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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

The Texas Panhandle -- 1885

The mayor of El Molino stood by the hitching post next to the jail and held out his hand to the duster-clad man who had just finished putting a sizable sum of money in his saddlebag and lacing it closed.

"Mr. Randolph," said the mayor, "I don't know what we would have done without you, clearing out the Black Hole Gang."

Clint Randolph shrugged and turned to perfunctorily shake the mayor's hand. "It was a job and we did it."

"I've been authorized by the town council to offer you the position of sheriff of El Molino."

"Thank you, but no, Your Honor. I think it's time Sam and I were moving on."

"Sam who?"

Clint sighed. "Never mind. We'll be off, I reckon."

Swiftly, the range detective swung himself into the saddle of his black stallion and, touching the brim of his hat with his fingers, nudged his mount into movement. A moment later, a huge dun gelding followed, its equally large rider in rhythm.

About an hour later, far outside town, Clint pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. The other rider also stopped and dismounted. Clint unlaced his saddlebag and pulled out the money. Leafing through the greenbacks, he divided them and handed a portion to the other man.

"Here you go, Sam. Fifty-fifty, as always."

Sam Blake smiled bitterly, though the turn of his lips was barely visible behind the soup strainer mustache and bushy beard. He yanked off his camel-colored Stetson and ran splayed fingers through his thick, black, unruly curls before clamping the hat back down on his head. "Yeah, fifty-fifty. Did you hear the bastard? 'Sam who?' Why do I put up with it year in, year out?"

Clint shrugged and looked up into his friend's face. If Clint Randolph was six feet two, Sam Blake was more like six feet five. Four years older than Clint, Sam was built like a bear contrasted with his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped partner. Clint was as smooth-skinned and bronzed as the Indian grandfather whose blood he carried, while Sam was bearded and hair-matted.

Friends since boyhood, they became partners when both were in the Texas Rangers, but even then folks never quite noticed Sam's contribution. Those that noticed him often failed to see the intelligence in the dark brown eyes behind the round, wire- framed spectacles, never suspected the college education behind the taciturn façade. Also unnoticed when compared to Clint Randolph's lightning draw were Sam Blake's far more accurate skills. Sam might not be as fast out of the holster, but he almost never missed what he was aiming at.

"We really should have wired the money to our accounts," Sam said. "I don't like traveling with this much cash."

"I don't exactly have an account," Clint responded.

Sam rolled his eyes toward heaven. "Where the hell do you put your money, then?"

Clint looked indignant. "Reckon I put about 95% of it into whiskey, women and good times. The rest I just waste."

Sam sighed again. "You plan on riding the range forever?"

Clint shrugged. "Reckon one of these days I'll get myself a small spread and run some horses."

"With what down payment? You can only get 160 acres free if you homestead. That's not enough for running livestock. Clint, you're what -- coming onto thirty? I've seen those old saddle tramps, fifty, sixty years old, owning nothing but their tack and a change of union suits..."

"Thank you, Mother." Clint swung back into the saddle as Sam wrapped his share of the bounties on the rustlers in a clean bandanna and shoved the packet to the bottom of his saddlebag. He could wire the money, save perhaps $500.00, in the next town they passed through. He would feel a lot better once the remaining $4,500.00 was safely earning interest in the Bank of Santa Fe.

"We'll be in Rincon in a few days. Ought to be able to find a ready woman or two there," Clint mused.

"I can hardly wait," groaned the bearlike man as he remounted.

"Just because that whore in Santa Rosa got scared when she saw that big cock of yours is no reason to swear off women."

Sam flushed to the roots of his unruly hair. Until that moment he was unaware that his best friend knew his shame.

"Jeez, Sam, you been keeping it buttoned up since then? That's got to be a couple years ago already."

Two years, five months and fourteen days, Sam thought to himself, but who's counting?

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." Clint began to slap at his pockets, then reached inside his duster and felt around. "Sam, you got any tobacco? I could sure handle a smoke right now."

Almost inaudibly, Sam replied, "I stopped smoking nearly a year ago."

"Oh...yeah," Clint responded awkwardly.

"Why Rincon?" Sam asked. "Is there a job?"

"Yeah, got a wire forwarded while we were in El Molino. Seems there's some rustling going on. Ranchers are offering a nice sum to clean them out."

"Did you agree?"

"Yeah."

"I'm your partner, Clint. Do you think it might be appropriate to discuss a job with me before taking it?"

Clint's brow rose. "God Almighty, Sam, the telegram was addressed to me. You always get your share."

"I just wish that you'd remember that I'm your partner, not your sidekick. Just because idiot mayors in dirtwater towns think you're the brains of this outfit doesn't mean you should start going around thinking you are, too."

"If it wasn't for me there wouldn't be any jobs. I may not be the brains, but I am the one they hire. What would you be without me?"

The two men rode along for a long time before either spoke again.

"Sam, do you ever think about settling down?"

"Define settling down."

"You know, buying a place, marrying, having kids?"

"Yes, no and no. Why, do you?"

"Yeah." Gesturing to his shoulder, Clint said, "I'd like to find a pretty little girl who comes up to about here and raising a whole passel of kids."

"That's a nice dream. Takes money, though."

"Yeah, but you've got money. I've never seen a man so stingy with a buck as you. Why bother if you don't want to get married?"

Through gritted teeth, Sam said, "I never said I didn't want to get married."

Clint turned to look at Sam. "But you won't?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I've looked in the mirror lately."

"Shit, amigo, don't let one little whore put you off women."

"I'm not, but at least she got as far as seeing my cock because I tossed two bucks on the table. No good woman ever got past my face and form. Hell, even my name is dull as ditch water. Samuel Blake, nothing to recommend that. Some of us were just never meant to be married, I suppose."

Prudence Hofheinz leaned over the frame and tried to concentrate on the block she was quilting. Her eyes always welled up when the mothers of Rincon talked about their infants. At thirty years old, she was the same age as so many of them, but she had no experience with babies.

Prudence was the schoolteacher in Rincon. She taught all grades from first through eighth, but she didn't have the same relationship with her students that their parents did. She had learned that the last nine years.

But then, why should she? Prudence had grown up in Chicago as the Girl Most Likely to Die an Old Maid. As a girl of more than average height and weight, Prudence had received only one marriage proposal in her life.

A thirty-year-old spinster didn't really fit in anywhere. The women in town her age were all married and talked of homes and husbands and children. The younger women had been students of Miss Hofheinz and never felt quite comfortable on a first name basis with their former teacher. Like a governess in an English gothic novel, Prudence had no real position on any level in Rincon -- except for her job. She had joined this sewing circle in an attempt to make friends, but she never felt quite right. She had only one real friend in town.

A knock at the door attracted the attention of the quilting circle. A lithe, golden- haired woman of twenty-two came breezing in. She wore a brown corduroy split riding skirt, plain, knee-high riding boots and a red calico blouse modeled after a man's shirt. A flat-brimmed gaucho hat hung by a thong about the throat down her back.

"Prudence," the blonde said with a smile, "you about through here?"

Prudence popped the knot on the thread she was sewing and dropped her needle, thimble and scissors into her sewing chatelaine. "All ready, Arabella," she responded. "Ladies," she said with a polite smile as she rose. The other women mumbled casual farewells as the teacher and her friend, Arabella Morgan, left the parlor. She pinned on her flower-trimmed bonnet and stepped out into the sunshine.

"How can you stand that crew of cats?" Arabella asked as she replaced her flat- crowned felt at a jaunty angle. "They'd as soon gossip as eat." Arabella untied her horse from the hitching rail and walked next to Prudence through the streets of Rincon while leading the mare by the reins.

Prudence looked at her friend. It should have been easy to be jealous of Arabella Morgan. Where Arabella was petite, Prudence was too tall. Where Arabella's hair was the color of burnished gold, Prudence's was brown. Not sable, not chestnut -- just plain old brown. Where Arabella's eyes were the color of a clear summer sky, Prudence's were brown. Not gold-flecked, not hazel, not amber -- just brown, brown, brown! Where Arabella was slender as a willow with high, full breasts that seldom failed to attract the eye, Prudence might be referred to as pleasantly plump by someone kindly, but her disproportionately small bosom was unimpressive.

Arabella's father, Ethan Morgan, owned the Bar M, so Arabella had been sent to a fancy ladies' academy in New York, so she had only been Prudence's student the older woman's first year teaching. The two women were drawn together by their educations and their unmarried states. But where every man who was anybody would die for a chance to wed the rich and elegant Miss Morgan, Miss Hofheinz couldn't get the time of day from them.

Arabella even had a better name. Arabella Morgan. It was flowing, poetic and so very American. Who could possibly be attracted to a woman with a virtuous name like Prudence? And who could even pronounce so decidedly foreign a name as Hofheinz?

"Arabella, I doubt the Saturday Sewing Circle gossips about me. What could they say? I think they're just as happy when I leave. I try to fit in, but I don't understand them any more than they understand me. All their talk of husbands and babies reminds me that I'll never experience them myself. I'll just spend the rest of my life teaching other people's children, including yours when you have them."

"God! The men I've seen are enough to put a girl off marriage!"

"Why ever would you say that?"

"Oh, Prudence, you're so lucky you aren't an heiress," Arabella began, never seeing the slight stiffness in Prudence's spine at her words. "Men of every age from twenty-two to sixty-two offer to court me. But it's not me they want, it's the Bar M. I wish my father had remarried and had a son!"

Prudence raised an eyebrow. "You're not serious -- I don't mean about Mr. Morgan remarrying. I mean about men not wanting you. You're absolutely beautiful and educated..."

"And rich."

Prudence shrugged. "Yes, and rich, but money isn't everything, trust me. If they notice me at all, they act like I'm going to rap them across the knuckles with a ruler. Believe me, the Bar M is far from your only attraction."

The two women reached the small cabin adjacent to the schoolhouse that was the lodging the Rincon School Board provided their grammar school teacher. Stepping onto the porch, Prudence used her latchkey to unlock the door and they entered the neat little cabin that had been Prudence Hofheinz's home for the last nine years.

It was a pleasant house with lots of windows to allow cross ventilation in the heat of summer. It consisted of a main room, a small bedroom and a kitchen and pantry with a pump and a wood-burning stove. The floors were smooth wooden planks covered with braided rag rugs. The windows had calico curtains and real glass panes. The furniture consisted of an eclectic collection of castoffs from well-meaning townspeople. Nothing really matched, but everything was in good repair. Prudence traded tutoring services for carpentry and other repairs to make sure of it.

Arabella sat down on one of the armchairs and threw one shapely leg over the arm. Prudence herself had gone into the bedroom to change into a split skirt of indigo denim, a worn shirtwaist and riding boots.

"I thought we'd ride up along the ridge at Ganados Ravine," Arabella called from the main room. "Papa's been having trouble with rustlers again."

Prudence emerged from her bedroom changed and grabbed a gaucho hat like Arabella's from the hat rack by the front door as the two women left the cabin and entered the shed adjoining where Prudence's horse, Max, and her buggy were stored. Max was no match for Arabella's beautiful mare Horizon, but Prudence was patient enough with the plodding gelding.

Prudence skillfully saddled Max and mounted and the two women set off to ride the ridge. It was a bright afternoon, bearably hot and sunny.

Rustlers were the bane of cattlemen's lives. In the previous couple of months a man named Jack Derry was rumored to be the head of the rustling gang, but nobody had seen Derry in action and he always seemed to have an alibi.

There was speculation that some mining interests were using the Derry Gang to wreak havoc before moving in their mining equipment to work some of the old Spanish mine sites, but this was unconfirmed.

Arabella and Prudence sat on their mounts on the ridge overlooking the Bar M range. Right now, everything looked as it should, but there was an underlying current of ill ease at the otherwise bucolic setting.

"Does the Cattlemen's Association have any idea what they are doing to stop the Derry Gang?" Prudence asked.

Arabella nodded. "I overheard Papa tell some of his friends that he hired a famous range detective named Clint Randolph to rid us of the gang and that Randolph should be here in the next few days."

"He hired one man to go against a gang?"

Arabella shrugged. "Maybe he's used to taking on whole gangs of desperados alone."

"Anyone who could take on an outlaw gang single-handedly is someone I'd surely like to see."

Arabella grinned. "Come over for dinner a week from Sunday and I'll introduce you - - if he hasn't already captured the gang and gone his merry way."

Prudence grinned back. "That's a deal. Come on, I'll race you back."

Arabella laughed. "Prudence, I know you love Max, but he can't beat Horizon."

Prudence shrugged. "So I lose." She spurred Max into action. Horizon hardly had to breathe hard to catch up and surpass the gelding.

Prudence actually found herself looking forward to that day eight days hence. To meet an authentic Western Hero would be something!

Ethan Morgan stepped onto the verandah and lit up a cigar. He scanned the horizon through a cloud of blue smoke. As far as he could see this land was his. Even the War had not ruined him. He was damned if anyone or anything, even Nature herself, was going to destroy what was his.

He had heard that Clint Randolph was the best there was in settling range problems permanently. If he wasn't the fastest gun in the West he was pretty close to it. He'd leave Jack Derry and his gang of hired thugs bleeding in the dirt.

And nobody would ever figure it out.

The Cattlemen's Association wanted the rustlers driven out of the county -- all the way to hell if necessary. But that group of middle-aged men was not about to dirty their own hands forming posses and chasing them down. It was worth paying Clint Randolph his $10,000.00 fee to do the dirty work. In addition, Morgan volunteered to house Randolph and whatever men he hired to work with him on the job.

It was a perfect set up. Everyone's attention would be on Clint Randolph.

In the distance, Ethan saw a dust cloud. As it grew closer the rancher could see two riders in dusters; one in a black Stetson on a black horse, the other in a camel-colored Stetson riding the biggest dun he'd ever seen. The two riders approached the house, stopped and dismounted.

The shorter of the two men pulled a Western Union telegram from his duster pocket and approached the house.

"Mr. Ethan Morgan? I'm Clint Randolph."

Stepping off the verandah, his right hand outstretched, Morgan said, "Very glad to meet you, Randolph. Your reputation precedes you."

Clint shook Morgan's hand. "Thank you, sir."

Morgan looked briefly over Clint's shoulder and said, "I wasn't aware you would begin hiring men before your arrival."

Sam, who had come up to stand beside Clint, stiffened uncomfortably at the remark.

"My partner, Sam Blake, sir." Clint said carefully.

"Partner? I was unaware you had a partner, Randolph."

"Sam Blake is every bit as good as I am." Better, he added to himself.

"If he's so good, why haven't I heard of him? The fee doesn't change just because you have a partner."

"What I charge and you agreed to pay includes Mr. Blake and me. We have our own arrangement. Now, sir, if you could direct us to the barn and then our rooms, we'd like to unpack our grip and wash up. Then we'll come in and discuss the situation and begin to map out plans."

Gesturing, Morgan directed them to the barn, saying, "I'm afraid I've only one guestroom, Mr. Randolph. I can hardly imagine that two men your size would be comfortable sharing one bed. One of you will have to stay in the bunkhouse with my hands and whatever men you hire."

Clint nodded abruptly. Leading their mounts, the two detectives headed for the barn.

When they were unsaddling their horses, Sam declared, "This is my last job, Clint."

Clint nearly dropped his saddle in surprise. "Why?"

"I'm tired of being the forgotten man. I'm only your equal partner financially. I've had enough of sleeping in bunkhouses while you lounge in featherbeds and eating chuck grub while you dine at the boss's table. When we're done here I'll have over $30,000.00 in the bank. That's enough to buy some land or start a small business someplace -- maybe a print shop or bookstore."

Clint looked his best friend straight in the eyes. Frustration and anger were mirrored, emphasized by the frames of the spectacles on his hair-covered face. "Sam, I have the name, but I'm nothing without you. You're the brains of the outfit."

"And you're its image. If you've ever read a dime novel, you'd know that you even look like a goddamned hero. But don't worry, Clint. Nobody will miss me. After a while, even you won't."

"You're wrong, Sam. Hell, when I was a scrawny ten-year-old kid you came to my rescue more times than I can count. You're the closest thing to a big brother I'll ever know."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Clint. I'm no great shakes. I only came to your aid because you were as alone as I was."

"I don't believe that for a minute, Sam. Look, I'll sleep in the bunkhouse and you can take the guestroom if you want."

Sam threw his saddlebags and bedroll over a massive shoulder. "I saw the look on Mr. Morgan's face. He would think it's demeaning for you to sleep among the common men, whereas I'm as common as they come. If I want privacy I can sleep in the hayloft. At least my feet won't hang over the edge. I'll go stake out a bunk and meet you at the house." Sam lumbered off to the bunkhouse.

Clint sighed as he slung his own saddlebags over his shoulder. He thought about his relationship with Sam Blake. For the four years between the time Clint came to San Antonio from Ohio with his parents immediately after the War, until Sam left to go east to the University, Sam had always been his protector, his mentor. It was Sam Blake who taught Clint to shoot a six-gun, how to saddle a horse, how to throw a lasso, how to build a rabbit snare and how to light a campfire without matches. Sam had accepted the taunts of "Yankee lover" and "Injun lover" silently and nobly. He never instigated a fight but never backed away from one either. Sam had always been a big kid and had grown to become a big man.

The Sam Blake who came back from the East Coast was changed from the one who left. Not just physically; that was likely to happen to any young man between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. There was a melancholy defeat in his face from causes he never discussed. Though Sam had earned a degree in civil engineering, he chose instead to join the reorganized Texas Rangers when Clint did. During the five years they served with the Rangers was when Clint's hawkish good looks and presence caused him to be noticed and celebrated far beyond the steadier, more thorough and accurate investigations of the quiet, workmanlike Sam.

Clint usually acknowledged -- at least to himself -- that Sam had been the major contributor in the pair's success as range detectives. But handsome, flashy western heroes were always more celebrated than taciturn, efficient operatives who hid behind eyeglasses and a full bushy beard.

It was only in these last few jobs that Sam began to make his displeasure at his anonymity known. Maybe Clint should have been more conscious of his friend's needs, but over the years he had begun to take Sam's quiet presence for granted. It had struck home most recently on the trail when Clint had failed to notice that Sam had quit smoking.

Now Sam wanted out and Clint was facing working alone or finding another line of work. But unlike Sam, Clint has saved no money. The fee from the El Molino job was virtually every cent Clint owned, and while $5,000.00 was nothing to sneeze at, it was hardly enough money to live on while trying to make a go of something else.

Clint was deep in thought about these matters as he approached the ranch house and was reaching for the front door when it opened to reveal one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

Chapter 2

Even in a modest chintz day gown she was elegant and came, as he might have described her, "right up to here" on him. Clint felt an instantaneous tightness in his jeans enough that he was glad his duster was buttoned.

When she smiled at him, Clint felt he had gone straight to heaven.

"Oh," she said," you must be the range detective the Association hire. I'm Arabella Morgan..."

Please don't make her Mrs. Morgan, Clint prayed swiftly.

"Ethan Morgan's daughter."

Clint felt his breath returning. "I'm one of them," he stammered.

"One of them?"

Clint gestured back over his shoulder. "My partner is settling down in the bunkhouse."

Arabella cocked her head in surprise. "But we arranged the guestroom for you."

He nodded with a half smile. "Yes, and I'm using it, but when you meet Sam you'll see that there's no way the two of us can share a bed."

Arabella blushed. "No, no, of course not," she stammered. As if remembering her manners, she continued, "Please, Mr. -- uh..."

"Randolph. Clint Randolph, ma'am." He touched his brim politely.

"Mr. Randolph, let me show you to your room and get Consuelo to bring you up a pitcher of water and a towel. I'm sure you'll want to wash some of the trail dust off."

"Thank you, Miss Morgan. I'd like that pretty well."

Arabella led the way. Clint was going crazy watching the natural sway of her derriere beneath her skirt. This job had better be over quickly or he was going to forget that he was supposed to show respect for decent women. He followed her up the stairs like a puppy dog and down the hall to where she opened a door and revealed a sunlit room with a simple double bed and furniture. Clint wondered what Arabella's room looked like. How would she look clad only in that golden hair lying on a feather bed while Clint covered her pale body with his swarthy one. It was all the man could do not to groan with frustration.

Meanwhile, Arabella was finding herself fascinated by the tall, handsome detective. She had watched the glowing silver of his eyes when they caught hers. She was going to have to watch her step or she'd find herself underneath him in no time flat.

Of course, that idea didn't sound so very outlandish to Arabella. After all, the man was glorious! If he looked this good in an ankle-length duster, how would he look in a work shirt and well-worn denims? Or better still, in nothing but the skin God gave him?

Arabella blew some air out of her lungs to dispel the blast of heat her thoughts sent shooting from her breasts to her core. Heavens, but no lady was supposed to feel that way. And yet, there must be something right going on. No other man she had ever met had aroused this kind of response in her.

"I'm -- I mean we're glad you're here, Mr. Randolph," Arabella said. "Papa says you're the best at removing disreputable elements from bothering law-abiding people."

"We do our job well, I reckon," Clint said, moving closer to Arabella.

She could detect the scent of leather, horse, tobacco and maleness. It was a heady feeling, but in self-defense she stepped back.

"I'll just...go down and ask Consuelo to send up some warm water for you. Dinner will be served in about an hour."

"Thank you, ma'am, but I think I'll go eat with my partner. Just because he's sleeping in the bunkhouse doesn't make him any less my partner."

"But of course he'll be included in meals in the main house. I'm terribly sorry the house is so small. Perhaps the Association has another member with a guestroom."

"I'll see how he feels about that, Miss Morgan."

"I'll just leave you now." She slipped out the door.

Arabella was beside herself. He was gorgeous and exciting and even considerate of his partner. What a combination!

After dinner, Ethan Morgan got out an old plat map of the county and showed the detectives the current ranch boundaries. Sam used a pencil and sketched in borderlines and sites of slaughtered cattle as Ethan reported them. The older man was surprised to see Sam taking charge of the strategy session while Clint provided mostly brief comments.

"How many men do you think you'll need to hire, Randolph?" Morgan asked at last.

Clint and Sam surveyed the map and exchanged comments. It was Sam who answered. "If your regular hands can keep a sharp eye out, it's possible to do this with just the two of us. At this stage, it appears if we can catch Jack Derry in the act we can cut the guts out of the gang. Clint will meet with the hands Monday morning and explain their responsibilities to them."

Clint nodded.

"Why not tomorrow?" Morgan asked impatiently.

"Clint and I will want to ride out tomorrow morning to survey the area."

"I'll take them out, Papa," said Arabella, who just now appeared at the door bearing a tray with coffee and cups.

Puffing out his chest, Morgan said, "My daughter knows this ranch as well as any of my hands. Sometimes I can't help thinking of her as the son I never had."

"I'm certain, Mr. Morgan," Sam said stiffly, "that nobody in his right mind would ever mistake Miss Morgan for your son."

Arabella giggled lightly. "Why, thank you for those kind words, Mr. Blake. Shall we say eight o'clock tomorrow morning? I'll have Consuelo pack a late breakfast and we should be back well in advance of Sunday Dinner. I have a dear friend coming here who is just dying to meet a real western hero."

Clint and Sam exchanged weary glances. The last thing they wanted was a gushing little flirt who wanted to squeeze Clint's big, strong muscles. If anyone was going to squeeze his muscles, Clint preferred it be Arabella. As for Sam, he would probably be completely overlooked.

It was better than chuck grub in the bunkhouse and more economical than going to a restaurant, assuming there was a restaurant open in Rincon on a Sunday afternoon.

Prudence was looking forward to this dinner like she might face a trip to the barber to have a tooth pulled. While she had told Arabella she wanted to meet the Great Western Hero, even at informal functions like this dinner, she was so far outshone by her beautiful friend that her presence was barely noticed.

She combed through her wardrobe. Finally, she located a gown of dark pink faille with a modest bustle and some ecru ruching at the modest décolletage and drawn up overskirt.

For a moment, she sat down at her vanity table and looked at herself.

Just once, if someone would see her, really see her, instead of their expectation of a spinster schoolteacher. Even in woman-short Northwest Texas, she was destined to live her life alone.

"Maybe I should just go back to Chicago," she said aloud, but knew that was a very bad idea. Her father had remarried about five years ago. Better to be alone with a career, even schoolteacher in a small town one-room schoolhouse than the unnecessary appendage of a married couple. Prudence never begrudged her father remarrying. He had remained a widower for years. She always wondered why he had waited so long.

At least the food would be good.

Early Sunday morning, Arabella, Clint and Sam rode out to survey the property and observe the locations where some of the damage had been done.

Making an expansive gesture, Arabella indicated the distant foothills. "Before Texas independence, the Spanish Conquistadors came to this part of the country looking for the Seven Cities of Gold. The foothills are riddled with mineshafts going back over two centuries. We don't even know for certain how many of them are out there hidden in the underbrush."

"Have you been up there?" Sam asked.

Arabella shook her head. "Not in ages."

"Derry and his gang probably know that the ranchers don't go up there." Sam said. "If there are any structures up there they'd make a good hideout."

"Just what I was thinking," Clint said.

Arabella raised an eyebrow. "You really are full partners."

"I've never denied it," Clint responded defensively.

"Come on," Arabella said. "We've got lots to cover."

They rode the perimeter, Arabella showing them where wire had been cut and cattle slaughtered. Sam and Clint conversed in fractured sentences that seemed to have meaning to them though they were a blur to Arabella. She felt like she was eavesdropping on two generals preparing for battle -- but then, in a way that's what they were.

Sam shook his head negatively in response to a comment from Clint. "I don't know. Not like Derry."

"You know Jack Derry?" Arabella asked, amazed.

"By reputation," said Clint. "He's a nasty little man who'd as soon back-shoot you as face you."

"Patrols, I think," Sam said. "With spring calving and branding done Morgan has hands to spare. Until there's another strike we won't have any idea where to chase."

"What are you going to do until someone strikes?"

Listen and cull information from every available source, Miss Morgan," Clint said. "Sam always says that you can learn as much by listening as you can by chasing around."

"Do you always quote Sam?"

"I do when he'd right, and he's right a fairly good piece of the time."

"Amazing. Which, of course, is why so many people have heard of him."

"I'm not responsible for what people think or do, Miss Morgan. Only for my own actions."

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Clint." Sam growled.

"Whether I do or I don't, I'm wrong," Clint snapped back.

"I've seen enough." Sam spurred his dun to head back toward the built up part of the ranch.

Clint watched his partner leave without saying a word until Sam was no more than a cloud of dust.

"For a big man he has an awfully thin skin," Arabella said.

"It's all your doing."

"Excuse me for living, but what just went on has nothing to do with me. It has more to do with him and you." Suddenly Arabella started as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "Mr. Randolph, exactly what is your relationship with Mr. Blake?"

Clint looked confused. "What do you mean?"

Arabella drew her mount closer to Clint's. What she was about to ask him was so sensitive that even though they were alone, she was afraid of prying ears.

"When I was back east I heard of men who...well, it's difficult to say, but they...well, they didn't care much for women."

Clint's eyes widened and the color drained behind his naturally dark complexion. Despite his limited education, he realized what she was saying. "You think I...you think we...son of a bitch. I'll show you what kind of man I am!"

Abruptly, he reached over and dragged Arabella off her horse and onto his. No sooner was she lying across his lap than he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was punishing and Arabella's first notion was to resist, but then her whole body began to infuse with heat. She found herself softening in his embrace and slipped her arms about his neck.

Clint began to gentle his kiss as he felt Arabella soften. She wore no corset under her riding clothes and Clint could feel the delicate movement of her ribcage as her breathing became deeper. He nibbled on her lips until she parted them to accept the probing of his tongue. He pressed her closer to him as his hand crept up to cup her full, firm breast.

Arabella could feel the growing desire of this mean beneath the layers of her clothing and his. She was a virgin, but not so innocent she didn't know what that meant. She pushed herself away firmly, but far from frantically.

"Well," she said between gulps of breath, "it's plain you care for women. I'd better get down or I may consent to something I shouldn't be consenting to."

"Would it be so bad?"

Arabella touched his cheek gently. "No, I'm afraid it might be very good, but while men are allowed their freedom in these matters, eventually I'll have to marry and I'm sure my future husband will prefer an untouched bride."

She slipped off Clint's lap and jumped to the ground. Quickly she stepped the few feet to where Horizon had ambled off and smoothly remounted.

"We'd better go," she said. "We'll need to wash and change for Sunday dinner. Do you and your partner carry more formal clothes with you?"

Clint looked down at his plaid cotton work shirt, leather vest and denim jeans. "I reckon I could come up with something cleaner, but not much more formal. You never know about Sam. For all I know he could have a full set of evening clothes in that saddlebag of his and I'd never know it. He went to college back east, y'know."

"Did he now? He hides it well."

To her eternal displeasure, when Prudence pulled the rags out of her hair, instead of unrolling beautifully formed sausage curls, her hair fell in thick waves that rebelliously had a life of their own. Grumbling in frustration, Prudence brushed her hair away from her face, parted it down the middle, braided the two halves and wound them into a coronet. While it was fancier than usual, it was far from soft. For some reason, Prudence had an overwhelming urge to be softly feminine this evening. She supposed it was because she would be competing for the spotlight with her vividly beautiful friend.

There was nothing to do about it except get dressed and go.

"He probably won't notice me, anyway."

Sam grumbled as he tried for the third time to tie his bow tie around his starched collar. The primary disadvantage of having a full beard, he mused, was it tended to get in the way when he was buttoning on a collar and tying a tie. The simplest solution would be to shave it off, or at least trim it.

"But then," Sam mumbled, "folks would know for certain what a dogface I am."

Finally, Sam managed to get the tie tied as he wanted it. He tucked his shirttails into his trousers, pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and donned his vest, buttoning it and spanning his watch and chain across his middle. Brushing off the frock coat that had been hanging up for two days, he pushed his arms into the silk-lined sleeves and shot his cuffs. Yanking a handkerchief from his back pocket, Sam removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses before putting them back on.

Looking again into the mirror, Sam scowled at his image.

It was hopeless. No matter how hard he might try, he would never be Clint Randolph. He would forever be the invisible man.

"They probably won't notice me, regardless."

Leaving off his hat, Sam Blake raked frustrated fingers through his thick curls and stepped into the late afternoon sunshine to walk the short distance from the bunkhouse to the main house for the Sunday Dinner he had been dreading for days.

Lost in thought, Sam failed to notice the black buggy pulled by the nondescript brown gelding until it was almost upon him.

"Whoa!" cried a female voice as the buggy ground to a stop. Surprisingly quickly for a big man, Sam sprang out of the way.

"You ought to be more careful to watch where you're crossing," said the woman. "A buggy can't stop on a dime."

"Sorry, Ma'am," he mumbled. "May I help you down?"

The woman pulled the brake. "No, thank you," she began curtly, then added, more politely, "Actually I would appreciate it very much if you would."

Sam stepped around to the left side of the buggy and held up his arms to give the woman a place to lean. She lifted the dark pink skirt of her gown, revealing black high button shoes and some ruffled white petticoat, and stepped down from the buggy.

"Thank you..." she began when she looked up into the face of the man she had nearly run over.

Prudence Hofheinz looked at the most compelling face she had ever seen. Though his cheeks and jaw were shrouded by a thick black beard, there was a look of amazing strength. Behind round wire frames were dark brown eyes that showed extreme intelligence coupled with melancholy. A full lower lip of a broad, sensuous mouth was visible -- a mouth that made Prudence's own tingle.

The man was huge. Prudence estimated his height at six feet five or so. He had shoulders so impossibly broad as to be described as massive. He looked as strong as an ox. Surprisingly, he was wearing a pristine white shirt with a clean, starched, collar, a black silk bow tie and a frock-coated black broadcloth suit that fit his large frame perfectly. He black, ribbed faille vest was cut to make him look powerful rather than portly and was spanned by a gold watch chain on which hung a small charm. Prudence's eyes widened to see that the charm was a Phi Beta Kappa key. The man had not only been to college, he had excelled beyond the norm.

Prudence felt a wave of heat diffuse through her. Though the man was far from handsome, there was character in his face that made her unable to look away. She felt a strange aching in her most private zones at the sight of this mammoth in men's clothing. She found herself wondering what he hid behind the fancy, well-made suit and began to blush at the random wantonness of her thoughts.

Sam looked down at the woman he had just assisted. She was taller than average; tall enough that he didn't feel like he towered over her. She had big brown eyes that dominated a face with the clearest flawless skin. A thick brush of lashes surrounded the beautiful eyes; eyes that showed intelligence and a melancholy Sam knew well. Her nose was straight and her mouth full and a little bit too wide for classic beauty, yet eminently kissable. There was a sturdiness to her full figure that made her look like she would not blow over in the slightest breeze or crush beneath the strength of a man.

Sam found his thoughts wandering to what it might be like to kiss this woman, to explore the lushness others might just call plumpness and he began to feel an uncomfortable tightness in his trousers.

Sam had been sure he had completely suppressed this sort of feeling because of its futility, yet as he looked at the woman standing in front of him, long buried desires began to overwhelm him. Because of it, he reacted with anger, more at himself than at her.

"What are you starting at?" he growled.

For a moment, Prudence looked away. It was the same as always. Whenever she met an even remotely attractive man, he either ignored her or rejected her. "I'm sorry. It's just that..." She stopped as a deep blush reddened her face.

"What is it?"

No guts, no glory, girl. You've got nothing to lose. "It's just that...well, you have the most amazing eyes I've ever seen."

No way was Sam prepared for that. "What?"

"I'm sorry. That was unseemly of me. I'm quite certain you've heard that before."

No, never.

Prudence reached her hand up near his bearded cheek. "Would you mind taking off your specs for a minute?"

Sam felt a strange heat as her hand fluttered near his face. The urge to rest his cheek against her hand was overwhelming. Instead, he reached up and unhooked the curved earpiece from one ear and pulled his glasses off, holding them in one hand.

Prudence looked deeply into those dark brown orbs. She felt her breathing grow shallow at the sheer beauty of his thick-lashed eyes -- despite the evident sadness in their depths. This man had also known disappointment in his life.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely as Sam replaced the lenses.

For a moment they stood in silence, gazing into each other's eyes. Had they not been so accustomed to indifferent responses from the opposite sex, perhaps both of them would have reacted more forcefully.

Max's whickering in the traces broke their concentration.

"I'm sorry," they said in unison.

"What's your name," he asked.

"Prudence," she replied balefully. "Prudence Hofheinz. I'm Arabella Morgan's best friend. And you must be Clint Randolph, the range detective and Western Hero."

He laughed bitterly. "Afraid not, Miss Hofheinz. My name is Sam Blake -- and I guess you could say I'm the hero's best friend."

Chapter 3

"The hero's best friend," Prudence repeated, then smiled. "That's funny."

Her smile knocked him out. This Miss Hofheinz might not be a classic beauty, but when she smiled her soft, oval face was heartstopping, at least to Sam Blake.

"I suppose it is -- if it wasn't me who had the misfortune to be thought of that way."

"I guess every man secretly wants to be the hero himself. Are you a range detective also?"

"I am."

Gently, she placed her hand on his arm. "It takes a special kind of courage to do a job and watch others get the glory."

If she could have looked through a window into his soul, she had read Sam's deepest thoughts. His heart began to thump so hard he feared it might be visible even through his clothing. God curse him for having his emotions barely beneath the surface! To be calm and collected inside like Clint was.

"You sound as if you understand what that's like."

Prudence nodded. "I've been a teacher for nine years. When your students succeed, it's because they're brilliant. When they fail, it's because you're a terrible teacher. Sometimes you get so frustrated you want to shout..."

"Look at me. I'm the one who made it possible," Sam finished for her.

Prudence smiled again. "You understand!"

"Are you two going to stand out there in the dust all afternoon or are you coming in to dinner?" Arabella's voice reverberated in their ears, interrupting the emotional and spiritual link that was beginning to build between these two lonely people.

Prudence backed away from Sam a couple of steps and nervously smoothed her dark pink skirts. Lifting them with her hands, she walked to the porch and stepped up and into the house.

"I see you've met Mr. Blake," Arabella stated when the three of them were inside the house. "I'd like you to meet Clint Randolph, the range detective the Association hired to get the Derry Gang. This is my very best friend in the world, Miss Prudence Hofheinz."

Prudence looked up at Randolph. Absently, she held out her hand briefly and shook Clint's automatically. "Please to meet you. You're Mr. Blake's associate?"

Clint glanced at Sam. He immediately noticed his friend was distracted. He looked at the woman he was meeting. She was not much to look at. He would never have pegged this type of woman to be friends with the beautiful Arabella, but then, who was he to judge? Far more interesting was the strange look on Sam's face. The man looked positively poleaxed!

Sunday dinner was a blur. Ethan Morgan kept talking about the Derry Gang and trying to draw Clint into serious conversation about it. He kept touching on areas Clint knew were more Sam's area of expertise, but Sam was being singularly uncommunicative. Time and again the big man's glance was directed at the brunette schoolmarm.

It couldn't be true, Clint thought to himself. Sam had never shown the slightest interest in a woman since he'd returned from college twelve years before. He had said it was a waste of his time to wish for things that could never be. Now, he seemed to be making calf eyes at this woman who had to be thirty if she was a day.

"Mr. Randolph, are you listening to me?" Ethan Morgan's voice interrupted Clint's thoughts.

Clint nodded. "I'm sorry. I was reminded of something."

"What did your tour of my property this morning tell you?"

"Well, um..." Clint waffled, "we were looking for a pattern -- um..."

"A pattern?"

Clint shrugged. Being the façade of the partnership was not always easy. Sam was always better at coming up with the explanations. "Maybe I should let Mr. Blake explain it. Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam answered absently. He was so busy watching Prudence slide her food around her plate that he was not paying any attention to the conversation.

Ethan Morgan rolled his eyes. The "huh" coming from the distracted Sam sounded almost moronic.

"Mr. Randolph, I don't care if your associate is a Harvard graduate..."

"University of Pennsylvania," Sam responded automatically now that he was back at full attention, "class of '72."

Prudence looked up. The University of Pennsylvania was a top university, every bit as quality as Harvard. A Penn Phi Beta Kappa was a smart man indeed! What other secrets were hidden behind this man's full beard and wild hair.

"That's beside the point, Mr. Randolph. I hired you to do this job and I expect answers from you."

Clint expelled some air before he spoke again. He glanced surreptitiously at Sam periodically for approval as he proceeded. "We -- that is -- I believe that in order to escape detection, the Derry gang is actually making strikes close to their hideout rather than travel distances where their movements might be spotted and reported. This morning with Miss Morgan's assistance we mapped the locations of the strikes to determine a pattern. We're not..." Clint cringed at the disapproval in his employer's face at the plural pronoun, "I'm not certain yet what those patterns are. It will take a little more exploration. We'll need to speak to your hands about what they've found and where."

"Mr. Morgan," Sam interrupted, "the kind of men who usually ride with scum like Jack Derry aren't the kind who can keep their mouths shut about their activities. Yet asking around town revealed nobody who has seen or heard anyone identified as belonging to the Derry Gang bragging about the vandalism or thefts. Is it possible the Derry Gang is here as a decoy to camouflage some else's work?"

If looks could kill, Sam Blake would have been dead right there. "Mr. Blake, my daughter may have been softhearted enough to invite you to share dinner at our table, but I am not interested in your opinions. In future, Arabella, Mr. Randolph's associate can eat in the bunkhouse with the rest of the hands."

"Father!" Arabella protested.

The color draining from his cheeks, Sam threw his napkin on the table and rose to his mountainous height. "Think nothing of it, Miss Morgan. I've sort of lost my appetite after all. Good night, Miss Morgan, Mr. Morgan, Miss Hofheinz. Clint, if you want me, I reckon I'll be around." Sam strode out of the dining room and out of the house, his boot heels clicking on the wooden floor.

Prudence felt the pain Mr. Morgan's insult had caused. Putting down her own napkin, she made a show of reaching for the brooch watch she wore pinned to her bodice. "Oh, dear," she said, not all that convincingly, "has it become so late already? Please forgive me, Arabella, but I must get home before dark. I do have school in the morning. Mr. Morgan. Mr. Randolph. I'll talk to you soon, Arabella." Lifting her skirts, Prudence nearly ran out of the house.

Clint rose. "Excuse me. I'm in sudden need of a cigarette." He strode toward the stairs and his room.

"Father, that was cruel. Mr. Randolph and Mr. Blake are partners. They always work together. It would serve you and the Association right if they resigned and left you to the tender mercies of the rustlers."

Morgan rose and approached his daughter. Without warning he slapped her hard across the face. "Don't you sass me, girl. Just because you went to that fancy New York women's college doesn't mean you can talk back to me. You'll tell Consuelo to clean up in here, then take yourself to your room."

Arabella wanted to rub her reddening cheek, but instead she rose and ran into the kitchen.

"Mr. Blake, Mr. Blake," Prudence called after the retreating form of the large man as she ran after him.

Sam turned. Running after his long strides in a corset had pinked Prudence's cheeks, making her look like a flower in bloom.

Prudence stopped a few feet from him.

"Mr. Blake, I'm so sorry you were treated that way. It was cruel."

Sam kicked at the dirt. "I appreciate the sentiment, Miss Hofheinz, but it's things like that that tell me to get out of this business."

"I wonder what a brilliant man like you is doing playing second fiddle to a empty- headed cowboy like Mr. Randolph."

Sam laughed bitterly. "Maybe Clint is not so empty-headed as you think and I'm not so brilliant."

Prudence slung her arms akimbo. "Mr. Morgan might not recognize a Phi Beta Kappa key, Mr. Blake, but I do. A man who earns that honor at a school like Pennsylvania is brilliant by definition."

"Miss Hofheinz, why did you follow me out here?"

"Well," Prudence began, looking at her feet, embarrassed by her hopeless attraction to this large but fragile man, "I thought Mr. Morgan was wrong and I wanted to tell you so. Besides, I really have to be getting home or I'll be traveling alone on the rode after dark."

Sam grabbed her arm sharply. The electric jolt pulsed through both of them. "Weren't you listening. There is a gang of marauders, whether the Derry Gang or someone else, committing all kinds of malicious mischief. How can you travel alone on these roads knowing that?"

Prudence looked down at the big, strong, tanned hand that held her so firmly, yet so gently. In a quiet voice, she replied," Mr. Blake, if I waited around for an escort every time I needed to get anywhere, I would spend my entire life bounded by the schoolhouse and my cabin. If I die, I die."

"There are worse things than death for a beautiful woman."

"Perhaps," Prudence said bitterly, "but then, not being beautiful, I doubt I would be particularly interesting to the average marauder."

Sam heard her bitterness. It was kindred to his own. "Miss Hofheinz, if you'd wait a few minutes for me to saddle my horse and strap on my gun belt, I'd be honored to escort you home."

Prudence knew she should decline, but she didn't want to. So few men had ever shown her even a moment's concern.

"I'd be honored to have you do that," she said with a smile.

A crooked grin crossed his face even his brushy mustache and beard couldn't conceal.

"I'll only be a minute," he said and nearly sprinted towards the barn.

Prudence stood watching the direction he had gone for a few moments when Clint Randolph walked up.

"Have you seen Sam?"

"He's gone to the barn to get his horse."

Clint thanked her and trotted off after his partner. Prudence went over to her buggy, unhitched the reins and waited.

Sam was nearly finished saddling his mount when Clint found him in the barn.

"Sam..."

Without looking in his direction, Sam muttered, "there he is, my best friend."

"Where are you going?"

Sam yanked at the cinch on his saddle and took the horse by the reins. "It's none of your business where I go, but I'm escorting Miss Hofheinz home. I may take a room for the night in Rincon so I can get to the bank and telegraph office early. I'll feel better when my money's safely on its way to my bank."

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened."

Sam turned to face his friend. "Clint, you're always sorry. It's always the same. You never support me in front of others, then you come out and try to make it up to me later." He sighed. "I'm so tired, Clint. Bearing this gets harder and harder."

"Do you want me to tell Morgan we quit? I'll do it, you know."

"For God's sake, Clint! Where would that leave you? Stuck in Rincon with only the money in your saddlebags and a black mark against your reputation. No, we'll finish this job and then I'm through, but I suggest you find a way to save this money. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to escort the lady home."

Sam led his horse out of the barn and hitched it temporarily on a hitching post by the bunkhouse door. He walked in and found the bed he had staked out. He strapped on his gun belt, threw the saddlebag over his shoulder, pushed on his hat and strode out without a word.

When he got back to the house leading his mount, Prudence was already sitting in her buggy, her hat pinned on her head and whip in hand. Quickly, Sam tied the horse to the buggy and began to swing himself onto the seat. The buggy groaned slightly under the unaccustomed weight.

"You're not riding alongside?"

"If you don't mind, I'll drive you home and ride back."

"No, I don't mind at all."

Sam sat to her right in order to leave his gun handy. For two large people the fit was snug. Prudence could not help being aware of the length of well-muscled leg running hip to knee with hers as well as the warmth that spread through her body at his nearness. She handed over the reins and their hands lingered just a moment longer than the transfer took. Prudence's hands were far from dainty, yet they were dwarfed by Sam's leather-hardened, ham-sized mitts. Sam declined the buggy whip and got Max started with just a gentle pull on the reins. The buggy took off with Sam's dun trotting alongside.

They sat in companionable silence, neither knowing quite what to say.

Prudence used the opportunity to examine this giant, decidedly unusual man. Other than the pure physical mass of him, at first, Prudence could not put her finger on the difference. It was then that she realized that he smelled different from other men of her acquaintance.

"Mr. Blake," she began tentatively, "you don't smoke, do you?"

Sam's eyes widened in surprise at the question. "No, not anymore. Why do you ask?"

Prudence blushed unexpectedly. "Most of the men I've met carry certain odors. Leather, tobacco smoke, sweat, bay rum, horse...Oh God, I'm not doing this right!" Well, girl, in for a penny, in for a pound. "You smell -- I don't know -- clean somehow."

For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Then, unexpectedly, Sam threw back his head and laughed.

Prudence was confused. She folded her arms across her chest. "What's so funny?"

Still laughing, Sam reached in his back pocket for his handkerchief, removed his glasses and wiped the tears from his eyes, then wiped the lenses and replaced the glasses, all with one hand since the other was on the reins. "I'm sorry, Miss Hofheinz, it's just...it's just that...well, when a man want to make an impression on a lady, I suppose that clean is not exactly the description he wants to hear."

"I didn't mean to insult you, Mr. Blake."

"You didn't. But please, call me Sam."

Prudence's face fell. "But that would mean you would have to call me Prudence."

Sam touched her lightly on the arm. "You don't like your name, do you?" he asked gently.

"No. When you have a name like Prudence, people expect you to be virtuous and untouchable. Can you imagine a man saying 'Prudence, I love you?' It sounds absurd!"

It didn't sound absurd to Sam.

"Why don't I call you Pru," Sam said with a grin, "it doesn't sound quite so virtuous."

Prudence smiled. "I'd like that, Sam."

For a while they drove on, then Sam asked, "Where are you from originally?"

"Chicago. My father was a butcher there. My mother died when I was five. I don't remember her very well and any photographs we had of her were lost in '71 when the city burned."

"The Great Fire. That must have been frightening."

Pru nodded. "Terrifying. Fortunately, I was sixteen, so I handled it better than some of the children in my neighborhood, but my Dad and I escaped with the clothes on our backs and a couple of blankets. If it weren't that Dad thought ahead about such things and had fire insurance, we would have been ruined. He was back in business in a tent within a week. That year between the fire and the time I left for school was exciting in Chicago. It's when I became interested in architecture. There was so much new building going on. It was as if the city fathers decided to rebuild the city on a logical, artistic plan instead of the haphazard way most cities spring up. I would have sold my soul to become an architect."

"Could your father not afford to send you after the fire?"

Pru shook her head. "No, it wasn't that. Dad could afford it. I couldn't find an architecture school anywhere that would take me."

"Because you're a woman."

"Exactly. It took a lot of soul searching to finally give up and apply to teaching college." She sighed. "So now I'm a small town schoolteacher who still drafts architectural drawings to fill my nights. Recently I've taken to designing interiors rather than buildings."

"Interiors?"

"Yes. I'll look at an existing house or store in town and try to speculate on what can be done to use the existing area more effectively or more beautifully. Most people's houses and stores are a hodgepodge without any kind of unifying plan, and everything is so cluttered with knickknacks."

Sam thought about the fine houses he had seen in his life and realized she was right. For himself, he lived in a boarding house with little except a few books, his clothes and his guns. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the finer things in life; it was just that he was gone so often it never made sense to live more opulently. "What do you see instead?"

Excitement began to fill Pru's voice. "Have you ever seen Shaker furniture? Simple, clean lines, functional, little wasted space or ornamentation. Beautiful in its simplicity. I'm not advocating everyone live quite that simply, but I like the feeling of lots of space and light with limited things to clean and collect dust." Her face filled with light and her hands gestured freely as she described her dreams. "I also like comfortable things. Soft mattresses and sofa cushions, parlors where a family can relax and be comfortable both with their surroundings and each other. One of these days wealthy people won't flaunt their wealth by how cluttered and ostentatious their surroundings, but by how well their furniture is made, by the most modern conveniences -- telephones, indoor plumbing, even electric light in the house. Can you imagine how wonderful this world can be if we let our imaginations fly free?"

"The way you describe it, I can almost see it," Sam responded warmly. "Maybe in this new, modern world you see, being a woman won't stop you from doing what you want to do."

"Do you think so?" Pru asked as she saw the sparkle in the glass-shielded eyes, but then she looked away. "It's useless to hope. The most likely to happen is I will live and die a spinster schoolteacher, unmourned and forgotten. You know -- I hate teaching. But what can I do? I can't go home to my father. He'd take me in, I'm sure, but he has a new wife now."

"You could marry."

Prudence laughed bitterly. "I'm thirty years old. I don't want to get married because someone needs a housekeeper or a stepmother for his existing children. I'd only want to marry if I met a man who wanted me for me, someone capable of loving me whom I could love in return. But men like that fall in love with women like Arabella Morgan, not with women like Prudence Hofheinz."

They drove along the road in the waning afternoon until the structures of Rincon could be seen. On the outskirts of the town they came to a large picket fence area in which there were three detached structures. One was a large, rectangular building with a tile roof and a bell tower. The second was a much smaller wooden cabin with a stone chimney and a porch in front. The third was a small shed. Prudence identified this as the school grounds and the cabin as her house. Sam directed the buggy to the shed, which served as the stable, and slowed it until it came to a stop before the door. Handing the reins to Pru, Sam climbed down and unlatched the door. Prudence drove the buggy inside as Sam followed her in on foot. He untied his horse, leaving it to stand while he helped Prudence to unhitch Max.

Standing near him, Prudence again became aware of how big this man actually was, but instead of being intimidated, she was fascinated. A man like this could envelop a woman and make her feel protected. She wondered if his arms were as strong and secure as they appeared in the well-made black frock coat. Prudence wanted to touch Sam's hair and beard. Were they coarse or soft? She had occasionally seen men undressed from the waist up. It was difficult to live in a rural area and not have observed ranch hands working with their shirts off. Pru wondered what this man's chest might look like. He was not one of those whipcord lean, narrow-waisted, spare cowboys. Was his chest smooth, or did he have body hair?

Prudence blushed at the wantonness of her thoughts. She had no right to speculate about this man. And yet -- she sensed the loneliness in him, saw the isolation. Perhaps they had both been lonely too long.

Pru wanted to take a chance. It might be the biggest chance she would have to be humiliated by his rejection, but if he did not reject her, he would be gone when the job he and his partner had been hired to do was done, so what would be the harm to her reputation?

The biggest problem was he was most likely to say no.

Then again, the worst thing was that he might say no. Prudence needed the most courage she had displayed since the Great Chicago Fire.

"Sam," she said warily," would you like to come in and sit a while?"

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