Kyla said. "He falsified a death certificate to keep the secret, because a resort

property contaminated with hantavirus hardly seems like a good investment." She scooted across the seat and pressed against Whit. His arm draped over her, negligently pressing her breast. His fingers spread on her stomach, with the casual touch of one who has the right, after a long tradition of loving. "Satisfied?" she asked. "I'll talk to Neligh and the state health people. They can handle this place. We'll put together a pamphlet on hantavirus and distribute it to everyone in the county." "The Center for Disease Control probably has a pamphlet, so it's just a matter of -- " Whit straightened and his belt buckle scraped her cheek. "What is it?" "Someone coming." He reached for the ignition key. "There's not room to turn around if two vehicles pull in." Kyla got on her knees to look out the back window. The dog scrambled to its feet and for a moment blocked her view. A white pickup filled the slot of the canyon. A man slid out a narrowly opened door, a dark figure in the shadow of the cliff. "It's Chase," Whit said. Kyla slid down, out of sight. "Get out and stand tall," Whit ordered. "Now that we know, he's got to face the truth. Best for him if he joined us in distributing a warning." Kyla's numb fingers faltered on the door latch, and Whit reached across to open the door. She stepped away from the truck, so Whit could follow, because he'd parked too close to the wall to open his side. Chase shambled to the front of his truck and stopped, a wreck of a man, in filthy sweat pants and a torn shirt. His uncombed hair stood upright, stubble darkened his chin and cheeks, and his arms hung in primate laxity. "Dr. Chase," Kyla said as gently as she could and still have her voice carry to his ears. "The state health department has the lab reports. Rod Harris died of hantavirus. If they ask me, I'll have to tell them that Carl Goulding had exactly the same symptoms. You can't keep the secret much longer." A long silence. "You're the only ones who know about the house," he finally choked, barely loud enough to be heard. "The health department will believe me, not a slut like you." He made an effort to square his shoulders. He glared at Whit. "They'll crawl all over your range cabin. They'll burn the place." "How did you know Carl Goulding had been in the house?" Whit asked. "Caught the damn little bastards," Chase said. "Told them to stay out of Fellows Canyon Ranch and keep their mouths shut about being here, or I'd have the sheriff on them for trespass and theft. One of the brats had a book in his basket." "You knew the house was infected?" Kyla put her foot out to step toward him, but Whit caught her arm. "Of course I didn'tknow! But the place swarmed with mice, and in this country there's always the chance. I guess the other delinquent blabbed." "No, we figured it out ourselves," Kyla said. "You scared the boys into being quiet." "Good, they're afraid of me," Chase said, and for a moment he managed to look relatively normal. "Kids nowadays, don't respect their parents or their

teachers. They'd better be afraid of someone. Where's Moira?" Chase asked. "I haven't the slightest idea," Whit said. "I think you know," Chase said. His right hand slid behind his back. Kyla spun under the thrust of Whit's arm, truck, sand, rock flashing in a blur. "Run, Jenny! He's got a pistol! Run into the rocks!" Chapter Thirteen Kyla sprinted across the sand, keeping to the dark, damp line, solid beneath her feet. The dog streaked past and leaped to the top of Hole-in-Rock. Kyla dropped to hands and knees, crawled into the hole, and out the other side, into the shallow remains of Fellows Creek. A blast, and stone chips stung the backs of her legs. The echoes reverberated overhead. Scramble away from them, deeper into the maze. "To your left," Whit said, right behind her. She crawled over vile trash, into the shelter of a larger boulder. "The slot goes on. Keep climbing." Whit knew. Of course he knew. As a boy he had clambered over these rocks, drank his first beer, experimented with a cigarette, made his virgin attempt at sex with a pliant local girl. No, he had told her once, about a brothel in Carson City. "Stop," Whit whispered. Kyla looked around the rocky notch, up at a flat stone ceiling, too low to stand erect. Not a cave, but a widening in the rockfall. Litter covered the ground several inches deep. "Stay here. I'll try to talk some nonsense into Chase." Whit worked his way toward a narrow gleam of sunlight. "Chase," he yelled. The name, echoing and re-echoing, struck Kyla as being as being as dangerous as a bullet. Gravel pattered nearby, and Kyla shrank against the boulder that formed the rear wall of the nook. She held her breath against the stench of decaying trash. The dog slithered through a gap. "Down, Pooch," Whit whispered. "You can't stay in there forever!" Forever...forever...forever...repeated the echoing canyon. "He's still at the bottom," Whit muttered. "He wasn't raised here. He doesn't know." "Doesn't know what?" "The path through the boulders goes almost to the rim of the canyon. Just a couple hundred feet of exposure below the ridge." "Keep him talking," Kyla whispered. "You don't shoot people you're having a conversation with. I've been told." Whit leaned close to the sunlit gap. "The will you planted in Rod's desk makes no difference," he yelled. "All Rod's property's in his sister's name. I destroyed the paper. No one need ever know." A long silence, with not even a rattle of gravel. "What were you looking for in Rod's truck?" Whit called. The only reply was a faint sound of stones dislodged, a few seconds of silence, then another pattering of gravel. Uncannily like the rustle of a taffeta skirt, Kyla noted. The footsteps were more vibration than noise. The drag of cloth over rough stone. Chase must be very close. Kyla held a finger to her lips and beckoned for

Whit to join her at the back of the cave. He crouched slowly, deliberately, as if Chase might hear the folding of his joints. The footfalls stopped, or were overpowered by the scratching that seemed to be coming from only a few feet away... "Looking for?" Chase said merrily, so close Kyla shrank against the boulder. The scratching grew louder. "I looked for the land catalog, of course. Moira said Rod checked off every ranch he visited. He might have marked Fellows Canyon. I didn't want anyone out here nosing around. But you beat me to it, didn't you? You should have let sleeping dogs -- " The nook echoed with a low growl. A blur of tan passed Kyla's eyes, Whit's hands up to block the dog vaulting over his head. For an instant they were in darkness, as the snarling body blocked the stream of sunlight. "Noooo!" The shriek tangled with guttural snarls, escalated to registers impossible for a human throat, made worse as the echoes joined in. Trembling, massive vibrations, minutes, hours passing before Kyla realized it was not her body shaking, but the ground! Dust and thunder, grinding, and a glare of light where the roof had been. Whit's shoulder pushing her against the rock, she shrank to the notch at the back, into a bed of decay and filth, as rocks tumbled overhead in a deadly rain. Whit, Whit, Whit! She had no idea whether she screamed, or merely thought his name. Dust closed in, thick, a choking cloud, and she buried her head between her legs in a futile search for oxygen, and found only nausea. And in the midst of chaos, a howl. The dog, carried away by the avalanche. Perhaps he still had his teeth in Chase. No, he could not howl with his teeth clamped...Amazing, that she could hear the dog over the thunder of the rocks...And she knew the rocks had finally stilled. Kyla crept blindly from her niche, her hands flat on the ground, sensors for tremors that would signal another rock slide. A square rock blocked her way, a rock that had not been there before. Barks now punctuated the howls. "Jenny." A plea. Kyla felt her way around the sharp-cornered boulder, coughing, her lungs rebelling at the thick air. Her knee jammed against another rock, this one smaller. Smooth, rounded. A boot! "Whit?" "Thank God! Climb up the rocks, over the ridge. He won't know you've gone to the ranch." A thin voice, lacking the melodious undertones she identified with Whit. She followed the contour of his leg, his hips, his waist. "Come out of here, Whit." "The rock's on my foot." She stretched out beside him, and located his shoulders, his head. An arm about her, weakly pulling her down. Her lips touched his, but she pulled away from the gritty, distasteful kiss. More howls and barks. Why didn't Chase shoot the dog? "I can't move," he whispered. "You've got to get out on your own."

Kyla concentrated on Whit's remark for several seconds before accepting the responsibility. "I'll be back," she said. "I can't go far until I find Chase." She sat back on her heels. Looking straight up, the dust seemed thinner. Daylight. The cap rock had slid down the hill and she could stand up, her head in clearer air. She took a breath. Peeking over the rock before her, she discovered she could see for perhaps fifteen feet, through yellow haze. Kyla placed a hand on a boulder to climb over. It teetered beneath the slight weight of her hand. She stepped back. She tested another rock, found it reasonably solid, and inched over it, keeping her head low. A breeze blowing down the canyon touched her cheek, only a faint cooling, but it would strengthen as dusk settled into the canyon. She held her breath, listening for a footstep, the rumble of a motor. Could Chase have driven off already, leaving them for dead. She could not have heard a motor during the thunder of the rocks. There was no sound but the frantic barking of the dog, and lineal threads of gravel seeking a resting place. She put her palms on the rock and lifted herself a trifle, like a lizard. The dog seemed to be directly below her, but dust billowed on the floor of the canyon, obliterating everything there. She twisted her head to look up the slope, but an overhanging rock blocked her view. She must slide out farther, exposing herself to Chase, to see the condition of the path to the canyon's rim. Whit moaned. Kyla held her position, resisting the urge to dash back to him. She could do nothing for Whit until she located Chase. She dare not try to roll the rock off Whit's foot, for a dozen more might be balanced upon it, ready to fill the cave and crush them both. First aid? She had nothing, not even her purse or a canteen. Whit should have water and a blanket to keep him warm. She shivered when a gust of wind dug through the rocks. Her shirt and shorts were damp with sweat. Whit's clothes must be the same. The wind would grow stronger and colder as mountain air sank into the valley. There was no time to lose. Another gust of wind, and the dust parted. Through the haze she saw the outline of the brown pickup. A blanket behind the seat, a canteen. And perhaps Chase lurking, waiting in case the rocks had not killed them. So close, yet so far. The wind swirled in the canyon, lifted dust like a veil. She held her breath until the wind fell. The rockfall heaped against the front of the truck, as high as the hood, tailing off along the front fenders. They had most certainly crushed the grill and radiator. Don't tell Whit. Don't pile worries on a hurt man. Kyla held her breath listening for the spill of gravel, the scrape of fabric that would betray Chase's hiding place. She must climb out of the canyon, hike over the ridge to Plum Sky Ranch. Two hundred feet of exposure at the top of the ridge, where Chase could see her, and shoot her down. Sunlight touched only the upper fringe of rock, and Kyla understood, for the first time, the impossibility of the task facing her. The only way to avoid Chase's bullet was to wait until dark. But Whit might die of shock and exposure

unless help came soon. Shadows already embraced the bottom of the canyon. Deep twilight would set in before she reached the ranch, even if she left right now. By the time someone drove back to help Whit, it would be fully dark. And Chase would remain, waiting. He could put a bullet through Whit's head while she ran for help. He might lie in ambush in the narrows of the ravine, and kill the rescuers. There won't be any rescuers, she recalled. If I go out while it's still light, he'll shoot me before I get to the top of the ridge. Find Chase. Kyla straightened her arms, the rough stone digging into her palms. She slithered over the top of the boulder, the rock tearing at her skin and clothes. He lay fifteen or twenty feet below, a still form the yellow-tan color of the dust. A torso of a man sculpted in dirty clay, like the molds of human figures made in Pompeii by pouring plaster into casts in the volcanic ash. The arms flung out at unnatural angles. The head lay too far, much too far from the shoulders. And the lower part of him, not there at all. Kyla scrambled backward and leaned against the solid boulder, gasping, swallowing her nausea before she approached Whit. "Whit, can you hear me?" He reached for her blindly, eyes closed. She grabbed his hand. "I'm going for help. You'll be alone, but not for long." "Chase," he whispered. "He's dead. "The dog. Bad hurt?" "I don't know if he's hurt or not. He's among the rocks down in the canyon, howling and barking." "If he can't move his hind end...big wrench behind the seat...put him out of his misery." Kyla's gorge rose again, she backed away from Whit and leaned over the boulder, but not so far that she could see the carcass below. The strengthening wind toyed with the dust, first obscuring, then clearing. For an instant she saw the dog scampering back and forth at the toe of the rockfall. "Pooch!" The dog lifted his head, and barked joyfully in recognition. "Can you get up here, Pooch?" The dog jumped onto a wobbly rock, and jumped off. After a minute or two of trotting back and forth, he scrambled up the side of the ravine untouched by the avalanche. He stopped when he reached her elevation, and carefully made his way from boulder to boulder, testing each step. Kyla watched, trying to memorize the route. That was the path she must take. "Down," she said after the dog dropped into the hole. Pooch slid flat on his stomach. She pushed him against Whit. "Stay. Keep him warm," she said, knowing the dog did not understand, but feeling better for giving a sensible order. "You're not alone now," she said, kneeling beside Whit. "Miners," he said. "What?" "Get Mark. Can't move the rock...shore it up and dig underneath to get me out." "I'll call Mark first thing." She dare not kiss him, even on his cheek, for rock dust covered everything. She squeezed his hand. "Back in a jiffy." The first rock wavered only slightly beneath her foot. She risked it, tested

the three that blocked her path, selected one for her next step. Twice she had to backtrack when she found no firm footing. It seemed hours before she stepped upon soil piled behind a deeply buried stone. The sun still gilded the junipers on the crest. She had spent fifteen minutes, perhaps less, on the rocks. If she paced herself to the top of the ridge, then ran downhill, she could be at the ranch in less than an hour. She allowed herself one minute to catch her breath, and began a slow, silent count to sixty. Getting Whit's truck out would be difficult, maybe impossible, because the rock-slide balanced upon it. Chase's truck blocked the narrow slot. The rescuers would have to tow it backwards, through two hundred feet of canyon before they could get to Whit. Remind them they would need a chain, unless...Sliding down into the canyon would waste ten minutes if the keys were not in the ignition. But if Chase had left them behind, in his anxiety to corner his enemies? Kyla took the gamble, digging her heels into the little stream of gravel that extended to the canyon floor. Her heart pounded at the sound of the small avalanche set off by her weight. Would it grow larger and larger, and fill the canyon with her at its heart She concentrated on the white truck, and shadows where a man might lurk "Chase is dead," she told herself as she entered the narrows. She slid between the rock wall and the jutting side mirror, wrenched open the door, jumped with fright as metal clanged on the rock. A massive clump of keys swung back and forth, making a faint clink every time they hit the steering column. She collapsed against the seat, pinioned by sobs that tore at her chest, ripped in her throat. Stop it! Stop it!There's no time to spare for hysterics. She lifted herself into the high cab, experimented with the pedals, and found the distance proper. Chase, she recalled, was no taller than she. Shorter now, headless, legless...Pay attention to what you're doing and forget what the rocks did to him. The motor caught at the turn of the key, the needle of the temperature gauge swung straight up. The motor had not cooled. Amazing how little time had passed since Whit had looked in the rear view mirror and exclaimed...She switched on the headlights. Maybe they would shine on the rocks over Whit's head, letting him know she was not on foot, but in a truck, and she would bring help soon. She backed slowly into the canyon darkness. *** Whit submitted to having his face licked, even though the combination of tongue and dust felt like sandpaper. It hurt worse than his foot, which hurt hardly at all. The pain, he knew, would come when they moved him. When he woke up in the hospital and faced life without the lower half of his right leg. But alive, if Ky got Mark and his crew here before the rocks shifted again. A rock fall never came down in one piece. Always something was left dangling, to crash an hour, a

day, a week later. The dog whined. "Stay," Whit said. "Quit whimpering. They're doing marvelous things with artificial limbs these days." Who would take over the ranch during his convalescence? He needed Rod desperately. Missed Rod with every ounce of his being. Jim and Vince managed well enough when they knew exactly what to do, but both were a trifle short on imagination. Great guns! Were Jim and Vince at the ranch this evening, or were they spending the night at the range cabin? He did not want them first on the scene, clambering over the rocks, dislocating the slide -A motor roared and a score of echoes rumbled off the rocks, through the ground beneath him, into his chest. Would the vibrations dislodge more rocks? Perhaps Mark and his crew...No, there hadn't been time for Ky to climb the ridge, get to the ranch, unless he was drifting in and out of consciousness. Which was altogether possible. Grinding, grinding, the motor revved and idled, farther and farther away, dying in the distance. He breathed easier. The truck was leaving. Chase! The memory stabbed through him, he sat up, the dog whined at being shoved aside. Lightning burned from leg to chest, a scream ricocheted off the rocks. Surrounded by maniacs, with Chase at their head. You screamed. Echoes. Chase had seen Jenny as she climbed out of the canyon, killed her, and now drove away. He would die here. If the rocks came down again, a quick crushing, but if they did not, an agonizing, slow death. Chase is dead,said a calm voice, so clear he twisted his head a little, looking for Ky kneeling beside him. Her fingers touched his forehead, a tiny pressure suggesting that he lie down. He lowered himself gingerly, wishing Ky were truly here. If Chase is dead, the only other person who can be in the truck is Kyla!He concentrated on tightening various muscles of his torso, relaxing others, so he did not move his leg more than necessary. The ground felt icy beneath him. Every stitch he had on was wet. His own sweat. "Come here, Pooch." Warmth, absolutely essential so he did not go into shock before Ky came with Mark and his crew. Jenny, Kyla. Kyla, Jenny. Not the same at all. Jenny, his beloved for so many years, and so hard to let go. The tree house, he had treasured the memory for so many years. No treasure now, but a memory of bitter guilt. Think of Jenny. It was sacrilegious to think of Jenny. He had desecrated her memory every day since meeting Ky. When had it started? The first instant he saw her in the coffee shop. Days ago -- no today, two hours -- on his new couch, a grand slam, a barn burner, exponentially better than the old memory of love in the tree house.

He had collapsed on her, crushed her, hid his face, ashamed. Embarrassed by the power of it, sorry that he had surpassed a precious memory. Uneasy, recalling the borderline violence of his lust, hammering to new depths, seeking lodes of pleasure for himself, barely aware his strokes told on a living woman, until the seizure of her climax. Glimpsing the bronze in that flash of ecstasy, becoming both the rider and the stallion. Think of something else. What came after their love? A casual decision to visit Fellows Canyon. The terror. He had called her Jenny. He hoped the rocks came down in one great slump, before he heard the first grinding that would warn him of death. Ky was right, he loved a shadow. Every time he made love to her, he struggled against the impulse to call her Jenny. But when there was no time to think, in moments of panic, perhaps even when deep in day-to-day worries, he would confuse her with the ghost. Better they remain lovers. Monogamous, wildly attracted lovers, meeting joyfully in places where Jenny's memory had never taken hold. He and Ky would locate every charming spot between here and San Francisco. Lovers. Imaginative. Daring. That was best. Besides, Ky would not marry a man with only one leg. His deformity would offend her aesthetic sense. No, that was Jenny. Beautiful Jenny, who demanded that everything around her be as lovely as she. Ky wouldn't think twice about his leg. Ugly stumps and the accoutrements of prostheses would not put her off. He confused Ky with Jenny again. How did one get rid of a stubborn obsession? Until he did, he could not marry Ky. Dear Ky. How long had he known her? The computation of the days proved to be beyond him. Ky would not consider a missing leg an excuse for immobility. She would push and prod, and make appointments, and ferry him to specialists, and tell him to get his foot in the stirrup and ride, damn you. Ride her. He had ridden her, every muscle, every nerve peaked, wanting more, anticipating more in a few weeks, when they came together avowed lovers. Don't think about it. A nerve seemed to connect his loins to the foot that soon would be gone...If someone gets here before the rocks move. The dog stirred, Whit opened his eyes. The dog got to its feet and pricked its ears. Someone was coming. The muscles of Whit's chest tightened, immobile, his lungs seized up. Chase, who'd killed Jenny, coming to finish the job. Chase is dead.It had to be true, because Ky had told him. Not Jenny. Ky. How had she known? Found his body, of course. He must have been standing square in the path of the falling rocks. Ky had searched until she found the body. Not Jenny, who would have run screaming. Or fainted. The whine of a distant drill. No, a siren. Turn it off. He started to shout, told himself not to be silly. Vibrations might bring the rocks down. Try mental telepathy. Who would be driving the car? The nearest deputy. He concentrated

on making contact with Colton's brain.Turn the damn siren off. It faded, Whit dared to breathe, but the siren renewed itself. The car must have made the turn onto the Fellows Canyon road. "Turn the siren off," he shouted. The dog climbed on a boulder and barked. The siren faded, and did not start again. He should give the dog a name. Pooch sounded silly for a ranch dog. They'd found him at Penny Springs. Penny? His boyhood mutt had been Samson. This tan waif seemed hardly big enough to carry such a name. But without that snarling leap at Chase, he and Ky would be dead. A good dog. Whoever had lost the dog must miss him. He should advertise, Found on the Penny Springs Road, tan male dog, about 30 lbs. "Here, Pooch." He pulled the furry body across his chest. The tongue, muscular on his face and neck, tried to ease his shivers. Change the dog's name. Hero? Heaven- sent? No, that was Ky, a new angel. A more practical angel. The grinding of gears in the narrows roared like tumbling rocks. He put his hands against his ears, until he recalled he might have to guide the men to this spot. He must warn them off the unstable rocks. The low gear rumble seemed right beneath him, vehicles grinding through the sand. Men's voices. "No!" A female shout. "You can't go straight up. The rocks will come down on you." "We'll follow you." Mark Fetterman. Whit relaxed and let himself forget everything but Ky. She had the men under control. Good thing he had found a strong, determined, active woman, because until his leg healed, they'd have to make love with her on top. A footstep very near, then a soft thud as a body dropped into the hole. "Ky," he whispered. "Oh, my God!" He opened his eyes to the glow of a battery lantern and the shocked visage of Mark Fetterman. "Exactly as Kyla described it, but I thought she was exaggerating." "Believe, her. She's usually right." "Damn frustrating," Fetterman said, and Whit wasn't sure if he referred to the position of the rocks, or to Ky's ability to get to the bottom of most situations. "You seem damn happy," Fetterman said. Whit realized the giggles he heard were his own. He had dreamed he was sitting in Whiskey Dan's, drooped over a beer, saying, "My wife understands me." *** The floodlights made weird patterns of dark and bright. Men walked past balancing timbers on their shoulders, and their giant shadows paced the wall of the canyon like guardian gods. Kyla shivered; Glenda threw another blanket over her shoulders. "You should go home and change," Glenda said. Kyla shook her head. Another striding giant, but this one halted beside her. Sheriff Neligh. "You should go home," he said. "The men say it could be near morning before they get

him out. They're taking it real slow, because there's no sense risking everyone with short cuts. Whit won't know you when they bring him down. Temple's up there, and I expect he'll give him a sedative so he won't thrash around in the litter." "I'll wait," Kyla said. "Feel like telling me what happened?" Kyla could not find a way to tell him, except to start at the very beginning. "We drove to the house first," she said. "It's boarded up." Step by step, the way the miners worked in the rocks above, recalling the smallest details: the prints, the books, the bicycle tail light. "Bike tail light?" Glenda gasped. "I'll talk to the boys tomorrow," Neligh said. "Go on." Murmurs of satisfaction floated on the down-canyon wind. The men had completed another step in the rescue process. Kyla told Neligh what she recalled of the final desperate moments, Whit's fast reaction when he realized Chase had a gun, the falling rocks. "This can't be true," she said. "Why not?" "Physicians don't stalk people with guns. Doctors don't conceal a correct diagnosis so they can make money out of a silly resort. Whit says the resort will never happen. Chase tried to kill us, got himself killed, for a dumb idea." Chase's footsteps, the strange scratching sound...Digging! Chase had tried to bring the ceiling rock down on their heads by undermining the rock on which it rested. He had caused the avalanche! Neligh's massive hand weighed on her shoulder. "Come with me a minute," he said. "Something private." He led her six feet from Glenda's comforting presence. "Interested in what was in Moira's chip?" he asked. Kyla nodded. "One negative, a photograph of Chase with a woman. Not Moira. Make's my flesh crawl just thinking about it. Any of his patients who saw that picture, they'd go looking for another doctor." "Blackmail?" "Looks like it. According to her friends in Vegas, she dreamed of being a legit singer, not a hooker. She blackmailed Chase into marriage, then into promoting Hole- in-Rock Resort, where she, as part owner, could be a headliner." "There's no hole-in-rock anymore," Kyla said, looking beyond the half-buried truck. The avalanche had covered the landmark. "Just as well the rock's gone. It attracted the wrong kind out here. Maybe someone will buy the place and get the ranch going." "Whit says there's not enough water. Moira? No word?" "Not a whisper. Like she vanished. But if she habitually took photographs like the one she had of Chase, one of those men would eventually decide to end her blackmail permanently." "Coffee?" Glenda asked, thrusting a white cup into Kyla's hand without waiting for a reply. "Are Trace and Andy at home?" the sheriff asked. "They wouldn't be left behind, so I made them superintendents of the camp stove. The women's club will be here in a little while with sandwiches. It took an

hour to get the grocery unlocked." "I'll talk to those boys," Neligh said. "Where's the piece of the bike?" "In Whit's truck." Neligh stared at the pickup, his hands on his hips. "Best not jostle that truck the slightest bit. It's holding the whole damn thing up." He accepted a cup of coffee. "I want all the women and children out of the canyon once Whit's down. At dawn we'll bring Chase out, and we don't want more people than necessary suffering heeby-jeeby nightmares." Kyla clutched the coffee, more for the warmth of the cup than to drink. A muted cheer came from someplace above. She stared hard into the night, and saw a long bundle lifted free of the shadows, dangling from a cable strung from one side of the canyon to the other. Agonizingly slow, an inch at a time. The dog scrambled out of the hole, into the glare of a spotlight. He whined, then barked at this unexpected levitation of his master. A vehicle moved in the narrows, its red light flickering, turning the walls intermittently to blood. "We're flying him to Reno," Mark said, her first hint that the mine crew had come down. "The Castor plane's standing by at the airport. Dr. Temple and Chase's nurse, Miss Flores, will go with him." Mark was telling her there was no room for her. Plenty of space for a ghost.Run, Jenny, run ! Kyla took a sip of coffee, but found it cold and bland.Whit's corrupted me . Sumatra, New Guinea, Jamaica. A rather expensive habit for a student. "Everybody back, behind the ambulance." The basket litter slid into the ravine at a frightening angle, the dog slithering along, staying as close as possible, jumping from one rock to another. He set off small avalanches and the clatter reminded Kyla of other rocks. She concentrated on the red patches on the shirts of the ambulance crew, who staggered under the weight of the litter, their feet sinking ankle-deep in dry sand. Kyla walked to the rear of the ambulance to meet them, and not a soul reached a hand to stop her. Everyone knows we're lovers. "Whit?" He resembled a mummy, swaddled within the basket. His eyes opened, but with the darkness she could not tell if they focused on her. "Hi," he whispered. A string of unintelligible words. "Come away," Glenda said, pulling at her elbow. "Someone get this damn dog!" a man yelled. "Here, Pooch," Kyla called. The stray leaned against her leg, shaking. Double doors slammed, the ambulance moved, a foot, a yard, many yards separating them. And every person in the canyon knew that she and Whit were lovers. They would be expecting wedding announcements. Just as well that Whit was not sensible. He would have called her Jenny. "Glenda, could the boys take care of this dog?" Chapter Fourteen Kyla hitched up her borrowed robe and let Glenda examine the backs of her

legs. The slight stiffness in her calves and thighs, Kyla had supposed, had come from sitting on damp ground. Until she had felt the sting of the water in the shower. Glenda poked and prodded. Kyla wished she had dried her hair more thoroughly, for rivulets of water tickled her neck and chilled her back. "Just bruises, I guess," Glenda said. "When the avalanche started, Whit threw me against the rocks," Kyla said, only just now recalling the details of that moment. Glenda jerked at the robe. "Kyla -- " very serious, a warning that a sisterly lecture was on its way "-- you're not contemplating marrying Whit?" "He asked me, but I turned him down." Glenda did not seem satisfied by this news. "I'm afraid, after what has happened, he will continue to press you," she said a bit pontifically. "Men and women who experience traumatic situations -- together that is -- often think they're in love, as a result of the shared experience. They believe no one else could possibly understand. These marriages are often troubled, because after the shock fades, they find they have little else in common." "Sisterly or professional advice?" Kyla asked. "Both," Glenda she said grimly. "I think you should go back to San Francisco. Or home, for a few weeks with Mom and Dad. There's nothing wrong with maintaining a casual, long-distance relationship -- " The phone rang, and Glenda dashed down the hall. Kyla craned her head, trying to see the black and blue spot in the bathroom mirror. Upper right thigh and gluteus maximus. No bleeding. Time would take care of it. She might as well get dressed. But all her clean clothes were in her rucksack at the ranch. "It was Dr. Temple," Glenda said, coming down the hall. "They've arrived at the hospital in Reno, Whit's as good as can be expected, and being prepared for surgery." "Glenda, I can't simply vanish from Whit's life. He's hurt and it's partly my fault. If it hadn't been for me, he would have given up trying to find where Rod got hantavirus. We've spent the last week together. We've...said things." Lovers who have no other love, confident that their love-making would reach beyond perfection. "You don't have to vanish. Stop in Reno, visit him in the hospital, but don't encourage him." Glenda grinned. "It's immaterial at the moment, because you won't go dashing off to Reno until I say so. You're car's at the ranch, and I won't even talk about taking you there until you've spent at least five hours in bed. Five hours minimum." "I won't sleep a wink," Kyla protested. She opened the mini-blind. "See, its daylight. I'll lie down a bit, and you can take me out when the sun comes up." *** Glenda touched her shoulder and whispered, "Kyla," and Kyla realized with a shock that she had fallen fast asleep... "Whit!" Kyla sat up, fully awake in an instant. "No. No news from the hospital. But a phone call. Someone -- " her voice dripped

mystery "-- about the job you start on Monday." "Can't be," Kyla muttered. "They don't know where I am." But she obediently padded down the hall, her right leg and hip objecting at every step. "Kyla?" An excited voice. "Neil Walker here. Couldn't wait to talk, so I called your folks -- they gave me this number." Neil Walker. High school nerd. His voice had matured beyond recognition, but he still spoke using as few pronouns as possible. "Just a minute," she said. She turned to Glenda. "How did you set this up?" she asked with more than just a little anger. Glenda spread her arms and shook her head, protesting her innocence with wide eyes and parted lips. "Neil, do you have something to do with my job?" "Bay Bend Medical Supplies. Bought it two months ago. Kyla Rogers, right there on the temp list. Secretary's tracking down theater tickets, getting a box for Giants' games. Grand summer ahead, Kyla girl! Do the dating game should'a done in high school, but on a more luxurious budget. Including..." The words trailed off into a suggestive chuckle. Kyla felt as if a rock had hit her on the head. "Neil." "Come ASAP. Get reacquainted before Monday. What's your fave, weekends at the beach or in the mountains?" "Neil." Stronger this time. "Hold on." "Two months," he crowed. "Both late bloomers, Kyla, you and me. Work out every day, ski, mountain-bike in the summer. Do you bike?" He paused for a split second at the end of the question, giving her a chance to jump in. "Neil, a friend of mine is in the hospital, badly hurt. I can't talk now, because I must find out how...I can't discuss this sensibly at the moment." "Friend?" She heard a distinct gulp. "Male?" "Yes." "Serious?" "I won't know until I phone the hospital. He was heading into surgery last we heard." "I mean, are you serious about him? Engaged or anything?" Monogamy. How was she to explain unmarried monogamy? Hadn't she and Whit promised, on the way home from Las Vegas? What did she feel for T. J. Whitaker? More important, what did T. J. Whitaker feel for her?Run, Jenny. "Just good friends." "Don't do anything rash, Kyla. Give me a chance." "I'll call you." "Home phone!" he said frantically. "Write it down. And my e-mail address." Kyla scribbled on the note pad hanging beside the phone. "Neil Walker," Glenda said with satisfaction as Kyla hung up. "Couldn't have happened at a better time." "Speaking of time..." "Just before eleven." "Lend me a pair of jeans and take me to the ranch." *** Kyla found Judith in a square, windowless room. She threw herself against the ample chest, hung on the wide shoulders, and enjoyed thirty seconds of Judith's comforting pats before she asked, "How's he doing?

"He's still got a foot, but how much good it will be -- " Judith shrugged, and Kyla nearly fell with the movement of her support. "The doctor said his boots saved him. They were stiff." "New. He bought them in Carson City last week." Only last week? Kyla studied the warnings posted on the door leading to the intensive care unit. "When can I see him?" "In a few days, when he's transferred to a regular room," Judith said softly. "I finally managed to get in touch with his parents, but they're in Canada -- " "A few days!" Kyla cried. Every roadside marker had been a promise, a lessening of the miles that had spread when the ambulance pulled away. "I want to see him now." "Family only in ICU. They let me in briefly because they know me. I gave the secretary your name, but when she mentioned it to Whit's mother, Mamma said 'Who?' Hadn't Whit told his folks about you?" "I don't suppose there's been time," Kyla said. She sat down on a vinyl-covered chair, too firm to be comfortable, because it pressed on her bruises. Had she driven all this way in a panic, her rear end hurting, only to have Whit kept in isolation? "Who gets in?" she asked. "Blood relatives and spouses. Five minutes an hour, but they don't set the timer running too strictly if the patient's blood pressure and heart rate remain stable." Kyla dropped her head in her hands. Would it help if she fell on her knees in front of the doctor? A karate chop to bring down the harridan who guarded the door? "Fiancée?" she asked, watching Judith's reaction through spread fingers. "He asked me to marry him." She jumped to her feet, her bruises crying out against the sudden straightening of her legs. "Marry! We're in Nevada. No waiting, no blood tests. I'll -- " "I hate to disillusion you, but both parties to the marriage must appear to get a license," Judith said wryly. "Whit's still groggy, and they've put his leg in a frame that rather restricts his movement." Kyla sank down, this time with care. Tears kept piling up right behind her eyes. She needed to curl in the shadow of Whit's warmth, go to sleep, wake to find none of this had ever happened. "I'll ask about fiancées," Judith said in what for her passed for a whisper. The conversation drifted from the hall. "I sympathize," the nurse said. "We see it all the time, the couples who pooh-pooh marriage. 'It's just a piece of paper,' they say. Then something like this happens, and they have no more rights than a stranger who walks in off the street. She can talk to the doctor when he comes by this evening. Let me write down her name. Jenny what?" "Not Jenny," Judith boomed. "But that's the name he kept saying." Kyla grabbed her purse, slid past Judith in the doorway.

"Tell him I was here," she gasped. Her eyes remained dry all the long way up the mountainside. Not until she threw herself across the bed in the motel room in Lake Tahoe did she cry. Surprising, how much body motion sobbing created, and how far down it could hurt. *** Whit first noticed, in a truly wide-awake sense, the nurse. She did not wear white, like any self-respecting professional, but a blue smock printed with Teddy bears and hearts. She must be a nurse, however, because she stuck a cold stethoscope against his chest and pressed her fingers on his wrist. How long had he been in this place? He had a vague recollection of being on a plane, but no memory at all of landing or traveling in an ambulance to the hospital. He recalled Doc Temple playing around with a needle, and next thing he knew someone leaned close, saying, "Mr. Whitaker" in an impatient tone. Then a smiling doctor, who had not bothered to tell him how much of his leg he had cut off, only, "You're gonna be fine." Hours had passed before he screwed up his courage and asked the nurse, and she assured him the lump at the end of his leg was his foot. He had lifted his head once, saw some steel rods, decided he could wait until later to ask. After they let Ky in. She would tell him the truth. Stiff boots. And to think he had almost stopped wearing them, because they rubbed his little toe. The moment they let him out he would drive to Carson City and buy another pair just like them. A nurse -- not Teddy bears -- stuck her head around the curtain. "Would you like some company?" "Yes. By the way, what day is it?" "Wednesday." "What time?" "About five-thirty." "In the evening?" "Yes." Tuesday he and Ky had driven to Fellows Canyon, so it was only twenty-four hours ago that he had been trapped in the nook of rocks. The cave had saved his life and Ky's. And now she was here. He practiced smiling. Judith rounded the curtain. "Feeling better?" she asked. "More awake," he said. Not better. Actually terrible. But he should not expect Ky to be in Reno yet. She had been in the cave, too, had gone to fetch help, and stayed up through the night. Maybe they had put her in the hospital in Argentia. Judith squeezed his left hand. "Kyla came by. She says hi." He tried to lift himself on his elbows, but from that angle he could see the thing that was his foot, so he lay back down. "I want to see her." "Can't. Family only in intensive care. Your mother deputized me as family

until they arrive." "Tell the nurse I want to see Ky." "She went home." Whit closed his eyes. Impossible. Ky would not simply leave. Unless -"She's hurt?" he blurted, and a pain stabbed, letting him know he had moved his leg. "Something happened to her up on the mountain, and you're not telling me." Judith stared into space. Deciding whether she should give me the bad news, Whit thought. "Please," he whispered. "What's wrong?" "She left after the nurse called her Jenny." "Jenny?" That made no sense at all. "Why should the nurse call her Jenny?" "That's the name you kept saying, so they assumed of course that the woman who claimed to be your semi-fiancé -- " "Go find Ky. I can explain." "She's on the road. Someplace between here and San Francisco." Now what? A lousy time to have to think hard. He set about organizing bits and pieces of brain fodder that whirled around like wind-blown snow. Deep down, something had to make sense. He retreated into the core of his mind, beyond the blizzard. "I love her," he said. "Have you told her?" "When they brought me out of the rocks, she leaned over me and I told her. I looked for her in the ambulance and the plane, to tell her again, but she wasn't there." His strength seeped away. He closed his eyes. "Whit, prepare yourself for some straight talk. No woman likes to be confused with her predecessor. She wants to be loved for herself. You've known Kyla for a week -- " "Ten days." "-- She's already tired of Jenny. Jenny the perfect, Jenny the angel, Jenny who'll never grow old or dispute you or disappoint you." "It's not like that." "How is it then?" He felt too weak to argue, but did manage to catch a thought as it drifted by. "There's war in my head." Judith squeezed his hand, brushed hair off his forehead. The touch reminded him of Ky in the rocks. "Ever since I met Ky, there's been a war in my head." "Who's winning this war?" Judith asked gently. "Ky's already won. Afternoon...poplar trees...Remington. Find her, tell her." "I'll tell her you want to see her. The rest you'll have to manage yourself." Hopeless, trapped in this bed. Ky at home, other men. He didn't even know her phone number. "You've got several quiet days ahead," Judith said. "You'll have time to consider how you truly feel. May I make a suggestion?" "You never hesitated at giving advice before," he said bitterly. "Why ask now?" She laughed "There's the spirit! If you and Jenny had married, just about now's when you'd be going through the divorce." "Divorce?"

"How long would Jenny have put up with life on a ranch twelve miles out of Argentia, Nevada? How many miners' picnics and church socials before the bright lights of Los Angeles became irresistible, and she went home to art galleries and the theater? You're feeling a virtual war in your mind simply trying to break the hold of her memory. Think of the war of words -- actual, hard words -you've been spared, and count your blessings." "It was going to be 'happily ever after.'" "Certain events lay in the future, whether Jenny lived or not. Rod would have come to your ranch, he would have contracted hantavirus, you would have rushed him to the hospital, and who would be standing there?" "I didn't meet Ky at the hospital. She came into the coffee shop." He closed his eyes, remembering, and felt better. "If Jenny had been at home, Ky and I wouldn't have...become intimate." "If things were not pleasant at home, who's to say what you might have done." Whit tried to imagine explaining an extramarital affair to Jenny. The prayerful apologies to her ghost had been bad enough. "Whit, the time comes when we let other people take over the roles of the one who died. We stop tending the shrine. And it's painful." He shook his head against the pillow. "There's no shrine. I've never had many of Jenny's things." "The house, Whit. That huge, empty house, never marred by one stick of furniture, outside of your bedroom. You saved the place for your Jenny, the stage where she would act her part." He mentally walked through the vacant rooms, across the tiled, echoing entry hall. The table, the bronc rider, the couch where he and Ky -"Not empty now," he whispered. "Ky and I bought a couch and coffee table, because there had to be a place for the statue to stand." "I'm glad to hear it. Maybe you've already started climbing out of the abyss." "Abyss? I never thought of -- " "Your friends have. We've all tried lowering ladders and you kept shoving them aside. Kyla's succeeding where we failed." "Find her. Ask -- beg her to come see me." "I'll call her sister. My time's up. You rest. I'll come back this evening." *** Kyla punched the button on her answering machine. Ten messages. She opened her suitcase, listening with half her mind as she sorted clean clothes from dirty. Very few clean. A business-like voice notified her that a pair of slacks she had ordered a month ago had come in. The slacks she had planned to take on vacation, arriving now, only a couple weeks late. A friend from school asked her to dinner to celebrate the end of the term. Neil's voice on five separate messages, in varying degrees of breathless frustration. "Kyla, this is Judith. Please phone me when you get in." She stared at the machine, willing it to say more. Whit had taken a turn for the worse? Or Judith would beg her to come back and pretend it made no difference that Whit confused her with a dead woman. She jumped when the phone rang. "Kyla? Judith."

"I just got home, just played your message. Whit's not -- " "Fine. Sometime today they're moving him to a regular room." "Perhaps I can drive over on Saturday or Sunday." "Come right now. He loves you." "He might tell me himself, not pass it through a third party. But that damn Jenny -- " "Is fading. He claims he told you he loved you there in the canyon, after they got him out of the rocks." Those unintelligible words. Duh duh duh duh. Kyla gripped the cordless phone, her thumb hit a button, the line went dead. "Judith," she yelled, punching vainly. Would she be listed under Judith Harris or Dewfeathers? The phone buzzed in her hand. Thank goodness, Judith had called back. "Kyla. Neil here, in the car on the Bay Bridge at this instant. Looked up your address, near 7th. Meet you at that coffee shop on the corner. Buster Bronco. Twenty minutes should do it. Only have an hour. Appointment at the hospital at two." She hated Buster's faux western decor. "I'd love to, but -- " "Bring your calendar, we'll go over the schedule." Click. She flipped through the phone book, searching for the Reno area code. "The number is..." Busy. Judith must be trying to callher . Kyla punched redial. "Dewfeathers." Kyla wanted to dive into the phone. "I didn't know what he said, Judith. The only thing I understood was 'Hi.'" "He wants to see you. Frantic to see you. I told him I'd pass on the message, and the rest was up to him. I'm too busy to do his courting for him." "Did he say my name?" Kyla asked, wavering between wanting to know and the feeling that ignorance might be bliss. "He wasn't under the impression that Jenny had been waiting at the bottom of that ravine?" "He said for the past ten days there's been a war going on inside his head, and to tell you you've won. Something to do with poplar trees in the afternoon." "Sex." "I suspected." "Not the most solid foundation for a long-term relationship." "Sometimes the physical wall has to crumble before the healing process can get underway. I think feeling sexual desire for you shocked Whit, and yielding to those urges -- " "Caused a war in his head. But I can't get in there to fight, can I Judith?" "You already have. By the way, congratulations on the furniture. Casually suggest that when he's able to get out, you might browse Reno furniture stores. For the whole house." "That was Rod's doing. Whit had to have a place to put the statue." "I'm glad." A tightness in the words, and Kyla remembered Rod was Judith's brother. Her twin brother. "I'm sorry I didn't know him, Judith." A heavy sigh. "Anyway, I'd appreciate you coming and hearing Whit out, because if you don't he'll keep on pestering me, and I've got a house bursting at the seams with three families" "I can't leave until two, at the earliest. I'm tired, I just drove in from Lake Tahoe, and every stitch I own is dirty." Kyla kicked the heap of clothes. She could pick up the new slacks on her way out of town. "When Chase came after

us Whit yelled, 'Run, Jenny, run!'" "He'll ask your forgiveness, I'm sure. Remember, he wasn't thinking, just reacting. Did he call you Jenny when he made love to you?" "No. But sometimes a distancing, and I worried he was thinking of her." "The war in his head, Kyla. When you think over the events of the past ten days, keep that in mind. He went into the grave with Jenny and is just now climbing out. With your help." "I don't want to be his therapist." "But you are, in a way. Whit's mother once told me the worst thing that happened to Whit wasn't Jenny's death but the money. Hitting that jackpot gave him the wherewithal to bury himself. Instead of facing the world, he retreated." "Then the world came piling in, in the form of hantavirus." "And you. Don't forget yourself." "And I'm not Jenny." "No, my dear. You are as close to her opposite as a woman can be. And the right sort of woman for Whit. I think he's in the process of figuring that out. When I go to the hospital this afternoon I'll tell him that he must for a few months remind himself who he's talking to. Get the name right, until he breaks out of the old, bad habit. Now, I've got a lodger at my front door." Judith hung up abruptly, Kyla waited three seconds before she pushed the off button. She reminded herself that she had not totally committed herself to a dash across the state. In fact, things might be easier if she waited a day or two. Right now Whit was still in pain, distracted by unpleasant medical procedures. She could phone. That's it. A long-distance relationship, pleasant conversations, treading cautiously, never promising -- The phone buzzed. "Almost to Golden Gate Park. If you haven't left yet, you're gonna be late!" "I'll run, Neil. See you." Kyla grabbed her purse and raced out the door. The afternoon fog bathed the heights. She dashed back into her apartment, and changed from shorts to jeans, not too filthy. At the top of the stair she remembered she had not locked the door. Bad habits brought from Argentia. Lucky for her that Neil had turned up. He would drag her out of the stew of emotions, return her to the reality of city life, work, and med school. A firm foundation upon which to base a decision about T. J. Whitaker. She caught herself running her hand down of the side of her purse, checking for the sharp corners. Chapter Fifteen A white Jaguar double-parked just down the street from Buster Bronco's, waiting for a car to pull out of a parking place. Argentia has advantages, Kyla thought, recalling that Whit always found a parking place directly in front of the coffee shop. "Kyla!" The driver of the Jag hung out the window. "Wait at the door. Be right there." But she had left the land of dusty pickup trucks, and isolation that gave men the opportunity to mourn for years. Neil would be good for her. The gangling walk had matured into the stride of a man who knows where he's heading. The skinny adolescent frame had filled into a tailor's dream. He

worked out, she remembered, and mountain biked. "What'll it be?" "Coffee." Kyla examined the menu board, and found far more than the three choices stocked by the coffee shop in Argentia. "Kona. No cream, no sugar." "Not latte? Cappuccino?" She shook her head. "Find us a place to sit." Buster Bronco displayed and sold every imaginable tool for the brewing and consumption of coffee. A tiny one-cup coffee maker caught Kyla's eye. Plastic wrap stretched over a china mug and an assortment of blends in small foil packets. Stop thinking about Whit. She found a vacant table far in the back, beneath a light fixture fashioned from a wagon wheel. Okay in Whit's house, but it looked fake here. On the wall hung a painting of six hard-faced cowboys standing in front of -- not a saloon -- a coffeehouse! Neil arrived with a double mocha latte and a large cup of black coffee. "Love this place," he said, noting the decor with approval. He leaned across the table, fingers twining, separating with nervous intensity. "Figure we should level with each other, and away from the office is best. Not that I'm not serious. Never do anything that doesn't lead where I'm going. Twenty-four, own two businesses. But the folks -- " "How are your parents?" Kyla tried a sip of coffee, but found it too hot to drink. "Fine. Except for worrying about their wayward son." "You look extremely prosperous," she said. He shrugged his superbly tailored shoulders with a jerk that suggested exasperation. "Dad's still ticked that I won't go to med school. Follow in his footsteps, take over the practice. And last month they sent Monica to sound me out on marriage. Neither Mom nor Dad will say 'gay,' but dear sister came right to the point. Simply haven't had time, up to now, to find a suitable woman and fall in love. Then, bingo! Your name came up on that list, 'Answer to your prayers, old boy!'" "How?" Kyla asked. "Why, marriage, of course. We already know each other -- " "That was in high school. Things and people change." He dropped his eyes to her breasts. "Change for the better," he chortled. "Look, Dad will be thrilled that my wife's a doctor. He'll take you into the practice, if you want to move back to the old hometown. Mom will fall on her knees, blubbering when she finds out I'm not hauling home a stranger." His blue eyes snapped with static electricity, as if he generated energy somewhere inside and it demanded a constant outlet. She looked at the painting to get away from the zapping. "Isn't that a hoot?" he said. "Cowboys and a coffee shop. Love this place." "There's a coffee shop in Argentia, Nevada. The first time I went in, I found a cowboy sitting there, and I come close to laughing out loud at the incongruity." "You're kidding me?" Neil said. Kyla shook her head, keeping her eyes on the picture. The cowboy's wore

spurs. She had not seen one horse on Plum Sky Ranch. They were all in the mountains, everything else done in a pickup or on a dirt bike. "Way we do this, we'll spend every spare moment, next two months, together. Relieve Dad's fears that I won't pass on the family genes and name, at the very least, and if we hit it off, this fall your folks can produce a full-scale wedding." "I'm working for you, remember. Employees shouldn't date the boss." He waved away her objection. "Can I confide in you, Kyla? Sure I can. We're not strangers. In high school I wanted desperately to ask you out, but..." A fading of words, out of place in Neil's rapid-fire delivery. "I've always been shy around women. I think it has something to do with Dad being a doctor and telling me the facts of life too soon. I figure, since we know each other, we can ease into a...relationship." He snatched her hand. "You'll be understanding. Compassionate. Forgive when I mess up." His eyes had stopped sparking. "What's wrong, Kyla? I've already messed up, haven't I?" "No, nothing wrong. Just a shock, I guess." Just that for the second time in an hour she had been selected as the perfect therapist for an emotionally traumatized man. "So many dreams, Kyla. Dad's right, I need someone to share them." He leaned across the table, his hand slid up her arm, his eyes sparked once more. "I come to Buster's because every since I was a little kid I've wanted to be a cowboy. Totally unrealistic, because there's no money in it. Nowadays, you make your fortune in business andthen buy the ranch. Soon as Bay Bend's settled and grinding out the dough, I'll be fixed to buy a place. Not too big, but off in the middle of nowhere. Won't live there, naturally. Spend weekends riding my fences, herding my cattle. Live my dream and have a tax write-off at the same time. Even dreams -- " he made a wry face "-- have to fit into economic reality." "Wives?" she asked. "They must fit economic reality, too?" A thoughtful creasing of his brow. "Of course, live in the real world and all that. But there's another component. Emotions. Love." His voice rose a tone, as if saying the word hurt his throat. "Not too good there, am I?" She couldn't help smiling at his anguish. She watched in amazement as his inexhaustible energy overcame his momentary concern. "Unpracticed," she said. "That's all." "I'll learn." He sprang to his feet. "Try one of Buster's jalapeño-cheddar rolls." He had revealed too much of himself, and needed a moment alone to regain his equanimity. On the other side of the room stood a life-sized statue of a cowboy. Wide hat, coiled rope, booted and spurred, carrying a mug that said "I ride miles for Buster's coffee." Behind him, almost concealed by the ten-gallon hat, another painting, a cowboy on a bucking horse. Badly rendered. Jim and Vince would pick out a dozen mistakes in tack and horse anatomy. The clink of china, an odor of cheese and chilies, reminded her she had not eaten since breakfast at South Lake

Tahoe. "Thanks, Whit." Blue eyes, not dark, a sudden shower of sparks that might be anger. Or simply an automatic release of energy, like the jets from a black hole? "Who's Whit?" Kyla toyed with the bun. Run, Jenny, run. "I'm sorry. Bad form to call you by another man's name." "Who's Whit?" "I don't know," she said. The bread tasted flat, as if her taste buds had lingered in the desert. "That's what I must decide in the next few days. Who he is? To me." "You mean you're...in an emotional quandary?" No sympathy in voice or eyes. He tensed, ready to bolt. "Rather." "These episodes...do you experience them often? Emotional storms, I mean. I know women -- " "Shut up, Neil. You're digging the ground from under your feet." She could distinctly hear the scritch, scritch of Chase digging beneath the rock. She saw Whit's shock as the dog leaped over him. There must have been noise, fulminating thunder, but she recalled only the fall of rocks, murderous hail. Only Whit could possibly understand how the moment replayed in her head, waking and sleeping. Last night in the motel, again this morning, a sudden speeding of pulse when she drove through a road cut. The breathlessness that seized her when she passed signs that warned of falling rock. Neil stared at her as a man stares at an unexpected snake. He drew back as far as the chair allowed. She shoved the plate to the center of the table. "Sorry, I've got to go. I've been out of town for ten days and have lots of catching up to do. Laundry, answer my phone messages..." "Yes, I understand," he said hastily, as if glad to be rid of a woman who might at any moment come apart. Love that results from trauma and stress is not a suitable basis for marriage. The clerk shoved the credit slip across the counter for her signature, and bagged the little coffee maker. But I loved Whit before the rocks came down. I simply refused to admit it. *** "If you run," said the man in the blue blazer, "you might catch the next shuttle to Reno." He muttered a gate number; Kyla did not ask him to repeat it because he was writing it on the ticket envelope with a felt tipped pen as he spoke. She ran, hoping the zipper on her backpack held, because if it split open, dirty clothes would scatter from gate C-24 to D-25. "In two or three months," she muttered toward her shoes, "when you're back on your feet, when we've both thought out the consequences of a commitment..." The cabin attendant slammed the door while Kyla stood in the aisle. By the time she had composed herself, the plane seemed to skim the snow-flecked peaks of the Sierra, reflecting the last rays of the sun.

"We must not let ourselves be carried away by the emotions of trauma. If we see one another occasionally, perhaps a deeper understanding will emerge, affection not based on being hideously frightened and thinking we were going to die." Should she kiss him before she started talking? Or simply say, "Hi," and display her gift? A peck on the cheek. Perfect. A distant, sisterly affection, a friendly concern, then the coffee maker to amuse him. The high-rise casinos of Virginia Street came into view on the left. One roof -she had no idea which -- covered the med center. Sheltered Whit. She clasped her hands in her lap so she did not chew her nails. She hoped Judith was at the airport to meet her. But if Judith had failed to check her message machine...She would be alone, lost...You'll take a taxi to the hospital, she told herself sternly, just like a grown up. And you'll comfort Whit, without losing your cool. You will laugh gently at his confessions of love, his unsuitable proposals. Judith waited just beyond the gate. Thank heavens! "Come on. You look exhausted." "I feel like I've lived half my life in the past two days. How's Whit?" "Fine, after I called and told him you were coming." Kyla closed her eyes and leaned against the window of Judith's rickety truck, trying to snatch a brief nap on the journey through streets confused by neon. Even in the dark, the parking lot radiated heat. It squirmed like little worms through the soles of her sandals. She counted the numbers of the rooms, odd on the left, even on the right. Twelve, ten. She could feel her pulse throb in her neck. Judith stepped aside and Kyla's momentum carried her to an open door. "Ky," he said. A gray face on a white pillow, the dark hair looking much darker in contrast. One arm came up. He could not move the other because of the tubes. And the swollen, dark, pummeled termination of his leg. "Oh, Whit!" She kissed him, long and deep, an immensely satisfying declaration. The hand he could spare tangled in her hair and kept their mouths together long after she grew faint. "I love you, Ky," he whispered. "Did you understand when I said it in the canyon?" Kyla nodded, dumb and breathless. "Thank God! I was afraid I hadn't made sense, because I wasn't making sense in the ambulance or the airplane." "I heard," she said, replaying the unintelligible mutter, recognizing the cadence.I love you, Ky. Certainly only one syllable at the end, not two. "Will you marry me?" "Yes." "How soon?" "When you can sit in a wheel chair and sign your name. I'll push you to the office to buy the license." "We'll be fine together, Ky. Neither of us would ever be able to find a lover who truly understands. About the rocks, and all, I mean." "You're so right." For a moment she thought she heard Glenda screaming in protest, but it turned out to be a squeaky wheel on a cart trundling down the hall. "There's something you've got to take care of." "Anything, lover." "I'll call the bank and my lawyer tomorrow. You go in, sign the papers so you

can buy us a new truck. Neligh called this afternoon with the bad news. More rocks came down while he was out there with the insurance man, scared the fellow to death, and he ran a quarter mile screaming, 'Total loss!' My pickup's declared a historical monument, a permanent fixture of Fellows Canyon. "Whit, I've never -- " "Second thing, the coffee here's terrible." Kyla retrieved the bag from the floor and pulled out the coffee set. "Do you believe in mental telepathy?" he asked, a bit awed. "Mom and Dad swear they know each other's thoughts." "Yesterday, did you tell someone to turn off the siren?" "Yes. Colton kept blasting -- " "You heard me! And today you got the word about the coffee." "I've never bought a truck before. I won't know what to look for." "Just read through the specs like you're talking to me, you'll hear me agree or disagree." "I'll bring the specs for you to read," Kyla said firmly. "Miracles of telepathic communication are all very well in an emergency, but when buying a truck we'd better be more down to earth." Judith's head poked around the doorframe. "Hate to tell you this, but visiting hours end in five minutes." "And while you're out running around," Whit said, "pick up a diamond ring for yourself. Somewhere in my wallet -- Good Grief! I don't know where my wallet is. Anyway, there's a charge card for a department store, and they'll have rings." Kyla stroked Whit's immobile right hand. Their first disagreement on the horizon, and less than five minutes to deal with it. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow. No. Tell him now and let him come to terms with it overnight. "Whit, a doctor uses her hands, and I've always found it difficult...with rings I mean." A reddening across his pale cheeks. A hint of...relief? He smiled broadly. "I wondered how I'd tell you. I don't like rings. See, we were meant for each other." They were still kissing when a tinny loud-speaker voice ordered visitors out of the hospital. "Dinner?" Judith asked as she drove out of the parking lot. Kyla consulted her stomach, and discovered she was ravenous. After they had been seated in the casino cafe, Judith laid a large hand on the menu before Kyla opened it. "That's what their first big argument was about," she said. "Whose argument, about what?" "Whit and Jenny's. Rings. He caved in, because he couldn't say no. Remember that. He's unable to say no to anyone he loves. You'll have to be very cautious what you ask for." *** Whit was on the phone when Kyla arrived with a sheaf of papers requiring his signature, and the owner's manuals from six different trucks. "I can't believe it...Five men? You sure, Neligh? Thanks for letting me know." His foot, still supported in a sling, had shrunk considerably overnight and the skin tone resembled severe bruises more than death. Recognizably a foot, with five toes. "Don't let the kids up there. Put them in jail if you have to. Drop in if you're up this way."

He saw her before he hung up, his hand came up, still grasping the receiver. "What kids going where?" she asked in alarm. "Jim and Vince caught Trace and Andy hiking up the ridge. Trace is certain the rock-fall exposed a silver vein." "Oh good grief!" She placed the flowers and papers on the bedside table, leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek, but he pulled her across his chest. His fingers toyed with her hair, caressed her back. "Did you see Chase dead?" he whispered. "Yes." "Neligh just told me. Nightmares?" "Not yet, but everything keeps replaying in my head. Over and over." "I'm the lucky one. They knocked me out and I'm just getting all the memories straight. Everything about you, though, I remembered straight off. The hospital wants to send in a shrink, to help me cope. But I told them we'd deal with this together, you and I. It's an incentive to get on my feet and get out of here. The doctor says I can go to Judith's in a few days if I hire a nurse." "I know a med student who needs a summer job." "I thought you had one." "I don't like the boss. I'm quitting." "This boss will be very demanding." "You've got it backwards. You're the patient, I'm the boss." "Oh. Hey! I forgot the big news. They found Moira." "De...?" She didn't want to hear. "No, this morning a narcotics squad raided Penny Springs, and there she was. Locked in a boarded up room. She told Neligh two men approached her when she was jogging, they bragged about how much money they'd have at harvest time, she went with them, and of course once she'd seen what was growing at Penny Springs, they wouldn't let her go. So they're facing more than cultivation of marijuana charges. Kidnapping, false imprisonment." "Poor woman! And her husband dead!" "All her dreams up in smoke. Or maybe I should say buried by rocks." "I'd appreciate it if you'd not mention rocks. At least, don't say the word unless you have your arms around me." He embraced her lightly. "Ky," he whispered into her hair. "There's one more thing. Before I go home, go furniture shopping and fill up that house." "We'll wait until you're able to go shopping." "No. Whatever you want, that's what I want. Empty, the house stays haunted. When I hobble through that door, I want to see a place ready for us to live in." "A king sized bed on the dais in the bedroom?" she asked. "Fine. Although that much space will be a waste, because I won't let you ever get too far away. Except, of course, when you have to be in San Francisco and I've got to be on the ranch." "Maybe queen-sized would do." "When we get to Judith's..." His fingers said the rest, digging into her spine. Kyla rested her elbows on the bed, leaned over, mouth slightly open -"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed. Kyla jumped back. "I hurt you! Bumped your leg?" "The fountain! We left it running, and I never got around to hooking it up to the water line. Get hold of Jim or Vince, tell them -- " "I need to call Glenda anyway," Kyla said. "I'll tell her to drive out and

shut the thing off." A perfect job to keep Glenda busy. Exactly what she would need to keep her mind occupied, after she learned that her little sister was marrying T. J. Whitaker. The End

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