Cynthia was just getting ready for yet another trip to the Taylors' when the butler told her there was a young lady at the door, asking for her. Intrigued, Cynthia went down.

It was Josie. She was carrying a carpetbag and she looked a little bedraggled. "Oh, Aunt Cynthia," she said, choking back tears. "Can you help me?"

Cynthia opened her arms. "Oh, my dear girl," she said. "Of course I can. Come in."

She had stayed at her grandparents' house in San Francisco many times. But this time she could not sleep in that house. The first night wasn't such a surprise: they got in late, past midnight, and she was still riding on the stream of anger that had carried her away in the first place. Her anger fizzled out while she tossed under the pink satin canopy.

Grandmother took her shopping that day and they bought all sorts of things, dresses, hats, shoes, coats; whatever Josie wanted. She picked out a great many things but the picking didn't have any savor to it; they were mounds of beautiful things that didn't move her in the least, although Grandmother enjoyed it.

That night they all went out to dinner at the St. Mark's, a special treat usually saved for her last night in town. She had a big steak and two desserts while her grandparents looked on with amusement. She was stuffed but the food had been strangely tasteless.

She lay in bed rigid that night. She thought perhaps that tossing and turning the night before had been what kept her awake, and if she lay very still, tonight she would fall asleep. She was so tired. But that didn't work very well, either.

She was beginning to wonder, too, if she had been wrong. Now that she wasn't so angry, she remembered that Papa had yelled at her before, just like he had the day of the fire. And he'd always yelled at her for the same reason, because she'd done something he thought was dangerous. What she was doing-riding Laurie, taking care of the yearlings-had seemed perfectly reasonable to Josie at the time, and she still thought she'd done the right thing. But...she had promised never to ride Laurie alone, and she'd promised to stay near the house. She thought those promises didn't hold when there was a fire. But perhaps Papa thought she should have kept those promises.

Oh, no, she thought: what if she'd been wrong about everything? What if Papa didn't really want her to go? What if all her worrying about Mrs. Gaines was needless? And it must be. Mrs. Gaines was married. Papa wouldn't-well, whatever you called it when you courted a lady who was already married.

And she had left without saying good-bye. Oh, she'd said good-bye, but she'd said it in such a nasty way that she cringed at the memory. And she'd left without a hug or a kiss. She'd never done that before. She had never been very angry with Papa before, she'd never felt so far away from home before.

It was so noisy here. Suddenly she hated the city. The noise hadn't kept her awake before, but now she was homesick for the quiet nights on the ranch, with nothing coming through the open windows but crickets and the distant stampings and whinnying of the horses in the barn. To know that Nana and Papa were just down the hall and there was nothing in her night-time world that they couldn't put right.

The next day she and Grandmother did some more shopping-it took an awful lot of clothes to live in San Francisco, she realized. They had lunch out, with lovely lime sorbet for dessert. Then Grandmother took Josie to see her new school. The term had already started, but Josie wouldn't start until next week. There were so many girls! And they all seemed so much older, and elegant, with their hair curled and in long dresses. Josie's throat closed over in fear. She could not go there. Not with so many older girls. And no Laurie to ride after school...

That night she asked to be excused from dinner. Her grandparents looked at her indulgently and nodded: too much excitement. Wasn't life in San Francisco wonderful? She nodded, for she couldn't bring herself to either tell the truth or lie.

She actually dozed a little. When she woke it was dark, and she was terribly hungry. There was a rope by the bed that she was supposed to pull if she needed anything. But she was a little afraid of doing that. At home they just had Juanita and Esteban, but here there were so many servants she couldn't keep them all straight. And they were all chilly and correct and always called her "Miss," but without a name after it. She was afraid of asking for something as silly as a sandwich. And it was late. Surely even servants went to bed.

She sat, indecisive, for a few minutes. Then hunger got the better of her. At home she would just go to the kitchen herself. Surely that would be all right here, too.

The hallway was dark. It was past ten o'clock. Her grandparents, her grandmother especially, went to bed early if they were home. Josie crept down the stairs very carefully, not wanting to wake anyone.

Downstairs she hesitated. She wasn't quite sure how to find the kitchen. She started down a hallway and realized it was the wrong one, for here was Grandfather's study. The door was partway open, and she heard voices.

She recognized her grandfather's voice, but she didn't know the other one. She was just about to turn around and go back to her room, or try again to find the kitchen. Then a phrase caught her attention: it was "Tanner dam." She struggled with her conscience. How many times had Papa told her not to eavesdrop? And when had she heard anything eavesdropping that hadn't made her unhappy? But it was the sound of that unfamiliar voice. It was so cold. It froze her outside the door, unable to move.

"So they released the water," the cold voice said. "Rather amusing. They got their water but too late to do any good. Well, not that I cared. But, my good friend, I am curious about when the ruling about the dam will be issued."

"Soon," Grandfather said. "Soon. Of course their opening the spillways and letting all that water go without incident does make the safety argument look a little shaky."

"The argument is specious and you always knew it, Taylor. Unfortunately it was the best option I had." There was a pause. "I certainly don't hope you're thinking of changing your mind, your honor." Those last words were said with a heavy sarcasm. "It's a touch late for you to be developing scruples."

"I haven't changed my mind," but to Josie her grandfather sounded a little uncertain.

"Good. Because you certainly wouldn't want to double cross me, Taylor."

Grandfather said, "I don't imagine it's a matter you want made public."

"I don't imagine it's a matter you want public, either. A good many people have already put the pieces together on this one, Taylor. A wrong word at the wrong time and you could find yourself under investigation."

"I'm not going to double cross you. I just want to wait a few more days. Let the furor over the dam die down."

The other man laughed; it was the nastiest sound Josie had ever heard. "And no doubt you want your son-in-law to suffer a little longer, thinking he might get his dam if not his daughter."

That's me, Josie realized. Me and Papa. What does he mean?

"You know," the voice continued, "I might have been your son-in-law. I met your daughter at the Stanfords' the spring before she married. We might have gotten on but she slapped me for being impertinent." He laughed. "Perhaps you would have preferred me for a son-in-law."

Her grandfather said: "Tell me, Mark. Did you send your wife down to Stockton deliberately? Was that always part of your plan?"

"Rabbiting down to Stockton was Maria's own idea. I wish I could take credit it for it, because it's worked out so well for both of us."

"Will you divorce her?"

"I think I just might. She was always such a passive little creature that I didn't really have to worry about controlling her property. But she's showing surprising signs of resistance. I may have to divorce her to make sure I get control."

"It'll ruin your political career."

"Will it? I'm not so sure. Rumor has me tragically wronged. And you'd be surprised at who's getting divorced these days and not being cut dead. Mrs. Vanderbilt, who is now Mrs. Belmont, no less. But I'm not so interested in politics these days. So divorce may be my best option." There was that unpleasant laugh. "Your daughter was quite a looker in her day. I daresay your granddaughter will be the same. In six or seven years I should be in the market for a second wife. Shall we cement our partnership that way, judge?"

Josie felt sick. Her grandfather's voice sounded strained. "What nonsense. Josie is a child. But-are you serious? About leaving politics?"

"Quite. This diversion is going to make me a very wealthy man. Oh, don't look so disappointed, Augustus. I can probably better further your ambitions from behind the scenes than I can as a senator, or even a governor. The Morgans and the Astors of this world don't hold any office, but everyone seeks their opinion in favor. I'll be in that class shortly."

"People will know how you did it."

"I daresay they'll figure it out. But what of it? If the fortune is large enough its origins disappear quickly enough. My good man, petty larceny is a crime; theft on a grand scale is genius. So I'll ask you again: when do I get my ruling? This whole scheme has played to your advantage, judge. You managed to put your son-in-law in bad odor down home and you managed to steal away your granddaughter. Now, when do I get my reward?"

"Next week, Gaines. Is that good enough for you?"

Josie backed away from the door. She had heard enough; she had heard far too much. Grandfather had been involved in trying to take away the dam. And he'd done it because of her, and because he hated Papa. Because of her. So much trouble because of her. She wished she could close her eyes and open them and find herself at home right now. She had never wanted to get away from a place so much as she wanted to get away from her Grandfather's house.

Still, caution didn't desert her. She crept away carefully, her heart pounding. When a stair creaked she froze, fearful that they'd hear her and find her. But nobody came after her.

A streetlight gave a little light in her room. She packed her bag carefully. She took only the things she'd brought, not wanting any of the lovely things Grandmother had bought the last few days. She left behind the little traveling case they'd given her for her birthday.

When the first streaks of dawn appeared, she crept back down the stairs. She had a little trouble with the lock on the door, but eventually she got it open and closed it carefully behind her. She didn't have any money for a cab, and she didn't know her way around San Francisco well. And she was afraid to ask for help. Grandmother had always said, ask a policeman. But today she felt suspicious and fearful and very alone. Grandfather was a judge; Mr. Gaines was a senator. Perhaps a policeman would just send her back to her grandparents' house.

So she walked for a very long time, her bag banging against her knees and her stomach very empty, making many wrong turns, until she finally found herself in a familiar street. She was overwhelmed with relief. When she saw Aunt Cynthia at the door the tears that had been just behind her eyes for days finally got loose. She knew Aunt Cynthia would make sure that she got home.

Jarrod's appointment with Charles Iboli was for nine o'clock at Iboli's home. He arrived a few minutes early and was shown in at nine exactly.

Iboli was younger than he expected, probably not yet thirty. But he was a gracious young man with gentle, polished manners. When Jarrod addressed him as Don, Iboli laughed. "Please, my friends call me Charlie. My father still held to the old ways, but I don't. Hard to believe we've not met. Will you take coffee? I hope you don't think it's too early for a cigar. My wife finds my habit of a post-breakfast cigar disgusting, but I believe in starting off the day right. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Barkley?"

Jarrod took the coffee but passed on the cigar. "It's about a property belonging to your family land trust. A property between here and Stockton."

Iboli smiled. "You'll need to be a little more specific, as we own a good deal of property that could be described as 'between here and Stockton.'"

Jarrod handed him a description and a rough map. Iboli looked it over and then shook his head. "I remember this tract well. A Stockton group contacted us-ten years ago, perhaps? My father was still alive. In regards to your dam. My father passed the information on to my great-uncle. But I'm surprised the same mistake has been made again."

"Mistake?" Jarrod asked, suddenly alert.

"About the ownership of this property. It passed out of the trust many years ago-more than thirty years ago, at least."

"But there's no deed recorded."

"Interesting. We had wondered when the Stockton people contacted us all those years ago. It was my great-aunt's marriage portion." Iboli smiled. "She was the youngest child of my great-grandfather and rather his pet, I believe. The tract was not particularly valuable at the time, though it was as close to her husband's property as anything my great-grandfather had to give. But she was the only child directly given a portion."

"Her husband?" Jarrod asked; but he knew the answer.

"Alfredo Montero, of course. You must know him, for I believe he is a neighbor of yours in Stockton. The property was not particularly valuable at the time of the marriage. I'm not sure it's particularly valuable today. Alfredo had an opportunity to develop it when the dam was built. But by then he was getting on in years and had little interest in taking on any new project. And of course his only child was a girl. And his son-in-law is not much interested in land, either."

"I see," Jarrod said, and he did. The ranch property was entailed, but the old Iboli property would not be. Gaines would be free to develop the property and sell it as he pleased. Even freer once Maria was divorced and disgraced and whatever property she was given in the divorce settlement under the control of a trustee likely favorable to Mark. The land was dry and relatively useless as it was. But the tract was huge, it was level and that much closer to San Francisco. With the water from the Tanner dam...My God, Jarrod thought. What would that land be worth in ten years? Twenty?

And the judge, Jarrod wondered. What exactly did the judge know? Was it possible that he was caught, like the rest of them, in a devious maneuver by Gaines? Or had he known all along, and connived at the swindling of an innocent woman-hell, the swindling of a whole community?

Jarrod's face had hardened while these thoughts passed through his mind. Iboli, distressed, said, "I'm sorry to have upset you so."

"It's not your fault at all," Jarrod said hastily.

Iboli leaned back. "But perhaps it is my cousin's husband," he said neutrally.

"I take it you're not fond of Gaines."

"I am not. Nor was my father. Alfredo was quite taken with him, but Alfredo was very much on his dignity, always. My father was more sensible. I suppose you know that my mother is from-well, a not very exalted family, shall we say. Alfredo thought my father had disgraced the family. Though," Iboli continued coldly, "the Iboli were alcalde in Californio long before the Monteros set foot in a west-bound boat. My father always thought Alfredo's dignity would lead him astray." Iboli put down his cigar. "You must forgive me. This is a subject which causes me to forget my manners."

Jarrod found a small smile. "We'll treat this as a confidential conversation." Jarrod sighed. "Do you have any contact with Maria?"

"Very little. She has been very much in Gaines's orbit since her marriage. And, as I said, there was some coolness between my father and hers. Why?"

"I have the feeling," Jarrod said slowly, "that Maria Gaines is going to need all the friends she can get."

Iboli said, "Whatever trouble there was between our fathers is not between us. Please, if you have the opportunity, tell Maria that her family has not forgotten her."

"I will," Jarrod said. "And thank you."

Jarrod walked toward his office quickly, angry with himself. A visit to Iboli months ago would have put him on the right track right away. Gaines. Maria. Heath. What a web. If Gaines had done this himself...Worse, what if he hadn't?

And, Jarrod thought, how on earth was he ever going to prove any of this? It made perfect sense, but that wasn't enough ammunition to stop either Gaines or the judge. Jarrod would just look like a bad loser.

Springer? Jarrod had often thought Nat Springer bent every rule and fought with every weapon at hand. But outright fraud on the court? Even Springer wouldn't go that far. Jarrod remembered Cynthia's words: but somebody is going that far. Well, Springer couldn't be ruled out. But Springer might be a weak link. If Jarrod got a judge to listen...

Jarrod stopped in the street. A judge? What judge would listen to him without more proof? Just a few months ago Taylor had been on California's highest bench; now he was the highest judge in the whole western region. Virtually every judge in the state had been Taylor's colleague at some point. If Jarrod had had a hard time accepting Taylor's involvement, what would it take to convince a judge?

Proof, he thought. I need proof. Where will I find it?

Cynthia got Josie into the parlor and ordered tea and plenty of food; the poor girl looked famished. Cynthia asked, "Josie, how on earth did you get here? Aren't your grandparents with you?"

"No," Josie said. "I walked."

"You walked? Your grandparents let you walk here by yourself? Don't they even have the decency to take you back to Stockton themselves?"

"Take me back?"

"To you see your father. I know they're-" Seeing Josie's puzzled look, Cynthia said, "Josie, aren't you here because of your father?"

"Because of Papa? What's wrong?"

"Your father's sick with the fever again. I just assumed that's why you're here."

"Papa's sick?" Josie cried. She grabbed for her coat. "Oh, Aunt Cynthia, you have to take me home, right now."

"Sit down, dear. Josie, there's not a train until noon. We'll be on it, I promise. Don't look so worried, darling. Your father's sick now but he'll be fine as soon as you're home safely." Cynthia felt a little guilty at that. She'd had another wire this morning. Both Victoria and Merar were worried. But Josie was already so upset. And, Cynthia thought, he really will be better when we get there. She pulled Josie back down and patted her hand. "Good, here's the tea. You look as if you need a good meal. My mother always says there's nothing so bad that a cup of tea won't make it seem better. No, Josie, eat a little of that toast before you try and tell me what's going on."

Josie obediently ate the toast and drank a little of the weak cup of tea Cynthia had made for her. "Nobody told me Papa was sick," she said. "Oh, Aunt Cynthia, what will he think? That I didn't come right home? Did Grandmother know?"

Cynthia said diplomatically, "Perhaps the telegram went astray. Josie, don't worry. Your papa will understand. Now tell me what happened. You must have been awfully upset to walk here by yourself. I assume your grandparents don't know where you are."

"You won't tell them, will you?" Josie was terribly anxious; the tea cup rattled in its saucer. "Please tell me you won't make me go back."

"Of course you're not going back, dear. But your grandparents will be worried about you. If they ask, I suppose I should tell them you're here."

"No!" Josie snapped. "No, you mustn't. He might make me go back. Aunt Cynthia, please."

"Josie...all right. Don't worry, darling, no one will take you anywhere. I promise. Now what has upset you so? You must tell me. It will all seem much better after you've told someone."

Josie told her story haltingly, roughly brushing away the tears that leaked out. It was an odd experience for Cynthia. Except for the eyes Josie looked a great deal like her mother, but her manner was Heath's. It was surprising to see two people so clearly represented; it was disconcerting to look at Augusta and hear a different voice come out. Augusta had been lively, emotional, a little dramatic. Josie was so quiet and self-possessed that Cynthia didn't think she'd ever seen the girl cry before. And it came hard to her now. Josie let each tear go with reluctance, almost as if she were embarrassed.

And, as her story progressed, it became clear that the girl had every right to those tears, and a good deal more. Cynthia felt her heart hardening. She had never liked the judge much, but she'd tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Now she remembered all the reasons why she'd never much liked Augusta's father. And she was angry on her friend's account. This was no proper way to mourn Augusta, by miring the people she had loved most in such underhanded actions. No one would have been more outraged than Augusta herself.

But, she thought, there was no point in burdening Josie with her own anger. Josie was clearly overwhelmed, and what twelve-year-old wouldn't be? When Josie was finished, Cynthia hugged her and said, "Now you're going right upstairs and taking a little nap. The guest room looks over the back garden and will be nice and quiet. No, Josie, you need it. And like I said, the train's not till noon. You can rest till then."

In a small, shamed voice, Josie said, "I'm scared. I don't want to be here alone."

"You won't be alone. Cook is here, and Perkins, and a few others. I have to go see your Uncle Jarrod. But I'll lock the door and tell Perkins no one is to be let in-not even your grandfather."

"Not even a policeman."

"Not even a policeman. Don't worry, my dear. You're going home today and you won't have to come back here unless you want to."

She led Josie up the stairs and tucked her into bed in the guestroom. Before she left, Josie called her back. "Is Grandfather a bad man?"

Cynthia wanted to say yes. Instead, she said slowly, "I don't think he's truly bad, Josie. I think-perhaps he really thought it was the best thing for you. I don't know. I don't want to believe he's bad. I'm sure you don't want to, either."

"I don't. But, Aunt Cynthia, so many people have had trouble because of me."

"No," Cynthia said firmly. "Not because of you. None of this is your fault. None of it, Josie. Don't ever think like that."

"So many people." Josie yawned. "I feel so bad. I didn't like Mrs. Gaines at all. And now I feel so sorry for her. Her husband is a very nasty man. Just his voice made me shiver."

"Yes," Cynthia said dryly. "He is a very nasty man. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Cynthia was so excited she left without a hat. She just beat Jarrod to the office, who found her breathless and flushed with excitement. He had scarcely closed his office door when she blurted out, "It's Mark Gaines."

"I know," Jarrod said.

Cynthia caught her breath. "What do you mean, you know? How do you know?"

"Iboli told me the property was given to Maria's mother years ago. How on earth do you know?"

"Josie told me."

"Josie?"

"She's at the house. She overheard Gaines and the judge talking last night. Apparently it was a very distasteful conversation for her to overhear. She's very badly shaken, Jarrod."

"Oh, poor Josie," Jarrod groaned. "What a terrible way for her to find out."

"Yes, but I suppose she'd have to know eventually."

Jarrod sat down beside Cynthia and sighed. "Well," he said, "it's nice to finally understand what's been going on. But how to stop it is another problem altogether. We still don't have any tangible proof."

"We have Josie!"

"Yes, but even if I were willing to involve her in this--can you imagine Heath agreeing to that? No, I can't use the fact that Josie overheard them."

"The judge will probably guess that she knows because she's gone."

"Oh, I doubt it. They'll probably think that Josie just got homesick."

"Nat Springer," Cynthia suggested.

"Yes, Nat is likely to be a weak link. If he realizes he's put his whole career in jeopardy by participating in this fraud, he'd certainly give up Gaines. If he really knows that Gaines is behind this. But, again, Cynthia, I'd need something to convince him he's really at risk."

Cynthia pounded a soft cushion. "I can't believe we've come this far and we're still powerless. Jarrod, Taylor could still give Gaines the dam, couldn't he?" Another, more troubling thought arose. "Maria...Oh, Jarrod, do you think he sent Maria down there deliberately--knowing that eventually she'd cause Heath trouble?"

Jarrod shrugged. "I'm ready to believe just about anything, Cynthia, where our senator is concerned. He's another one--all these years, there's never been a hint of scandal about him. It's hard to credit. He's a wealthy man too."

"Perhaps," Cynthia said dryly, "he's doing it just for spite--like the judge."

"Perhaps. In any case I think I'll feel much better when you get Josie back to Stockton. And you'd best be going, Cynthia. It's nearly eleven already. I'll see that Tom and Nina get home from school."

She kissed him at the door. Suddenly concerned, she said, "You will be careful, won't you?"

"Of course." He grinned. "And you will find a hat, won't you, dear? What will the neighbors think!"

Back at home Cynthia packed a small bag for herself; it occurred to her that Josie would probably need some company, and Victoria could probably use a little help. She called for the carriage and woke Josie.

They were in the hallway, waiting for the carriage, when Perkins found them. "A footman from the Taylor household, asking about Miss Barkley," he said.

Josie bit her lip, but she gave no other sign of fear. Cynthia said, "I have a specific message I would like you to give the footman, and please ask him to give it to the Taylors verbatim."

"What is the message, ma'am?"

"Please tell the Taylors to go to hell," she said calmly.

"Yes, ma'am," Perkins said politely, and left to deliver his message.

"Aunt Cynthia," Josie said. Both Papa and her Uncle Nick were given to strong language but they'd always been careful not to use it when they thought she was in earshot. It was a little thrilling to hear proper Aunt Cynthia say such a thing.

"It's what your mother would have done," Cynthia said.

As the hours passed, and then the whole day, without Josie appearing, without any word from the Taylors, Victoria found herself alternating between anger and apprehension. How petty could the Taylors be, she wondered. To keep a child from home at a time like this. No matter what they thought of Heath, had they no concern for Josie? What if-

Victoria didn't seriously expect the worst. Heath was right; Merar could be an old hen sometimes. And yet she was uneasy. This probably would have been a bad spell anyway, but the fire had definitely made it worse. Merar said the congestion was the worst it had ever been, and Victoria had never seen Heath so low. He was usually a restless and difficult patient. Now he was apathetic, indifferent to food or drink or any attempt to ease his situation. Every so often he roused himself enough to ask after Josie. She was running out of excuses, but it didn't matter, for he would soon lose interest and drift away, only to return to the matter hours later.

Victoria wasn't particularly sentimental. Yet she couldn't help believing that having Josie home would make a difference. He would probably be fine no matter what, but knowing his daughter was back home would no doubt ease his mind and perhaps speed his recovery. Victoria still didn't know how her granddaughter ended up going to San Francisco, but she knew it couldn't have happened in a way that would leave Heath comfortable.

But the hours kept passing, with no Josie and no improvement. Victoria had a second telegram sent, using more forceful terms. The morning turned into afternoon, with no Josie and no improvement. She was actually driven to trying a mustard plaster once much favored by her mother, to no avail. His fever rose and he seemed to drift farther away. And Victoria found herself pacing between the bed and the window, the bed and the window, willing her granddaughter to appear in the drive.

He was so tired. It seemed like he'd been struggling for so long, struggling to get enough air into his heavy lungs; struggling for so long and it did not get easier. The fever settled into his bones, and there was no position that would ease the aching in his arms and legs.

His thoughts were vague but one anxious thought kept bobbing up. Josie, where was Josie? And then he would remember: he'd sent her away. He couldn't remember why. He knew, though, how angry Augusta would be. Once, when she'd been truly angry with him, she'd flown at him, swinging. The ridiculousness of it-that she could actually hurt him with those little fists-had made him laugh. And she'd seen the foolishness of it too, and laughed. She wouldn't laugh now; she would be so angry. He didn't know what was worse: staying here and facing the fact that Josie was gone, or going and facing Augusta. Thoughts of facing Augusta would turn pleasant; he would remember the tilt of her head, a particularly mischievous smile. How grand it'd be to see her again. But when he would remember: Josie, where was Josie?

"She'll be back soon," Victoria said for the twentieth time. She hoped it wasn't a lie.

For once Josie didn't sleep on the train. She sat next to Aunt Cynthia, ramrod straight and wide awake. The trip was so long, nearly four hours. She kept telling herself that Aunt Cynthia was right, Papa would be fine, he'd had this so many times before. But she felt like she had the first time, when she was just eight, and she was sure that he wasn't there any more, that he'd gone away and no one would tell her. Of course this time she didn't cry and kick at the floor, it wouldn't have helped and she was much too old. She asked Aunt Cynthia for the time so often that Cynthia finally just gave her the watch.

They'd left so quickly that Cynthia hadn't even taken the time to send a telegram. They had to find a ride out to the ranch, Josie nearly dancing with impatience. And then the ride itself. It was a beautiful soft day, all the stiff dryness of the summer days vanished. There was even a little green here and there.

When they were at the ranch at last, Josie jumped out of the buggy and ran into the house and up the stairs. Victoria had seen the unfamiliar buggy coming and, hoping, had gotten to the landing when Josie burst in. Josie went straight to Victoria and wrapped her arms around her. "Nana," she said. "Please say I don't have to go back. I want to stay here."

"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to, Josie." Victoria's embrace was just as fierce. Josie was a quiet child, but this house had seemed terribly empty without her, even for a few days.

"I would have come home yesterday," Josie said, "but nobody told me."

"Nobody told you?" Victoria's eyes met Cynthia's.

Cynthia said, "Josie's had an unpleasant few days, which I'm sure she'll want to tell you about eventually. Right now I think she just needs to see her father."

"How's Papa?" Josie asked anxiously.

Victoria smiled. "He'll be much better now. He's been so worried about you, Josie."

He was far away; but nobody ignored Victoria Barkley for long. With some difficulty he found his way back to consciousness, opened his eyes. And there she was, his beautiful child. Their beautiful child, for there was so much Augusta in her. Augusta had thought she was worth dying for. Well, of course she was: she was worth anything. To be called papa, to hold her close again: it cut through all the fog and fever. She'd gone, he'd sent her away, but she'd come back. He let her go with reluctance but his smile was real. She'd come back.

Victoria said gently, "I think you could use a little rest too, Josie."

"I want to stay," Josie said stubbornly. But suddenly she was very tired; except for her nap this morning she'd hardly slept in three days, and she let Cynthia lead her to her room. Being tucked into bed this early in the day made her feel like a child. But it was a welcome feeling. In this familiar room, she was soon asleep.

Maria's letter had been written in a hurry, and the address was wrong. When it finally came to Jarrod's office his secretary, seeing the Stockton postmark, took it straight in, thinking it might be a family matter.

Jarrod read Maria's letter with a little sadness and a great deal of relief. However desperate a remedy flight might seem it was probably her only good option. After his talks with Maria earlier this summer he'd formed a poor opinion of Gaines. Now he wondered just how dangerous Mark Gaines might be.

But it was the documents attached to her letter that galvanized him. He had his secretary send messages to both Taylor and Gaines, urgently requesting a meeting in his office that night. Thank God, he thought, that Taylor's dragged his feet on the dam business. There may be time to straighten this out yet. He took the documents and headed for Nat Springer's office.

The meeting was set for 10:30, an hour when the court district around Jarrod's office was relatively deserted. He'd sent his office staff home; the rest of the building was empty.

Taylor arrived first. He was huffing and puffing about the judicial impropriety of an ex parte meeting during an ongoing matter. Jarrod assured him that the meeting would not place Taylor in any ethical difficulties. No more difficulty than you've already made for yourself, Jarrod thought with grim pleasure.

Gaines and Taylor were surprised to see each other, though they both quickly recovered their composure. Irritably, Gaines said, "What's this about, Barkley? From your mesage I assumed it was personal. I thought perhaps you might know the whereabouts of my wife. Or perhaps your--half brother knows."

Jarrod was a little surprised. "You know she's consulted me?"

"I know a great deal," Gaines said loftily.

Jarrod had to work to suppress a smile. Someday he'd have to tell Maria how she'd helped bring down Mark Gaines. "I daresay you do. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss your wife's whereabouts. That's not why I asked you here."

"Well, why did you?" Taylor snapped. "And for goodness's sake, Barkley, the least you could do is offer a man a drink. This is an absurd hour for a business meeting."

"I'll offer you no refreshments because this is not a social call. Nor do I suspect it will be a long one." He pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Senator, you no doubt are familiar with the contents of these documents. I'm not sure your accomplice is, but they lay out his role quite completely."

"Documents?" Gaines snapped, but he looked less sure than he sounded. "I've no idea of what you mean, Barkley."

Jarrod handed the papers to Gaines. Gaines scanned them. Looking a little pale, he said, "An obvious forgery."

"A copy, to be more precise. The originals are in the hands of the chief judge of the state supreme court. Tomorrow they will be in the hands of the attorney general."

"They prove nothing," Gaines said. "Even if the authenticity could be proven..."

"Which it can be--enough to get those documents admitted into a court of law. I was able to find a few other examples of your writing, Gaines. The documents are original enough. Even if they aren't, your involvement can be testified to by Nat Springer."

"Springer?" Gaines exclaimed. "But he can't! This was a confidential matter."

Jarrod smiled at how quickly Gaines had already implicated himself. "You're not a lawyer yourself, are you, Gaines? No wonder you don't fully understand the limits of confidentiality. A lawyer cannot allow himself to be used to perpetrate a fraud on the court. When I presented Nat Springer with these documents, he was shocked--" Jarrod paused delicately over that word. "--to learn that he'd been so used. He told the chief judge that you had in fact requested confidentiality, but that your stated purpose was merely to assist a constituent fearful of losing his life and property." Well, maybe Nat had believed that and more probably he hadn't; but he'd told it well enough to the chief judge, and, to save his hide, he'd do an equally convincing job in court.

Gaines said nothing. He knew Springer well enough to know that Nat was an experienced survivor and would have few scruples in throwing his client to the wolves.

Taylor had just listened to this exchange, his face growing darker. He hissed: "You fool! Don't tell me you put pen to paper!" He snatched the documents out of Gaines's hand and looked over them rapidly. More calmly, he said, "My name is mentioned, certainly, but that's not proof of my involvement."

"Your words just now would go a long way to convict you, Taylor. No, I agree the documents alone probably aren't enough. But your otherwise inexplicable actions since you've taken the bench appear in a very different light. I don't doubt that either a judge or a jury would see the truth."

Gaines said quietly, "You haven't brought us here to tell us we'll be arrested in the morning. You must have some proposal. What is it?"

"Of course," Taylor said. "You can't want the publicity."

Jarrod shrugged. "For his daughter's sake my brother might not want the publicity. I couldn't care less. In fact, I know more than few people who would take great pleasure in your public humiliation." He thought briefly of Cynthia. She'd been right about both of them, though for her own odd reasons. No doubt she would enjoy a public thrashing; Victoria, too, might take a little grim pleasure in it. But Jarrod knew Heath wouldn't want it.

"Still," Gaines said, "you've brought us here to discuss a surrender. What are the terms?"

"As I said, the papers are in the hands of the chief judge. He will transmit them, along with affidavits from myself and from Nat Springer, to the attorney general tomorrow morning, unless the terms are met.

"First, you must both resign, immediately. Taylor, you will resign without taking any action on the matter of Tanner dam. Neither of you will seek any further public office. A discreet fund of ten thousand dollars will be donated anonymously for drought relief. Each of you will put up half."

"Is that all?" Gaines said. The beginnings of a smile could be seen at the corner of his mouth.

"No, that's not all," Jarrod said sharply. "You will make no effort to contact or otherwise disturb your wife. You will not begin divorce proceedings. Should she decide to undertake divorce proceedings herself, you will not contest them. You will not block her access to her money or her property. And you will formally and in writing renounce all interest and rights in any property left to Maria by her family."

"You think you can enforce that?"

"I think I can, Gaines. Maria is not so friendless as you wish to think. She has relatives who are in a position to assist and protect her from you. And who are willing to do so. If you think you can harm Maria--I suggest you try it, Gaines. I doubt you'll like the consequences."

"But the property--the Iboli property--it could be worth millions! It could make me another Stanford if I had all that water!"

"You'll have neither," Jarrod said. "Neither the water nor the property."

"But you don't understand," Gaines said, a note of desperation creeping in. "If you take away my seat--and that property--I'll have nothing. Nothing!"

You have a wife and two children, Jarrod thought, but he knew it was pointless: to Gaines his family had only had value as props. "That's what happens when you gamble, Gaines. Sometimes you lose everything."

Gaines stood up. He smoothed down his lapels. Without another word he was gone.

Taylor sat motionless for a long time. At last he said, "What about my granddaughter?"

"She's back home where she belongs."

Taylor said, "I guessed that." More bitterly, he said, "No doubt you've taking great pleasure in telling her all about this."

"I've told her nothing," Jarrod said honestly. "But she's an intelligent girl, Taylor. I daresay she's figured out a great deal."

"Will we be allowed to see her again?"

Jarrod shrugged. "I don't know. That will be up to Heath--and Josie. I doubt that Heath would try to keep her from you if that's what she wants. My brother has always put Josie's interests first. Of course I can't speak for Josie."

Taylor seemed deflated. "So I'm reliant on the good will of that man."

His tone irked Jarrod, but he couldn't resist the question. "Why, Taylor? You were a respected judge with a fine career behind him and a great future. You might have made it to the supreme court. And you saw Josie regularly as it was. Why wasn't that enough?"

Taylor stood up, his face reddened. "My only daughter threw her life away on that--that nonentity, that ill-educated, low-born cowboy. Was I supposed to sit by and watch the same thing happen to my only grandchild?"

Whatever sympathy Jarrod might have felt died there. "What my brother might lack in social polish he more than makes up for in integrity. He would never have stooped to the depths you've reached. Your daughter knew that."

"You don't understand," Taylor said. "You can't understand what it means to lose a child."

"You would have lost her anyway," Jarrod said. "Eventually she would have realized what sort of man you really are. Perhaps she had already realized. You're right, Taylor, I don't entirely understand. But I do know that no grief justifies what you've done." He was about to say more, but he knew that it wouldn't penetrate. Taylor had allowed his hatred of a man who'd done him no harm to poison his entire life. Perhaps it was just as well if he didn't see Josie again.

The item was too late for the morning paper, but it was the lead story in the afternoon paper.

SENATOR KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

The body of Mark Gaines, a second-term U.S. senator, was found beside the railroad tracks just south of the station near an unmarked crossing. It is presumed that the senator attempted to cross the tracks after dark....

The article, and other articles in the following days, covered Gaines's spectacular rise in detail. The whereabouts of his family and the reasons for his attempting to cross the tracks at that unlikely location were not discussed. Those items did supply some lively conversation behind closed doors in both San Francisco and Washington. The rumor was that his wife had left him, he was on the verge of a financial crash, and he'd stepped onto the crossing deliberately.

The news was so sensational that another article, detailing the resignation of the new chief justice of the federal circuit, was scarcely noticed. Ill health was given as the reason.

Knowing Josie was home did improve Heath's spirits, but he still had a few more bad days before the fever began to lessen. Even then he was very weak, and Victoria was reluctant to leave him unattended. She had insisted on doing most of the tending when the fever was the worst, but as he got a little better Victoria gave in to Cynthia's entreaties and let her daughter-in-law take over the night watch.

Until then Cynthia had spent her time keeping her niece company. Cynthia had always been very fond of Josie, especially on her mother's account, but she was surprised how little she really knew the girl. She had seen her many times over the years but never spent much time alone with her. What she saw both impressed and troubled her.

Josie was mature for her age and she had never manipulated her motherless status for attention. The amount of reading she'd done surprised Cynthia; Josie had always had the free run of the library, with neither Heath or Victoria making any effort to censor her interest. Cynthia was impressed by how doggedly Josie sought to calm herself by immersing herself back in the routine of the ranch, riding and caring for her horses, seeing to her chores, being helpful where she could.

And yet her very doggedness disturbed Cynthia. Cynthia remembered Augusta's emotional and talkative ways and saw virtually none of them in her daughter. Josie was well on her way to inheriting her father's limited emotional range. Heath was a man of deep feelings but his means of expressing them were few. He loved his daughter passionately, and Josie knew it. But his methods for dealing with darker or uglier feelings were generally limited to suppressing or denying them. Josie was going through a terrible period, with her ties to her grandparents abruptly and nastily severed. The intrusion of Maria Gaines, the possibility that, after all these years, she might have to share her father's attention, had clearly been difficult for her. Yet she rebuffed Cynthia's attempts to broach these matters. Cynthia began to realize that she would have to go through Heath to help Josie.

Her thoughts were wending that way late one night. She had found an old tarnished hairbrush on Heath's dresser, and she was idly stroking the bristles when he stirred.

He squinted, trying to gauge the time by the light. Cynthia said, "It's late. I think maybe two a.m."

"Josie," he asked.

"She's down the hall, snug in her own bed. Victoria probably told you but I'm not surprised you don't remember. She's home for good. I think my goddaughter has more sense than most of the adults around her."

"I won't argue that," he said with a tired smile. "The judge..."

"The judge won't bother you any more. And the dam has been returned to the state Commission. A lot's happened the last few days. When Jarrod comes down I'll let him explain everything, since he understands it so much better. All you need to know is that you don't need to worry."

"She's really here?" he asked. "She came on her own?"

"She made a very heroic effort to get here on her own. She's a brave girl. She's also a very unhappy one right now, Heath. She's learned some things--especially about her grandfather--that I think she wasn't quite ready to learn."

"I know," he sighed. "I know it's been a bad time for her. And I know I didn't do right for her this summer."

"But do you know what you didn't do right? Heath, it wasn't just that you spent too much time working. Or that you were interested in a woman." Curiosity got the better of her. "Did you care for her, Heath? I mean Maria. I know there wasn't anything improper--but if she were free?"

He had nothing useful to do with his hands, so he plucked at a loose thread on the quilt. "Oh, I suppose so. I felt bad about the ways things had gone between us, that she'd left when there was no need. And this summer, well, she was in a bad way. I couldn't just stand by and see her taken advantage of. I enjoyed her company. But then things got all muddled."

There was a long silence. He was sunk in his own thoughts, remembering the evenings on Maria's patio. Finally Cynthia said, "What went wrong?"

To himself he said, "She left me."

Cynthia said, "Heath, she didn't leave you. She died."

He looked at her sharply, surprised she'd understood. With bitterness in his tone, he said, "You say that like it matters. Like she's less gone that way."

"I think it does matter. Oh, Heath, Augusta dying that way was terrible, it was a tragedy. But that's all it was. It wasn't some kind of judgment about you, or about your future. Augusta didn't choose to leave you."

He kept his head stubbornly turned away. Quietly, she said, "Heath, you have to find some way of living with the fact that Augusta is gone. Some way that doesn't involve denying that she ever existed or denying that you loved her. I know in the beginning it was all you could do. But it's not helping you, Heath. And it's hurting Josie."

He flinched. At last he whispered, "I just wanted her back."

"That's what makes this so awful. That's what you all want. And it's the one thing you can't have. The judge, with all his power, can come down here and steal that water and upset everybody. But even he can't get what he wants."

There was another long silence. His tone was ragged. "You say--you don't know how it is. She gave me so much. Everything she had. She made me--To forget that, turn my back on that--it's disloyal. Like killin her all over again."

Cynthia had embarked on this conversation bravely enough. Here she faltered for a moment. This was the crux of the matter; this was the fence at which he'd balked for so long. How could she help? Finally, she said slowly, "Augusta loved you. She adored you. I know you remember how much Augusta hated sharing anything." A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "She would have hated sharing you. Just hated the idea. But, Heath, if she had to--if she knew that the future depended on it, Josie depended on it--she'd do it. She'd hate it at first but she'd do it. She loved you both that much."

It was the best she could do. She turned her attention back to the brush, gave him a little time to let her words sink in. When she thought enough time had passed, she held up the brush. "I found this on your dresser. You gave it to Augusta, didn't you? That Christmas?"

He nodded and took the brush from her. Yes, that one Christmas they'd had together. A needless extragavance, for she'd had a pretty tortoiseshell comb and brush set. And it was extravagant: the set was the most expensive thing he'd ever purchased. But it was beautiful, solid silver elaborately worked. How she'd loved fancy things. And how bright the silver had looked against her dark hair. She used to sit and brush her hair and she'd catch his eye in the mirror and smile. It was meant to be a seductive smile; but alongside the emerging woman there was still a grinning child, much pleased with herself and the world. Impossible not to grin back at her. The only Christmas present he had ever given her.

"Yes," he said finally. "I got it out a ways back. I meant to give it to Josie."

"Perhaps it's time you did."

"Yes," he said again. "Yes, I guess it's time I did."

It was a fine indian summer day, the sun was bright but its heat had a pleasant gentleness that bespoke fall. Because of the drought the autumn colors were muted. The grass was surprisingly green, though, after the rains throughout the month. Too late to help this year's crops, but the water level behind Tanner Dam was rising, and this time of year, rain here would soon mean snow in the mountains, and that meant clear-running snow melt come spring. The drought was over, and the air was fresh and soft.

Heath was out enjoying the sunshine, soaping down a saddle. He wasn't free to take up a full slate of chores yet, but this seemed an easy enough job, and twice as pleasant in the sun. Twice as healthy, too. He'd never shaken a conviction that nothing sped a convalescence like work. It was a theory not much shared by Victoria or Doc Merar. Nick tended to agree with him, but then Nick was perhaps tired of taking up the slack around here.

It wasn't often that a man went down with the fever with his world in pieces, only to wake up and find that things had pretty much been set to rights in the meantime. His daughter had come home of her own free will; the judge was in disgrace and not likely to cause him any more grief; the dam was safe. Even Maria's troubles were practically over, though at a terrible cost. Senator Gaines's death was ruled an accident, but rumor called it suicide, and rumor would die hard. Maria had not yet come back from New York. Heath wasn't entirely sorry. He was feeling much better, but, he felt, not well enough to take up the question of Maria Montero.

No, better just to count one's blessings, enjoy the afternoon. Merar had been fussy, but had told him that, once this bout of Valley Fever had passed, he was no worse than he'd been before. Of course Merar would make no promises, but Heath had it settled in his own mind that the fever had done its worst. Either it wouldn't come back or it wouldn't do any more harm. Of that he felt certain.

Josie came up behind him, hugged him quickly, and then climbed up on the fence. "Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"Can't hardly call this working," he smiled. "Aren't you supposed to be studying?"

"Becky said I could take a break. I have five minutes."

"Becky?"

"Miss Darcy, papa. My tutor. She said I could call her Becky."

"Well, Miss Becky at least. Show a little respect, Josie."

"She's going to teach me French."

He smiled. "Well, that's fine. Though what you'll do with French out here I don't rightly know."

Josie swung her legs, watching her father work. After a time she asked, "Papa. Are you going to marry Mrs. Gaines?"

That made him stop soaping for a minute. "What a question. Where'd that come from?"

"She likes you, Papa. She likes you a lot."

Exasperated, he said, "What makes you say that? Josie, you're gettin too old for your age."

"I'm twelve, Papa, I know about things like that."

"Oh, do you," he muttered.

"So? Will you marry her?"

He concentrated on his soaping. "Josie, I don't hardly know. Mrs. Gaines is still in New York. Maybe she'll stay there. It might be too sad for her to come back here."

"If she likes you enough she'll come back."

Heath shook his head slowly. "She liked me once before, and nothing come of it. I wouldn't be too sure, Josie."

Josie said softly, "And you like her too."

"She's a nice woman."

"More than that, papa. Was she the love of your life?"

"Josie." He put down his rag at last. "What on earth? You're talking like a bad novel. Is this more of Bertha Ann's nonsense?"

"I don't mind, Papa. Just because you loved someone more than my mother doesn't mean you love me any less."

He shook his head. "Josie, I done wrong by you on this. Bad enough you lost your mama the way you did. I took her away from you again by not tellin you more about her." He sighed. "It's hard to explain, Josie, but I think I tried to make things not seem so bad by tellin myself that she-your mama-hadn't meant so much to me. And it wasn't true, Josie. Funny thing was, it didn't even help that much."

"So you didn't marry my mother just because she reminded you of Mrs. Gaines?"

"No, of course not." He put one hand over Josie's. "Your mama was-well, she wasn't like anybody else, Josie. Every day was Christmas to her-she always jumped out of bed, sure that something wonderful was going to happen that day. And nothing was more wonderful to her than the idea of being your mother. She was so sure you'd be a girl, she was so excited." Ruefully, he said, "No wonder you liked going to your grandparents. At least there they probably talked about your mother."

"I do like it when you tell me about her. But I don't like it that it makes you so sad."

Heath shrugged. "Not talking about her doesn't make it any less sad. Now there's a rare bad sentence for you. Hope that tutor's teaching you better."

"I like her," Josie said. "She talks like you, a little."

Heath laughed. "For a college graduate I hope she talks a whole lot better than me."

"No, I mean her accent. Since she's from Kentucky. She sounds a little like you." She watched her father for a few more minutes. The detour had been pleasant, but she was ready to get back on track. "About Mrs. Gaines."

"Ain't your five minutes up yet?"

"No. Papa, I'm serious. If you want to marry Mrs. Gaines that's all right with me."

"Really." Heath suppressed a laugh. "I'm glad to have your approval, Miss Barkley."

"Papa, please, I'm serious. Before, when I thought about you marrying Mrs. Gaines, I really didn't like it. I don't like her little boys and I'd hate to have them for brothers, because they're horrid. But that's not really the reason. I thought I wanted you to find a new wife, but when I thought it was Mrs. Gaines, I thought maybe I wasn't so eager to have a stepmother after all. When you sent me to live with my grandparents-I thought you wanted me to go away so you could be alone with Mrs. Gaines. Oh, I understand now. I know why you sent me to San Francisco. And I don't mind this time."

"So what changed, darlin?"

"I understand that you're always Papa and you'll always love me just the same. I want you to be happy, Papa."

That last was said so solemnly. He said, striving for lightness, "That ain't your job, missy. Ain't right for a girl your age to be worrying about such business."

Josie kicked the fence a few times. "Maybe you're right," she said at last. "Maybe I shouldn't be."

"I am right. And without that Bertha Ann putting ideas in your head..."

Josie bit back a defense of her friend. No point in getting started on Bertha Ann today. It was such a nice sunny day, and it was nice to see Papa out at work again, though she knew he wasn't really supposed to be. Nice to talk with him without worrying about what she might be saying wrong. "When can I have Laurie back?"

"Another week. Didn't I say a month?"

"But I didn't really do wrong, Papa. I was ready to ride Laurie. And didn't I do a good thing?"

"You still broke the rule, missy. As I remember the original punishment for breaking the rule was losing Laurie altogether. So I think I'm being fair enough. Josie, I give you as much freedom as I do because generally I can trust you with it. When you break that trust, even though it seems like the right thing to do, well, I take that seriously. Next week, and no more asking about it."

"All right," Josie said meekly. "Next week." She kicked the fence a few more times. "What will we do about Christmas, Papa?"

"Christmas?" he asked, puzzled.

"Grandmother and Grandfather. They've come here for Christmas before. What about this year?"

Heath fought briefly to keep an even tone. He'd had no kind thoughts about Augustus or Leona Taylor. The knowledge that Taylor had been prepared to put so many people through such hell for something he had no right to--and that something a sensitive and innocent child. Heath was doubly glad now he'd gotten the tutor for Josie so she didn't have to face any nonsense in town.

Josie had scarcely mentioned the Taylors during the weeks of his convalescence, and, despite his talk with Cynthia, he'd been reluctant to force her confidence. He didn't see any need. Whatever his own shortcomings, he thought Josie usually got around to things when she needed to.

Still, he was glad she'd finally broached the subject. As neutrally as possible, he said, "Darlin, that's up to you. If you want them to come, we'll invite them. If you don't, we won't. Don't you worry about the rest of us. You do what makes you feel best. And I mean that, Josie."

Josie sighed. "I know what he did was bad. And I'm scared to see him. I'm still afraid that he might do something."

Heath said, "Are you scared that maybe I'll do something? Like tell him he can take you?"

Josie shook her head. "No, I understand what happened. You were just upset about the fire and because I disobeyed you. I was mad then but not after I thought about it."

"Well," he said dryly, "I'm glad you're so forgiving. I'm still a little mad with myself." He rubbed a little harder, then realized he was avoiding her. He put down the rag and turned her to face him. "I had a minute there when sending you to San Francisco seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn't, and I'm sorry that you had such a bad time there. I am truly sorry about that, Josie. I haven't always done such a fine job by you, darlin, but I've always tried to do what seemed best. I hope you believe that."

"I do, Papa." It was such a lot for him to say at once. She felt very warm inside. Still, the thought of her grandfather wouldn't quite go away. "Why'd he do it, Papa?"

Heath shrugged. "I can't rightly answer that, Josie. I suppose the answer is he did it because he loved your mother and you. But I don't like to think that loving someone makes you do bad things. And, Josie," he said more sternly, "what he did he did on his own. There wasn't anything for you to do about it. You got nothing to feel bad about."

"I don't," Josie said, but her tone was uncertain.

"Well, maybe you really don't. But if you do you just remind yourself of that. I don't want to catch you sittin around here feelin bad about that." He smiled, patted one of her knees. "I'd rather see Bertha Ann hanging around. You hear?"

Josie nodded. She would try that; Papa was always trying to tell her things weren't her responsibility. But then she brightened up. "Hello, Becky. I was just telling Papa that you're going to teach me French."

"If you don't mind," Miss Darcy said. "Really, she seems to be doing all of the regular coursework without too much trouble. We should be able to fit it in without losing anything else. That's if you approve."

Heath laughed. "You're the teacher. You do the teaching. You just let me know if she needs a spankin."

Josie rolled her eyes. "As if you've ever spanked me. As if I'm not much too old to be spanked."

With that she hopped down from the fence, stood on tiptoe to kiss her father's cheek.

Before she could run off he pulled her in close. "Remind me at dinner, Josie. I've got some things of your mother's I meant to give you."

Josie's smile was small but excited. "Really? What?"

"Just some little things. Now get on back to your lessons, missy."

Josie skipped off. Some things of her mother's. What a lovely thought. Then her thoughts took a new track. Miss Darcy, Miss Darcy. She wondered what Bertha Ann would think of the new tutor as a potential stepmother. Miss Darcy did like reading the newspaper.

Out in the corral, Miss Darcy said, "This is really a wonderful position for me."

Heath smiled. "Well, she's quite a child, if you don't mind my saying. But you have to watch her. She has a way of getting her way without being obvious about it."

"Oh, Josie's wonderful. But I meant everything. It's much more than I hoped for in taking a job like this."

"Don't let the weather fool you. It ain't usually this nice. Winter's pretty cold and the summers-Well," he said finally, "summer's usually hot and dry. Usually."

She shrugged, her eyes downcast a little. "I still think it's wonderful. But I'd better be getting back."

He was alone in the corral. Hard to believe, in this mild sunshine, the grass newly green and thickened, what trials they had passed through this summer-drought, fire, separation. It was good to think that the bonds with Josie had not only survived but strengthened; he could hope the misunderstandings of the summer wouldn't happen again. He could hope that this time he would not flinch from the hard lessons of the summer the way he had four years ago. He could hope that, like the parched earth after those gentle rains, there were more forgiving times ahead.

When the saddle was done to his liking it was nearly dinner time. He put the saddle and the soap up and paused for a moment to enjoy the late green of the grass, the slight coolness on the air. Josie and Becky were taking their lesson on the back porch. After one last backward glance he hurried to join them.