Back In The Saddle Again Quotes

Halt waited a minute or two but there was no sound except for the jingling of harness and the creaking of leather from their saddles. Finally, the former Ranger could bear it no longer. What?” The question seemed to explode out of him, with a greater degree of violence than he had intended. Taken by surprise, Horace’s bay shied in fright and danced several paces away. Horace turned an aggrieved look on his mentor as he calmed the horse and brought it back under control. What?” he asked Halt, and the smaller man made a gesture of exasperation. That’s what I want to know,” he said irritably. “What?” Horace peered at him. The look was too obviously the sort of look that you give someone who seems to have taken leave of his senses. It did little to improve Halt’s rapidly growing temper. What?” said Horace, now totally puzzled. Don’t keep parroting at me!” Halt fumed. “Stop repeating what I say! I asked you ‘what,’ so don’t ask me ‘what’ back, understand?” Horace considered the question for a second or two, then, in his deliberate way, he replied: “No.” Halt took a deep breath, his eyebrows contracted into a deep V, and beneath them his eyes with anger but before he could speak, Horace forestalled him. What ‘what’ are you asking me?” he said. Then, thinking how to make the question clearer, he added, “Or to put it another way, why are you asking ‘what’?” Controlling himself with enormous restraint, and making no secret of the fact, Halt said, very precisely: “You were about to ask me a question.” Horace frowned. “I was?” Halt nodded. “You were. I saw you take a breath to ask it.” I see,” Horace said. “And what was it about?” For just a second or two, Halt was speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally found the strength to speak. That is what I was asking you,” he said. “When I said ‘what,’ I was asking you what you were about to ask me.” I wasn’t about to ask you ‘what,’” Horace replied, and Halt glared at him suspiciously. It occurred to him that Horace could be indulging himself in a gigantic leg pull, that he was secretly laughing at Halt. This, Halt could have told him, was not a good career move. Rangers were not people who took kindly to being laughed at. He studied the boy’s open face and guileless blue eyes and decided that his suspicion was ill-founded. Then what, if I may use that word once more, were you about to ask me?” Horace drew a breath once more, then hesitated. “I forget,” he said. “What were we talking about?

Delilah Bard did not like horses. She’d never liked them, not when she only knew them for their snapping teeth, and their flicking tails, and their stomping hooves, and not when she found herself on the back of one, the night racing past so fast it blurred around her, and not now as she watched a pair of silver-scarred guards saddle up three for their ride to the port. As far as she was concerned, nothing with so little brain should have so much force. Then again, she could say the same about half the tournament magicians.

Just four or five hours later we begin to see a country whose beauty penetrates our bones. I say beauty I mean beauty. Oftentimes in America you could go stark mad from the ugliness of things. Grass that goes for a thousand miles and never a hill to break it. I ain't saying there ain't beauty on the plains when well there is. But you ain't long travelling on the plains when you begin to feel clear loco. You can rise up out of your saddle and sort of look down on yourself riding, it's as if the stern and relentless monotony makes you die, come back to life, and die again. Your brain is molten in its bowl of bones and you just seeing atrocious wonders everywhere. The mosquitoes have your hide for supper and you are one hallucinating lunatic then. But now in the far distance we see a land begin to be suggested as if maybe a man was out there painting with a huge brush.

Sir Gerek handed her a gray wool blanket, then lay down next to the fire. "Don't you have a blanket?" "I forgot to get one when we were at the castle, but I don't need one. It's warm enough now." "The nights are still quite cool. Here you take the blanket and I will put on the rest of my clothes. It's the perfect solution." "No, thank you. I don't need it." She let out an exasperated sigh... ...Sir Gerek was laying down near the fire, his eyes closed. Rapunzel moved as quietly as she could toward his still form, then carefully laid the the blanket over him. She lay down with her head near his and closed her eyes. Her eyes popped open. Something was touching her legs and was gradually being laid over the rest of her body. She suspected it was the gray woolen blanket she had laid on Sir Gerek. When he finished, he walked back over to where he had been sleeping and lay down again. Gerek awoke with the blanket laying over him. How had she managed to cover him without him waking up? He sat up. She lay asleep on her side, her thick braid touching her cheek. The sun was casting a soft glow over her and making her look even more otherworldly. He found himself smiling as he draped the blanket over her while she slept. When she awoke, he already had Donner saddled and breakfast ready. "When did you do this?" She held out the blanket. With the scolding half frown and lowered her brows, she took his breath away... ... He shrugged. "You looked cold." She eyed him, shook her head, then folded up the blanket.

Rooster here has missed Ned a few times himself, horse and all,' said the captain. 'I reckon his is on his way now to missing him again.' Rooster was holding a bottle with a little whiskey in it. He said, 'You keep on thinking that.' He drained off the whiskey in about three swallows and tapped the cork back in and tossed the bottle up in the air. He pulled his revolver and fired at it twice and missed. The bottle fell and rolled and Rooster shot at it two or three more times and broke it on the ground. He got out his sack of cartridges and reloaded his pistol. He said, 'The Chinaman is running them cheap shells in on me again.' LaBoeuf said, 'I thought maybe the sun was in your eyes. That is to say, your eye.' Rooster swung the cylinder back in his revolver and said, 'Eyes, is it? I'll show you eyes!' He jerked the sack of corn dodgers free from his saddle baggage. He got one of the dodgers out and flung it in the air and fired at it and missed. Then he flung another one up and he hit it. The corn dodger exploded. He was pleased with himself and he got a fresh bottle of whiskey from his baggage and treated himself to a drink. LaBoeuf pulled one of his revolvers and got two dodgers out of the sack and tossed them both up. He fired very rapidly but he only hit one. Captain Finch tried it with two and missed both of them. Then he tried with one and made a successful shot. Rooster shot at two and hit one. They drank whiskey and used up about sixty corn dodgers like that. None of them ever hit two at one throw with a revolver but Captain Finch finally did it with his Winchester repeating rifle, with somebody else throwing. It was entertaining for a while but there was nothing educational about it. I grew more and more impatient with them. I said, 'Come on, I have had my bait of this. I am ready to go. Shooting cornbread out here on this prairie is not taking us anywhere.' By then Rooster was using his rifle and the captain was throwing for him. 'Chunk high and not so far out this time,' said he.

Again the early-morning sun was generous with its warmth. All the sounds dear to a horseman were around me - the snort of the horses as they cleared their throats, the gentle swish of their tails, the tinkle of irons as we flung the saddles over their backs - little sounds of no importance, but they stay in the unconscious library of memory.

When they finally allowed the horses to slow to a walk, Vree dropped out of the saddle to stretch her legs. *We're going to forget how to get anywhere on our own two feet. Gonna end up looking like fat-assed officers.* Vree arched her back, rocked forward, then arched it again, working the stiffness out of her shoulders. *Giving the pounding it's taking, if my ass is getting fat, it's in self-defense.*

Well, anyway,” said the constable at last, turning businesslike, “I got to take charge here. Get this feller into the house before he fries. I’m telling you now: if he don’t make it, you’re in a pickle, you people. Now, here’s what we’ll do. You,” he said, pointing at Mae, “you got to come with me, you and the little girl. You got to be locked up right away; and the little girl, I got to get her home. The rest of you, you stay here with him. Look after him. I’ll get back with a doctor quick as I can. Should have brought a deputy, but I didn’t expect nothing like this to happen. Well, it’s too late now. All right, let’s get moving.” Miles said softly, “Ma. We’ll get you out right away.” “Sure, Ma,” said Jesse. “Don’t worry about me none,” said Mae in the same exhausted voice. “I’ll make out.” “Make out?” exclaimed the constable. “You people beat all. If this feller dies, you’ll get the gallows, that’s what you’ll get, if that’s what you mean by make out.” Tuck’s face crumpled. “The gallows?” he whispered. “Hanging?” “That’s it,” said the constable. “That’s the law. Now, let’s get going.” Miles and Jesse lifted the man in the yellow suit and carried him carefully into the house, but Tuck stood staring, and Winnie could guess what he was thinking. The constable swung her up onto his horse and directed Mae to her own saddle. But Winnie kept her eyes on Tuck. His face was very pale, the creases deeper than ever, and his eyes looked blank and sunken. She heard him whisper again, “The gallows!” And then Winnie said something she had never said before, but the words were words she had sometimes heard, and often longed to hear. They sounded strange on her own lips and made her sit up straighter. “Mr. Tuck,” she said, “don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.” The constable glanced heavenward and shook his head.

It is the sheer weight of the robot that makes us feel we are living in a ‘wooden world’. We can see for example that the moment Ouspensky or Ward returned from the mystical realm of perfect freedom and found themselves ‘back in the body’ they once again found themselves saddled with all their boring old habits and worries and neuroses, all their old sense of identity built up from the reactions of other people, and above all the dreary old heaviness, as if consciousness has turned into a leaden weight. This is the sensation that made the romantics feel that life is a kind of hell — or at the very least, purgatory. Yet we know enough about the robot to know that this feeling is as untrustworthy as the depression induced by a hangover. The trouble with living ‘on the robot’ is that he is a dead weight. He takes over only when our energies are low. So when I do something robotically I get no feedback of sudden delight. This in turn makes me feel that it was not worth doing. ‘Stan’ reacts by failing to send up energy and ‘Ollie’ experiences a sinking feeling. Living becomes even more robotic and the vicious circle effect is reinforced. Beyond a certain point we feel as if we are cut off from reality by a kind of glass wall: suddenly it seems self-evident that there is nothing new under the sun, that all human effort is vanity, that man is a useless passion and that life is a horrible joke devised by some demonic creator. This is the state I have decribed as ‘upside-downness’, the tendency to allow negative emotional judgements to usurp the place of objective rational judgements. Moreover this depressing state masquerades as the ‘voice of experience’, since it seems obvious that you ‘know’ more about an experience when you’ve had it a hundred times. This is the real cause of death in most human beings: they mistake the vicious circle effects of ‘upside-downness’ for the wisdom of age, and give up the struggle.

Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken. I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of any thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Keep trying. You only fail if you quit.” “That’s right,” Bas said. “When you fall off the horse, you need to just saddle it back up.” I looked at him. “What if the saddle didn’t fall off? What if only you fell?” “Speaking of horses,” Jode said. “No horses. Go again.” Another hour went by. Bas and I started to get punchy. “Go to the light, Jode,” Bas said. “Your most precious inside light.” “Just feeeeeeel it. Feel it like you mean it.” Jode smirked. “I’m English. I don’t do anything by feeeel.

A hippogriff flew past, trailing laughter. It came so close to Will that he could smell its scent, a pungent mixture of horse sweat and milky pin-feathers, and feel the wind from its wings. Its rider’s hair streamed out behind her like a red banner. Will stared up at her, awestruck. The young woman in the saddle was all grace and athleticism. She wore green slacks with matching soft leather boots and, above a golden swatch of abdomen, a halter top of the same green color. She was glorious. The rider glanced casually down and to the side and saw Will gawking. She drew back on the reins so that her beast reared up and for an instant seemed to stall in midair. Then she took the reins between her teeth and with one hand yanked down her halter top, exposing her breasts. With the other hand, she flipped him the finger. Then, jeering, she seized the reins again, pulled up her top, and was gone. Will could not breathe. It was as if this stranger had taken a two-by-four to his heart. All in an instant, he was hers.

She again patted the ground beside her. "Now come. Sit beside me. I will play with your cock while we eat." Elina hadn't even finished chewing the second bite of her food before the dragon suddenly dove into place next to her. A smile on his handsome face, his eyebrows wiggling in anticipation. He was adorably pathetic. "Take care of your horse first, Dolt." "Take care of him?" "He cannot spend the all night wearing saddle and equipment." "Aye, but..." "I am not going anywhere. My hands will still be here to play with cock when you get back." "Promise?

What are you smiling about?" Rider asked. Willow glanced at him and flushed. "That must have been some daydream you were having." If you only knew, Willow thought. "Come on, Freckles, it's time you get back to the ranch. I have work to do." His big work-roughened hand swallowed hers as he helped her to her feet. Against her will, her body responded to its warmth. She snatched her hand away, garnering a searching expression in his dark brown eyes. She quickly excused her reaction with a flirty smile. "I promised not to touch you, remember?" "Yes,but I dont't recall promising not to touch you." He wiggled his brows in a comical imitation of an evil villain in a bad play. She laughed and shook her head. "Help me mount Sugar before I decide to wipe that grin off your face." "And how do you propose to do that?" he asked, retrieving the horses and returning to he side. He bent down, cupped his hands, and boosted her into the mare's saddle. "You weren't planning on slapping my face again, I hope," he said, reaching for Sultan's reins. "Oh,no, nothing like that." She batted her lashes coquettishly, the affect intensified by the naughty twinkle in her eyes. "You better stop looking at me like that, or I'll have to follow Sultan's example and break down your door tonight." "I don't think Juan would be too happy about making me two new doors. It wasn't easy explaining what happened to the first one!

What are ye doing, lass?” His voice was so soft and close in the darkness, it made her shiver. She forgot all about the hard floor. “I always imagined that once I got married, I’d finally know what it was like to spend the night in a man’s arms. Will you hold me, so I can feel what that’s like? I won’t ask for more than that. Just hold me.” He rolled to face her and touched her cheek. “Ah, lass,” he sighed. “How can I deny you when you ask so sweetly? If ’tis holding ye want, holding you shall get. But the floor is no place for you and your bairn. Up in the bed with you.” “It’s no place for a married man, either,” she said, smiling at her small victory. He sighed again, a sound heavy with sentiment she could only guess at. She climbed under the blankets and held them up for him, but he was taking his sweet time. “Are you coming?” “Aye, lass. Just donning my plaid.” She bit back a huff of frustration. She determined to enjoy what little affection he would give her and didn’t want to push her luck by asking for more. Her hormones would have to learn patience; this was going to be a painfully slow seduction. When Darcy slipped into bed, bare-chested, but wrapped in layers of wool from the waist down, she cuddled into his open arms. All her frustration drained away as he gathered her in and the heat of his chest turned her into a melty puddle of contentment. She nestled her nose into the tuft of hair between his mounded pectorals and inhaled his scent of saddle leather and faint, masculine musk. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes rolled back in her head with bliss.

When I opened my eyes, we were still surrounded by darkness. A lantern, standing on the ground, showed a bubbling well. The water splashing from the well disappeared, almost at once, under the floor on which I was lying, with my head on the knee of the man in the black cloak and the black mask. He was bathing my temples and his hands smelt of death. I tried to push them away and asked, ‘Who are you? Where is the voice?’ His only answer was a sigh. Suddenly, a hot breath passed over my face and I perceived a white shape, beside the man’s black shape, in the darkness. The black shape lifted me on to the white shape, a glad neighing greeted my astounded ears and I murmured, ‘Cesar!’ The animal quivered. Raoul, I was lying half back on a saddle and I had recognized the white horse out of the PROFETA, which I had so often fed with sugar and sweets. I remembered that, one evening, there was a rumor in the theater that the horse had disappeared and that it had been stolen by the Opera ghost. I believed in the voice, but had never believed in the ghost. Now, however, I began to wonder, with a shiver, whether I was the ghost’s prisoner. I called upon the voice to help me, for I should never have imagined that the voice and the ghost were one. You have heard about the Opera ghost, have you not, Raoul?” “Yes, but tell me what happened when you were on the white horse of the Profeta?” “I made no movement and let myself go. The black shape held me up, and I made no effort to escape. A curious feeling of peacefulness came over me and I thought that I must be under the influence of some cordial. I had the full command of my senses; and my eyes became used to the darkness, which was lit, here and there, by fitful gleams. I calculated that we were in a narrow circular gallery, probably running all round the Opera, which is immense, underground. I had once been down into those cellars, but had stopped at the third floor, though there were two lower still, large enough to hold a town. But the figures of which I caught sight had made me run away. There are demons down there, quite black, standing in front of boilers, and they wield shovels and pitchforks and poke up fires and stir up flames and, if you come too near them, they frighten you by suddenly opening the red mouths of their furnaces … Well, while Cesar was quietly carrying me on his back, I saw those black demons in the distance, looking quite small, in front of the red fires of their furnaces: they came into sight, disappeared and came into sight again, as we went on our winding way. At last, they disappeared altogether. The shape was still holding me up and Cesar walked on, unled and sure-footed. I could not tell you, even approximately, how long this ride lasted; I only know that we seemed to turn and turn and often went down a spiral stair into the very heart of the earth. Even then, it may be that my head was turning, but I don’t think so: no, my mind was quite clear. At last, Cesar raised his nostrils, sniffed the air and quickened his pace a little. I felt a moistness in the air and Cesar stopped. The darkness had lifted. A sort of bluey light surrounded us. We were on the edge of a lake, whose leaden waters stretched into the distance, into the darkness; but the blue light lit up the bank and I saw a little boat fastened to an iron ring on the wharf!” - Chapter 12: Apollo’s Lyre

GOD I am ready for you to come back. Whether in a train full of dying criminals or on the gleaming saddle of a locust, you are needed again. The earth is a giant chessboard where the dark squares get all the rain. On this one the wet is driving people mad—the bankers all baying in the woods while their markets fail, a florist chewing up flowers to spit mouthfuls here and there as his daughter’s lungs seize shut from the pollen. There is a flat logic to neglect. Sweet nothings sour in the air while the ocean hoots itself to sleep. I live on the skull of a giant burning brain, the earth’s core. Sometimes I can feel it pulsing through the dirt, though even this you ignore. The mind wants what it wants: daily newspapers, snapping turtles, a pound of flesh. The work I’ve been doing is a kind of erasing. I dump my ashtray into a bucket of paint and coat myself in the gray slick, rolling around on the carpets of rich strangers while they applaud and sip their scotch. A body can cause almost anything to happen. Remember when you breathed through my mouth, your breath becoming mine? Remember when you sang for me and I fell to the floor, turning into a thousand mice? Whatever it was we were practicing cannot happen without you. I thought I saw you last year, bark wrapped around your thighs, lurching toward the shore at dawn. It was only mist and dumb want. They say even longing has its limits: in a bucket, an eel will simply stop swimming long before it starves. Wounded wolves will pad away from their pack to die lonely and cold. Do you not know how scary it can get here? The talons that dropped me left long scars around my neck that still burn in the wind. I was promised epiphany, earth- honey, and a flood of milk, but I will settle for anything that brings you now, you still-hungry mongrel, you glut of bone, you, scentless as gold.

ONCE, a youth went to see a wise man, and said to him: “I have come seeking advice, for I am tormented by feelings of worthlessness and no longer wish to live. Everyone tells me that I am a failure and a fool. I beg you, Master, help me!” The wise man glanced at the youth, and answered hurriedly: “Forgive me, but I am very busy right now and cannot help you. There is one urgent matter in particular which I need to attend to...”—and here he stopped, for a moment, thinking, then added: “But if you agree to help me, I will happily return the favor.” “Of...of course, Master!” muttered the youth, noting bitterly that yet again his concerns had been dismissed as unimportant. “Good,” said the wise man, and took off a small ring with a beautiful gem from his finger. “Take my horse and go to the market square! I urgently need to sell this ring in order to pay off a debt. Try to get a decent price for it, and do not settle for anything less than one gold coin! Go right now, and come back as quick as you can!” The youth took the ring and galloped off. When he arrived at the market square, he showed it to the various traders, who at first examined it with close interest. But no sooner had they heard that it would sell only in exchange for gold than they completely lost interest. Some of the traders laughed openly at the boy; others simply turned away. Only one aged merchant was decent enough to explain to him that a gold coin was too high a price to pay for such a ring, and that he was more likely to be offered only copper, or at best, possibly silver. When he heard these words, the youth became very upset, for he remembered the old man’s instruction not to accept anything less than gold. Having already gone through the whole market looking for a buyer among hundreds of people, he saddled the horse and set off. Feeling thoroughly depressed by his failure, he returned to see the wise man. “Master, I was unable to carry out your request,” he said. “At best I would have been able to get a couple of silver coins, but you told me not to agree to anything less than gold! But they told me that this ring is not worth that much.” “That’s a very important point, my boy!” the wise man responded. “Before trying to sell a ring, it would not be a bad idea to establish how valuable it really is! And who can do that better than a jeweler? Ride over to him and find out what his price is. Only do not sell it to him, regardless of what he offers you! Instead, come back to me straightaway.” The young man once more leapt up on to the horse and set off to see the jeweler. The latter examined the ring through a magnifying glass for a long time, then weighed it on a set of tiny scales. Finally, he turned to the youth and said: “Tell your master that right now I cannot give him more than 58 gold coins for it. But if he gives me some time, I will buy the ring for 70.” “70 gold coins?!” exclaimed the youth. He laughed, thanked the jeweler and rushed back at full speed to the wise man. When the latter heard the story from the now animated youth, he told him: “Remember, my boy, that you are like this ring. Precious, and unique! And only a real expert can appreciate your true value. So why are you wasting your time wandering through the market and heeding the opinion of any old fool?

The next day Aunt Lou was the very first up in the morning again. “I’ve driven a car,” she said to Papa. “Now it is time to ride a horse. Only five more days before we have to go back East. It’s time.” “‘Old lady on a dapple…’” began Jack before Mama put her hand over his mouth. Grandfather and Papa smiled. “Zeke, maybe,” said Aunt Lou. Papa looked at Mama. “I remember a long time ago,” he said softly. “Do you?” Mama nodded. “When I first came here I wanted to learn to ride your wildest horse, Jack, and to fix the roof…” “And to plow and almost everything else,” said Papa. “And she did,” said Caleb with a smile. “She wore overalls, too.” “I had a lot to learn,” said Mama. “Well, Sarah taught me how to swim when she first came here,” said Caleb. “In the slough?” exclaimed Aunt Harriet. “You bet,” said Caleb. “You bet,” echoed Jack, making everyone laugh. “I remember skinny-dipping in Maine,” Caleb said. “That water was cold.” “I’ll ride Zeke,” said Aunt Lou, starting to walk to the barn. “No,” said Papa, going after her and taking her hand. “I’ll saddle up Molly.” “I’ll go with you,” said Grandfather. “This time we’ll take a quiet and slow ride around the slough. If that’s possible for you,” he called after Aunt Lou.

They had very little grub and they usually run out of that and lived on straight beef; they had only three or four horses to the man, mostly with sore backs, because the old time saddle ate both ways, the horse's back and the cowboy's pistol pocket; they had no tents, no tarps, and damn few slickers. They never kicked, because those boys was raised under just the same conditions as there was on the trail―corn meal and bacon for grub, dirt floors in the houses, and no luxuries. They used to brag they could go any place a cow could and stand anything a horse could. It was their life. In person the cowboys were mostly medium-sized men, as a heavy man was hard on horses, quick and wiry, and as a rule very good natured; in fact it did not pay to be anything else. In character there like never was or will be again. They were intensely loyal to the outfit they were working for and would fight to the death for it. They would follow their wagon boss through hell and never complain. I have seen them ride into camp after two days and nights on herd, lay down on their saddle blankets in the rain, and sleep like dead men, then get up laughing and joking about some good time they had had in Ogallala or Dodge City. Living that kind of a life, they were bound to be wild and brave. In fact there was only two things the old-time cowpuncher was afraid of, a decent woman and being set afoot.

Here are some of the handicaps mutual-fund managers and other professional investors are saddled with: With billions of dollars under management, they must gravitate toward the biggest stocks—the only ones they can buy in the multimillion-dollar quantities they need to fill their portfolios. Thus many funds end up owning the same few overpriced giants. Investors tend to pour more money into funds as the market rises. The managers use that new cash to buy more of the stocks they already own, driving prices to even more dangerous heights. If fund investors ask for their money back when the market drops, the managers may need to sell stocks to cash them out. Just as the funds are forced to buy stocks at inflated prices in a rising market, they become forced sellers as stocks get cheap again. Many portfolio managers get bonuses for beating the market, so they obsessively measure their returns against benchmarks like the S & P 500 index. If a company gets added to an index, hundreds of funds compulsively buy it. (If they don’t, and that stock then does well, the managers look foolish; on the other hand, if they buy it and it does poorly, no one will blame them.) Increasingly, fund managers are expected to specialize. Just as in medicine the general practitioner has given way to the pediatric allergist and the geriatric otolaryngologist, fund managers must buy only “small growth” stocks, or only “mid-sized value” stocks, or nothing but “large blend” stocks.6 If a company gets too big, or too small, or too cheap, or an itty bit too expensive, the fund has to sell it—even if the manager loves the stock. So

When we made up our minds to leave for Medina,” one emigrant would remember, “three of us arranged to meet in the morning at the thorn trees of Adat,” about six miles outside Mecca. “We agreed that if one of us failed to appear, that would mean that he had been kept back by force, and the other two should go on without him.” Only two of them reached Adat. The third was intercepted halfway there by one of his uncles, accompanied by abu-Jahl, who told him that his mother had vowed she would neither comb her hair nor take shelter from the sun until she had seen him again. On the way back, they pushed him to the ground, tied him up, and forced him to recant islam. This was how it should be done, the uncle declared: “Oh men of Mecca, deal with your fools as we have dealt with this fool of ours.” Women were not dealt with much more kindly. Umm Salama, who was later to become Muhammad’s fourth wife after she was widowed, told how her kinsmen were enraged when they saw her setting out by camel with her then husband and their infant son. “You can do as you like,” they told her husband, “but don’t think we will let you take our kinswoman away.” “They snatched the camel’s rope from my husband’s hand and took me from him,” she remembered. Then to make matters worse, her in-laws turned up, and a tussle developed over who would take custody of the child she was cradling in her arms—her family or her husband’s family. “We cannot leave the boy with you now that you have torn his mother from our kinsman,” her in-laws declared, and to her horror, both sides “dragged at my little boy between them until they dislocated his shoulder.” In the end, her husband’s family took the child, Umm Salama’s family took her, and her husband left alone for Medina. “Thus was I separated from both my husband and my son,” she would say. There was nothing she could do but “sit in the valley every day and weep” until both families finally relented. “Then I saddled my camel and took my son in my arms, and set forth for my husband in Medina. Not a soul was with me.

…and then Aerin caught a sudden whiff of smoke as from, and then the smell of cooking. She sat down hard, but Talat’s ears flicked back at her. What do you mean stop here? and went on. And there was a small campfire, tucked in the curve of the trail where there was a little clearing and a stream curving around the other side. “Good day to you,” said Luthe. Talat whickered a greeting, and Aerin slid off him and he went forward alone to nose Luthe's hands and browse his hair. “I thought you never left your hall and your lake,” said Aerin. “Rarely,” said Luthe. “In fact, increasingly exceedingly rarely. But I can be prodded from time to time by extraordinary circumstances.” Aerin smiled faintly. “You have plenty to choose from here recently.” “Yes.” “May I ask, which particular circumstance was sufficiently extraordinary in this case?” “Aerin—” Luthe paused, and then his voice took on its bantering tone again. “I thought you might like to be dragged back to the present, that you might arrive in time to give Tor his Crown and end the siege; and of course now instead of a few hundred years hence there is no jungle to be compelled to claw your way through. I’ve no doubt you could have done it, but it would have put you in a foul temper, and you would have been in a fouler one by the time you came back to the Lake of Dreams—assuming you would still have had the sense to to make your way there, not in your case something one can count on. You would have needed my assistance to regain your own time—if lighting a little fire made you see double, charging about in time without assistance would have blinded you for good—the longer you’re out of it, the harder it would have been to get you back in. So I came to meet you.” Aerin stared at the fire, for she couldn’t think at all when she looked at Luthe. “I really was a long time climbing, then,” she said. “Yes,” said Luthe. “A very long time.” “And a very long time falling.” “And a very long time falling.” Aerin said nothing more while she pulled Talat’s saddle off and dropped it by the fire, and rubbed his back dry, and checked his feet for small stones. “I suppose I should forgive you, then, for making me other than mortal,” she said. “You might. I would appreciate it if you did.

Then, on a left-hand curve 2.8 kilometres from the finish line, Marco delivers another cutting acceleration. Tonkov is immediately out of the saddle. The gap reaches two lengths. Tonkov fights his way back and is on Marco’s wheel when Marco, who is still standing on the pedals, accelerates again. Suddenly Tonkov is no longer there. Afterwards Tonkov would say he could no longer feel his hands and feet. ‘I had to stop. I lost his slipstream. I couldn’t go on.’ Marco told Romano Cenni he could taste blood. His performance on Montecampione was close to self-mutilation. Seven hundred metres from the finish line, the TV camera on the inside of the final right-hand bend, looking down the hill, picks Marco up over two hundred metres from the line and follows him for fifty metres, a fifteen-second close-up, grainy, pallid in the late-afternoon light. A car and motorbike, diffused and ghostlike, pass between the camera and Marco, emerging out of the gloom. The image cuts to another camera, tight on him as he swings round into the finishing straight, a five-second flash before the live, wide shot of the stage finish: Marco, framed between ecstatic fans on either side, and the finish-line scaffolding adorned with race sponsors‘ logos; largest, and centrally, the Gazzetta dello Sport, surrounded by branding for iced tea, shower gel, telephone services. Then we see it again in the super-slow-motion replay; the five seconds between the moment Marco appeared in the closing straight and the moment he crossed the finish line are extruded to fifteen strung-out seconds. The image frames his head and little else, revealing details invisible in real time and at standard resolution: a drop of sweat that falls from his chin as he makes the bend, the gaping jaw and crumpled forehead and lines beneath the eyes that deepen as Marco wrings still more speed from the mountain. As he rides towards victory in the Giro d‘Italia, Marco pushes himself so deeply into the pain of physical exertion that the gaucheness he has always shown before the camera dissolves, and — this must be the instant he crosses the line — he begins to rise out of his agony. The torso lifts to vertical, the arms spread out into a crucifix position, the eyelids descend, and Marco‘s face, altered by the darkness he has seen in his apnoea, lifts towards the light.

Areli kicked her dragon upwards and followed Aquilina and Fides through the lanterns and rock, out into clean mountain air. Aquilina had picked only the two, whom she said were hands down the greatest riders on the team, to ride with her. Areli didn’t know how to respond to that, except to turn red and cover her mouth with surprise. And now she was flying, not in an arena, but in free air, a privilege given to only the best professional riders. They flew over the city. The buildings looked like small blocks and the carriages looked like gold-colored ants roaming about. The sweep of the cool air was refreshing against Areli’s face. They flew over the trees leading to Emperor Abhiraja’s forest, which looked like nothing but a tossed salad from their view. And then they were over Emperor Abhiraja’s trees. Back at the boarding facility, before they left, Aquilina told them there was only one rule if they were to ride with her . . . keep up. Aquilina veered down towards the trees. Fides took after her and Areli followed. Areli sat hard into her seat and pulled the reins to her right. She leaned her leg into Kaia’s left shoulder and held on tight to the saddle horn. Kaia leaned her body and they knifed through the air. Areli shifted her legs and hands, chasing after Fides and Aquilina. They slipped through a tiny gap in the tops of the massive trees. Areli saw the red of Fidelja’s dragon ahead of her, and then it disappeared. She saw shades of brown and green coming up fast. Areli pulled on the reins, keeping her hands light, and sunk into the seat, leveling off their descent into the forest. She immediately started kicking Kaia forward as she saw Fides dragon’s tail wrap past a tree. Areli commanded Kaia in a way she never had before. Using every skill she ever learned, she cued Kaia right, then left, then into a roll to get through two narrowly placed trees, and then up, always following the blur of red in front of her. They came out above the trees again and then they swooped back down. This time it was into the Columns of Abhi. They curved around the large rock structures like a knife full of butter caressing a freshly baked roll. Areli didn’t think she could feel this exhilarated. But there was something utterly breathtaking about flying without walls, without spectators or trainers. This was true freedom, according to Areli. Freedom from homework, freedom from fears, freedom from worries. This was the place where she could be . . . just to be.

My eyes widened at that offer. I’d missed riding since coming to the Academy and I hadn’t really thought I’d be able to get out again any time soon. But I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know quite how much this meant to me. Every other piece of information the Heirs had gotten on me up until now had been twisted against me in some way and I didn’t want them trying to take this from me too. “I’m not really dressed for it,” I said slowly though in all honesty I had no issue with tying my dress in a knot around my waist if that was what it took to get me out on the road. “I’m sure I could lend you my shirt if you want to take it off,” he replied. “That would require both of us taking off rather a lot of our clothes.” There was a dare hanging in the air between us and I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to resist it much longer. I eyed the line up of bikes, my heart beating a little faster as I tried to decide which one I’d choose. In all honesty I was too drunk to ride, although the sandwich was mopping up some of the excess alcohol and I was feeling a little less dizzy... It still wouldn’t have been the best idea though. “Why do you have the same bikes that that they have in the mortal world?” I asked as I began to wander between the immaculate machines. Some of the badges were different, I read names like Yamaharpy, Sphinxzuki, Hondusa, Harley Dragonson and I couldn’t keep the smirk from my lips but the actual bikes were definitely mortal models. “There are several permanent rifts between our world and the mortal world where we import all sorts of goods like these. The importers like to change the names as a kind of in-joke but a hell of a lot of our products come straight out of Taiwan or China, direct to Solaria,” Darius explained. “Why?” I asked. “Can’t Fae invent their own bikes and cars?” “I guess we could... but why bother? We’ve got better things to do with our time and it makes sense to use the mortals like our own personal goods suppliers. The Fae they deal with even manage to Coerce the best prices for everything we import. No Fae vendor would create any of the things we desire so cheaply.” Darius folded his arms and leaned back to perch on the saddle of a stunning green bike as he watched my exploration. “So you basically abuse the mortals with your power?” I asked. “We use our power to take what we want from them,” he agreed. “Just the same as we do with other Fae.” He had a point there; Fae were equally asshole-like to their own kind. (Tory)

No matter what level of instruction Marlboro Man gave me, no matter how many pointers, a horse trot for me meant a repeated and violet Slap! Slap! Slap! on the seat of my saddle. My feet were fine--they’d stay securely in the stirrups. But I just couldn’t figure out how to use the muscles in my legs correctly, and I hadn’t yet learned how to post. It was so unpleasant, the whole riding-a-horse business: my bottom would slap, my torso would stiffen, and I’d be sore for days--not to mention that I looked like a complete freak while riding--kind of like a tree trunk with red, stringy hair. Short of taking the rectal temperatures of cows, I’d never felt more out of place doing anything in my life. All of this rushed to the surface when I saw Marlboro Man walking toward me with two of his horses, one of which was clearly meant for me. Where’s my Jeep? I thought. Where’s my torch? I don’t want a horse. My bottom can’t take it. Where’s my Jeep? I’d never wanted to drive a Jeep so much. “Hey,” I said, walking toward him and smiling, trying to appear not only calm but also totally unconcerned about the reality that faced me. “Uh…I thought we were going burning.” I clearly sounded out the g. It was a loud, clanging cymbal. “Oh, we are,” he said, smiling. “But we’ve got to get to some areas the Jeep can’t reach.” My stomach lurched. For more than a couple of seconds, I actually considered feigning illness so I wouldn’t have to go. What can I say? I wondered. That I feel like I’m going to throw up? Or should I just clutch my stomach, groan, then run behind the barn and make dramatic retching sounds? That could be highly effective. Marlboro Man will feel sorry for me and say, “It’s okay…you just go on up to my house and rest. I’ll be back later.” But I don’t think I can go through with it; vomiting is so embarrassing! And besides, if Marlboro Man thinks I vomited, I might not get a kiss today… “Oh, okay,” I said, smiling again and trying to prevent my face from betraying the utter dread that plagued me. I hadn’t noticed, through all my inner torture and turmoil, that Marlboro Man and the horses had been walking closer to me. Before I knew it, Marlboro Man’s right arm was wrapped around my waist while his other hand held the reins of the two horses. In another instant, he pulled me toward him in a tight grip and leaned in for a sweet, tender kiss--a kiss he seemed to savor even after our lips parted. “Good morning,” he said sweetly, grinning that magical grin. My knees went weak. I wasn’t sure if it was the kiss itself…or the dread of riding.

She thinks no one would ever marry ‘a reckless society miss’ and a ‘troublemaker.’” He winced to hear his own words thrown back at him. Celia was all that…and so much more. Not that he dared tell her. Bad enough that he’d revealed too much of how he felt yesterday. For now, she could chalk it up to mere desire. If he started paying her compliments, she might guess how far his feelings went, and that wouldn’t do. So he tempered his remarks. “Your grandmother is merely worried that you will waste yourself on some man who doesn’t deserve you.” Like a bastard Bow Street Runner. “I suspect that if you tell her you’re going to marry the duke, she won’t be a bit surprised. And she certainly won’t agree to rescind the ultimatum, now that she’s finally achieved what she wanted.” “Yes, I’ve come to that conclusion myself. And besides…well…it wouldn’t be fair to involve him in such a plot behind his back when he’s a genuinely nice man offering marriage. If word got out that he had offered and I’d accepted, only to turn him down, people would assume I’d done it because of the madness in his family. That would just be cruel.” Now that Jackson knew she wasn’t actually going to marry the duke, he could be open-minded. “It certainly wouldn’t be kind,” he agreed. “But I’d be more worried that if word got out, you’d be painted as the worst sort of jilt.” She shrugged that off. “I wouldn’t care, as long as it freed me from Gran’s ultimatum.” It took him a moment to digest that. “So you lied when you said at our first discussion of your suitors that you had an interest in marriage?” “Of course I didn’t lie.” Her cheeks pinkened again. “But I want to marry for love, and not because Gran has decided I’m taking too long at it. I want my husband to genuinely care for me.” Her voice shook a little. “And not just my fortune.” She cut him a sidelong glance. “Or my connections.” He stiffened in the saddle. “I understand.” Oh yes, he understood all right. Any overtures he made would be construed as mercenary. Her grandmother had made sure of that by telling her of his aspirations. Not that it mattered. If he married her, he risked watching her lose everything. A Chief Magistrate made quite a lofty sum for someone of Jackson’s station, but for someone of hers? It was nothing. Less than nothing. “So what do you plan to do?” he asked. “About your grandmother’s ultimatum, I mean.” She shook her head. “If presenting her with an offer and begging her forbearance didn’t work, my original plan was just to marry whichever of the three gentlemen had offered.” “And now?” “I can’t bring myself to do it.” He stopped clenching the reins. “Well, that’s something then.” “So I find myself back where I started. I suppose I shall have to drum up some more suitors.” She slanted a glance at him. “Any ideas?

Marcus released the countess as if he had been burned. His first reaction was a piercing relief that Lillian was still alive. However, the relief was followed immediately by the awareness that she was far from safe. In light of St. Vincent’s need of a fortune, it made perfect sense for him to abduct Lillian. Marcus turned from his mother, never wanting to look at her again, unable to bring himself to speak to her. His gaze locked with Simon Hunt’s. Predictably, Hunt was already making rapid calculations. “He’ll take her to Gretna Green, of course,” Hunt murmured, “and they’ll have to travel east to the main road in Hertfordshire. He won’t risk traveling the back ways and getting mired in mud, or having the wheels damaged from broken road. From Hertfordshire it will be approximately forty-five hours to Scotland… and at a speed of ten miles per hour, with occasional stops for fresh relay horses…” “You’ll never overtake them,” the countess cried with a cackling laugh. “I told you I would have my way, Westcliff!” “Oh, shut up, you evil hag!” cried Daisy Bowman impatiently from the doorway, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Lord Westcliff, shall I run to the stables and tell them to saddle a horse?” “Two horses,” Simon Hunt said resolutely. “I’m going with him.” “Which ones—” “Ebony and Yasmin,” Marcus replied. They were his best Arabians, bred for speed over long distance. They were not as lightning-fast as thoroughbreds, but they would endure a punishing pace for hours, traveling at least three times as fast as St. Vincent’s coach. Daisy disappeared in a flash, and Marcus turned to his sister. “See that the countess is gone by the time I return,” he said curtly. “Pack whatever she needs, and get her off the estate.” “Where do you wish me to send her?” Livia asked, pale but composed. “I don’t give a damn, so long as she knows not to return.” Realizing that she was being banished, and most likely exiled, the countess rose from her chair. “I will not be disposed of in this manner! I won’t have it, my lord!” “And tell the countess,” Marcus said to Livia, “that if the slightest harm comes to Miss Bowman, she had better pray that I never find her.” Marcus strode from the room, shoving through a small crowd that had gathered in the hallway. Simon Hunt followed, pausing only to murmur briefly to Annabelle and press a kiss to her forehead. She stared after him with an anxious frown, biting her lip to keep from calling after him. After a lengthy pause, the countess was heard to mutter, “It matters not what becomes of me. I am content in the knowledge that I have prevented him from befouling the family lineage.” Livia turned to give her mother a half-pitying, half-contemptuous glance. “Marcus never fails,” she said softly. “Most of his childhood was spent learning to overcome impossible odds. And now that Marcus has finally found someone worth fighting for… do you really think he would let anything stop him?

You okay?” Marlboro Man called out. I didn’t answer. I just kept on walking, determined to get the hell out of Dodge. It took him about five seconds to catch up with me; I wasn’t a very fast walker. “Hey,” he said, grabbing me around the waist and whipping me around so I was facing him. “Aww, it’s okay. It happens.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted him to let go of me and I wanted to keep on walking. I wanted to walk back down the hillside, start my car, and get out of there. I didn’t know where I’d go, I just knew I wanted to go. I wanted away from all of it--riding horses, saddles, reins, bridles--I didn’t want it anymore. I hated everything on that ranch. It was all stupid, dumb…and stupid. Wriggling loose of his consoling embrace, I squealed, “I seriously can’t do this!” My hands trembled wildly and my voice quivered. The tip of my nose began to sting, and tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t like me to display such hysteria in the presence of a man. But being driven to the brink of death had brought me to this place. I felt like a wild animal. I was powerless to restrain myself. “I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life!” I cried. I turned to leave again but decided instead to give up, choosing to sit down on the ground and slump over in defeat. It was all so humiliating--not just my rigid, freakish riding style or my near collision with the ground, but also my crazy, emotional reaction after the fact. This wasn’t me. I was a strong, confident woman, for Lord’s sake; I don’t slump on the ground in the middle of a pasture and cry. What was I doing in a pasture, anyway? Knowing my luck, I was probably sitting on a pile of manure. But I couldn’t even walk anymore; my knees were even trembling by now, and I’d lost all feeling in my fingertips. My heart pounded in my cheeks. If Marlboro Man had any sense, he would have taken the horses and gotten the hell out of there, leaving me, the hysterical female, sobbing on the ground by myself. She’s obviously in the throes of some hormonal fit, he probably thought. There’s nothing you can say to her when she gets like this. I don’t have time for this crap. She’s just gonna have to learn to deal with it if she’s going to marry me. But he didn’t get the hell out of there. He didn’t leave me sobbing on the ground by myself. Instead he joined me on the grass, sitting beside me and putting his hand on my leg, reassuring me that this kind of thing happens, and there wasn’t anything I did wrong, even though he was probably lying. “Now, did you really mean that about not wanting to do this the rest of your life?” he asked. That familiar, playful grin appeared in the corner of his mouth. I blinked a couple of times and took a deep breath, smiling back at him and reassuring him with my eyes that no, I hadn’t meant it, but I did hate his horse. Then I took a deep breath, stood up, and dusted off my Anne Klein straight-leg jeans. “Hey, we don’t have to do this now,” Marlboro Man said, standing back up. “I’ll just do it later.” “No, I’m fine,” I answered, walking back toward my horse with newfound resolve.

Ava: “Grandma said you haven’t been the same since Mommy died. And Uncle Cam said you needed to get back in the saddle again. Is that why we came here? So you could ride horses?

If they are to be turned into bread, grains have to be ground. When I was a little girl, my father decided to make some flour from the wheat we had grown on the farm. He tried pounding it with a pestle and mortar but all he got was broken grains, not flour. He put it through the hand mincer screwed to the edge of the table with the same result. Finally, he attacked it with a hammer on the flagstone floor. After he gave up, defeated, my mother cleared up the mess. It was sobering to realize that if the commercial millers had vanished, we could have starved even with barns full of sacks of wheat. To turn wheat into flour, you have to shear, not pound, the hard grains, which requires a grindstone, as the people of Lake Kinneret had discovered. A friend in Mexico, where hand grinding still goes on, showed me how it works. She knelt at the upper end of a grindstone, called a metate—a saddle-shaped platform on three inverted pyramidal legs, hewn from a single piece of volcanic rock (fig. 1.7). She mounded a handful of barley, took the mano, a stone shaped like a squared-off rolling pin, in both hands with her thumbs facing back to nudge the grain into place, and, using the whole weight of her upper body, sheared the mano over the grain. After half a dozen motions, she had broken the grains, which now clustered at the bottom end of the metate. Carefully scraping them up with her fingertips, she moved them back to the top, and started shearing again, this time producing white streaks of flour. By the time she had sheared the grain from top to bottom five or six times, she had produced a handful of flour.

You live here in Copper Creek, Miss Ashford?” She dipped a fresh cloth in the water and washed the bullet wound in the patient’s shoulder as best she could. “I do now. We arrived today.” She paused and straightened, the muscles in her back in spasms from bending over the table, and from too much riding on trains and coaches and wagons. She thought of Janie waiting at home, watching for her, and hoped she wasn’t worrying. Robert’s only concern would be that she’d left him overlong with people he didn’t know. He hated making chitchat. She just hoped he wasn’t acting sullen and stone-faced with Vince, Janie, and Emma, like he so often did with her. Hearing a clock ticking somewhere behind her, she rethreaded the needle and focused again on her task. Suturing a man was different from suturing a horse, and very definitely different from sewing saddles. Yet something about the repetition of the act felt similar, which made her wonder if she was doing it right. “We?” Finishing the third suture in the man’s shoulder, she peered up at Caradon, the needle poised between her right thumb and forefinger. “I beg your pardon?” “You said ‘we arrived today.’” Not wanting to talk, she tied off a fourth suture, and a fifth, aware of him watching her. “My brother and I.” “Where did you move from?” She raised her head to find him leaning close, their faces inches apart. “If you don’t mind, Marshal Caradon, could we . . . not talk right now?” The tanned lines at the corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. “Not much on that, are you, ma’am? Talking, I mean.” Though his expression denied it, she heard a smile in his voice, yet she held back from responding to it. Outwardly anyway. Someone like Wyatt Caradon was the last person she, or Robert, needed in their lives right now. “I don’t mind talking, Marshal. When I’m not exhausted, famished, and stitching up a gunshot wound.” Catching his grin before she looked away, she finished suturing and bandaging the wound.

When they reached his horse tethered two streets over, he assisted her into the saddle. Caradon’s horse was a beauty of a mare—chestnut with a black mane. As Marshal Caradon untied the reins, McKenna scooted back so she’d be riding behind him instead of afore. Her preference. But not his apparently, telling by his short-lived frown. He climbed into the saddle and guided the horse down the street. “Not much room back there.” She balanced easily enough, having ridden this way with her father when she was a girl. Though that seemed like another lifetime ago. She was accustomed to having her own mount these days. “I’m fine. I’m an experienced rider.” “With a hand that needs stitching.” She glanced at the bandage. “I’ll hold on. If the situation arises.” He gently urged the mare to a faster pace, as though challenging that statement. Sensing his test, McKenna smiled and held on to the cantle, with no fear of falling, but mindful of the close proximity of her hand to Caradon’s backside. He slowed the mare’s pace. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he spoke over his shoulder, grinning. “Marshaling must be lonelier work than I thought, Marshal Caradon.” She heard his soft laugh and was reminded again of who he was. Best to keep some distance between them, and not only in proximity.

Robert never has liked my biscuits.” She retrieved the basket, trying for a carefree tone. “Honestly, I can’t say I blame him. I’m not much good at baking.” Or anything else with Robert, it would seem. Silence answered back, and she bowed her head, wondering if she was wrong to have come here. “That may be true on the baking part, ma’am. But . . . from what I hear . . .” Something in his voice drew her gaze. “You make right fine saddles.” Her eyes widened. How did Dunn know she made saddles? She’d given Casey Trenton her word she wouldn’t tell anyone she worked for him. If she lost this job at the livery . . . “I–I’m sorry, Sheriff Dunn. But I’m not quite sure I understand your meaning.” His sheepish smile held mischief, and looked out of place on such a seasoned man of the law. “Let’s just say I heard it from someone who’s right proud of you, ma’am.” He glanced again toward the hallway. “Even though I’m not sure he realizes how true that is just yet.” “Thank you, Sheriff Dunn.

The trembly fellow sighed and said, “I’m all out of whack. I’m going uptown and see my doctor.” Mr. Flood snorted again. “Oh, shut up,” he said. “Damn your doctor! I tell you what you do. You get right out of here and go over to Libby’s oyster house and tell the man you want to eat some of his big oysters. Don’t sit down. Stand up at that fine marble bar they got over there, where you can watch the man knife them open. And tell him you intend to drink the oyster liquor; he’ll knife them on the cup shell, so the liquor won’t spill. And be sure you get the big ones. Get them so big you’ll have to rear back to swallow, the size that most restaurants use for fries and stews; God forgive them, they don’t know any better. Ask for Robbins Islands, Mattitucks, Cape Cods, or Saddle Rocks. And don’t put any of that red sauce on them, that cocktail sauce, that mess, that gurry. Ask the man for half a lemon, poke it a time or two to free the juice, and squeeze it over the oysters. And the first one he knifes, pick it up and smell it, the way you’d smell a rose, or a shot of brandy. That briny, seaweedy fragrance will clear your head; it’ll make your blood run faster. And don’t just eat six; take your time and eat a dozen, eat two dozen, eat three dozen, eat four dozen. And then leave the man a generous tip and go buy yourself a fifty-cent cigar and put your hat on the side of your head and take a walk down to Bowling Green. Look at the sky! Isn’t it blue? And look at the girls a-tap-tap-tapping past on their pretty little feet! Aren’t they just the finest girls you ever saw, the bounciest, the rumpiest, the laughingest? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for even thinking about spending good money on a damned doctor? And along about here, you better be careful. You’re apt to feel so bucked-up you’ll slap strangers on the back, or kick a window in, or fight a cop, or jump on the tailboard of a truck and steal a ride.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she peered over the edge of the bed at her husband. When he rolled to one side and then the other and finally settled for lying on his back, she arched an eyebrow. “Comfortable?” He made that Scottish harrumph sound. “Come on up here,” she said, patting the bed. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He made no response. Fine. Be that way. She scooted out of bed and unabashedly stretched out alongside her tall Highlander. The burgundy kilt did nothing to disguise the hardness of the floor, and her hip protested when she turned on her side to face him. “What are ye doing, lass?” His voice was so soft and close in the darkness, it made her shiver. She forgot all about the hard floor. “I always imagined that once I got married, I’d finally know what it was like to spend the night in a man’s arms. Will you hold me, so I can feel what that’s like? I won’t ask for more than that. Just hold me.” He rolled to face her and touched her cheek. “Ah, lass,” he sighed. “How can I deny you when you ask so sweetly? If ’tis holding ye want, holding you shall get. But the floor is no place for you and your bairn. Up in the bed with you.” “It’s no place for a married man, either,” she said, smiling at her small victory. He sighed again, a sound heavy with sentiment she could only guess at. She climbed under the blankets and held them up for him, but he was taking his sweet time. “Are you coming?” “Aye, lass. Just donning my plaid.” She bit back a huff of frustration. She determined to enjoy what little affection he would give her and didn’t want to push her luck by asking for more. Her hormones would have to learn patience; this was going to be a painfully slow seduction. When Darcy slipped into bed, bare-chested, but wrapped in layers of wool from the waist down, she cuddled into his open arms. All her frustration drained away as he gathered her in and the heat of his chest turned her into a melty puddle of contentment. She nestled her nose into the tuft of hair between his mounded pectorals and inhaled his scent of saddle leather and faint, masculine musk. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes rolled back in her head with bliss.

Tell me, why did it matter to you who won? I mean, even if you’d won, you still could have released me from the bargain. You could have said I didn’t have to spend those two days with you.” “I could have,” he acknowledged. “But after…after you told me about your father, I wanted you to have his horse back. Rava should have had more respect for his memory. She shouldn’t have taken him--them--away.” Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed several times to loosen my throat. What a stupid reaction. “Thank you,” I murmured, and I felt his hand close around mine, giving it a squeeze. I sighed contentedly, letting myself enjoy the moment. “What was your father like?” “I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” As usual, my typical phrasing was somewhat coarse, driven by my curiosity, and I caught myself, adopting a more considerate tone. “Did he die when you were young?” “No, he’s still alive.” I turned my head to gape at him, greatly confused. “He left you?” “No.” “Then what?” I sat up again, close to exasperation; he just looked at me, bemused, my hand still in his. “Father’s don’t raise their children in Cokyri. They aren’t trusted with such an important responsibility. I never knew mine.” This was not an answer I could have foreseen, and I shifted uneasily, trying to figure out how to proceed. “I’m sorry,” I said lamely. He was quiet at first, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky as he pondered our different experiences. “I never felt sorry about it. My mother was a good woman--she and her maidens took care of me. But like I told you before, I had to work harder than you can imagine to achieve my military rank, and only because I’m a man. I can do everything Rava can do. I always could, but no one would see it, not even her. A struggle like that makes you question things.” “So now you wish you’d known your father?” Again, he reflected. “No. I wish I’d known yours.” I looked away, once more fighting tears. I didn’t understand how he could affect me so deeply. “I’m not sure my father would have been to your liking,” I finally said, meeting his eyes. “I found him brave for his willingness to fight, even when there was no more hope. You would probably have found him weak.” He sat up and gazed earnestly at me. “There is a way to accomplish things, but it’s rarely to declare a war, private or otherwise.” “Sometimes the war is not of your making,” I retorted. “You must fight, otherwise you’re a lamb. And lambs are slaughtered, Saadi.” His brows drew together, and we stared at each other for much longer than we should have, and I knew I had rattled him. Then he shook his head. “See those lights up there? They’re called stars.” I laughed. “I can take a hint. We should go back.” We caught and saddled our mounts, then took our time returning to the city, neither of us really wanting the day to end.

Brennan seems to have met his match in director John Ford. Scott Eyman, a Ford biographer, reports that the usually easygoing Brennan allowed the irascible director to get on his nerves. “Can’t you even mount a horse?” Ford shouted at Brennan, when the actor had trouble saddling up. “No, but I got three Oscars for acting,” Brennan shot back. Eyman speculates that perhaps Brennan, who was unusually solemn on the set, transferred his hatred of Ford to his maniacal performance as Old Man Clanton. At any rate, Brennan vowed never to work with Ford again.

..."the unpredictability of war - that once the first shots are fired or first bombs fall, as Churchill said, the political leader loses control. Events are in the saddle. It seems that every war is begun with the assumptions it will be short. In nearly every instance, going back far into history, that assumption has been wrong. And so it happened again in Iraq and Afghanistan, as swift and successful regime changes gave way to long and bloody conflicts. In light of history, how could anyone have been surprised that our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan took unanticipated turns?

I went straight back to my room, surprising Mora and one of her staff in the act of packing up my trunk. Apologizing, I hastily unlaced the traveling gown and reached for my riding gear. Mora gave me a slight smile as she curtsied. “That’s my job, my lady,” she said. “You needn’t apologize.” I grinned at her as I pulled on the tunic. “Maybe it’s not very courtly, but I feel bad when I make someone do a job twice.” Mora only smiled as she made a sign to the other servant, who reached for the traveling gown and began folding it up. I thrust my feet into my riding boots, smashed my fancy new riding hat onto my head, and dashed out again. The Marquis was waiting in the courtyard, standing between two fresh mares. I was relieved that he did not have that fleet-footed gray I remembered from the year before. On his offering me my pick, I grabbed the reins of the nearest mount and swung up into the saddle. The animal danced and sidled as I watched Bran and Nimiar come out of the inn hand in hand. They climbed into the coach, solicitously seen to by the innkeeper himself. The Marquis looked across at me. “Let’s go.” And he was off, with me right on his heels. At first all I was aware of was the cold rain on my chin and the exhilaration of speed. The road was paved, enabling the horses to dash along at the gallop, sending mud and water splashing. Before long I was soaked to the skin everywhere except my head, which was hot under my riding hat, and when we bolted down the road toward the Akaeriki, I had to laugh aloud at how strange life is! Last year at this very time I was running rain-sodden for my life in the opposite direction, chased by the very same man now racing neck and neck beside me. The thought caused me to look at him, though there was little to see beyond flying light hair under the broad-brimmed black hat and that long black cloak. He glanced over, saw me laughing, and I looked away again, urging my mount to greater efforts. At the same pace still, we reached the first staging point. Together we clattered into the innyard and swung down from the saddle. At once two plain-dressed young men came out of the inn, bowed, and handed Shevraeth a blackweave bag. It was obvious from their bearing that they were trained warriors, probably from Renselaeus. For a moment the Marquis stood conversing with them, a tall mud-splashed and anonymously dressed figure. Did anyone else know who he was? Or who I was? Or that we’d been enemies last year? Again laughter welled up inside me. When I saw stablehands bring forth two fresh mounts, I sprang forward, taking the reins of one, and mounted up. Then I waited until Shevraeth turned my way, stuck my tongue out at him, and rode out at the gallop, laughing all the way.

At one end of the room was a group of young teens busy with swordplay, and at the other a swarm of children circled round on ancient carved horses mounted on cart wheels or played at stick-and-ball. I wandered toward my friends and was soon hailed by Renna, who offered me a bout. Time passed swiftly and agreeably. I finished my last engagement with one of Nee’s cousins and was just beginning to feel the result of sustained effort in my arm and back when a practice blade thwacked my shoulder. I spun around, and gaped. Shevraeth stood there smiling. At his elbow my brother grinned, and next to him, Savona watched with appreciation apparent in his dark eyes. “Come, Lady Meliara,” the Marquis said. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned since you took on Galdran.” “I didn’t take on Galdran,” I protested, feeling hot and cold at once. “I don’t know what you’d call it, then, Mel.” Bran leaned on his sword, still grinning. “Looked like you went have-at-’im to me.” “I was just trying to defend you,” I said, and the others all laughed. “And a fat lot of good it did, too,” I added when they stopped. “He knocked me right out of the saddle!” “Hit you from behind,” Shevraeth said. “Apparently he was afraid to confront so formidable a foe face-to-face.” They laughed again, but I knew it was not at me so much as at the hated King Galdran. Before I could speak again, Shevraeth raised his point and said, “Come now. Blade up.” I sighed. “I’ve already been made into cheese by Derec, there, and Renna, and Lornav, but if you think I merit another defeat…” Again they laughed, and Savona and my brother squared off as Shevraeth and I saluted. My bout with the Marquis was much like the others. Even more than usual I was hopelessly outclassed, but I stuck grimly to my place, refusing to back up, and took hit after hit, though my parrying was steadily improving. Of course I lost, but at least it wasn’t so easy a loss as I’d had when I first began to attend practice--and he didn’t insult me with obvious handicaps, such as never allowing his point to hit me. Bran and Savona finished a moment later, and Bran was just suggesting we exchange partners when the bells for third-gold rang, causing a general outcry. Some would stay, but most, I realized, were retreating to their various domiciles to bathe and dress for open Court.

Palmer looked back to see de Lacy still rolling across the muddy road from his fall, the destrier spinning and snorting from its refusal. ‘So you’ve got me, de Lacy?’ He faced forward again with another kick for greater speed. And a low-hanging branch slammed him from the saddle.

I went straight back to my room, surprising Mora and one of her staff in the act of packing up my trunk. Apologizing, I hastily unlaced the traveling gown and reached for my riding gear. Mora gave me a slight smile as she curtsied. “That’s my job, my lady,” she said. “You needn’t apologize.” I grinned at her as I pulled on the tunic. “Maybe it’s not very courtly, but I feel bad when I make someone do a job twice.” Mora only smiled as she made a sign to the other servant, who reached for the traveling gown and began folding it up. I thrust my feet into my riding boots, smashed my fancy new riding hat onto my head, and dashed out again. The Marquis was waiting in the courtyard, standing between two fresh mares. I was relieved that he did not have that fleet-footed gray I remembered from the year before. On his offering me my pick, I grabbed the reins of the nearest mount and swung up into the saddle. The animal danced and sidled as I watched Bran and Nimiar come out of the inn hand in hand. They climbed into the coach, solicitously seen to by the innkeeper himself. The Marquis looked across at me. “Let’s go.” And he was off, with me right on his heels.

I led my portion of the rearguard across the open ground to the right of the prince’s battalion, and surged into the first company of Castilian reinforcements as they tried to arrange into a defensive line. They were well-equipped foot with steel helms and leather jacks, glaives and axes, but demoralised and unwilling to stand against a charge of heavy horse. I skewered a serjeant in the front rank with my lance and rode over him as the men behind him scattered, yelling in fear and hurling their banners away as they ran. If all the Castilians had behaved in such a manner, we would have had an easy time of it, but now Enrique flung his household knights into the fray. It had started to rain heavily, sheets of water blown by strong winds across the battlefield, and a phalanx of Castilian lancers on destriers came plunging out of the murk, smashing into the front rank of my division. A lance shattered against my cuisse, almost knocking me from the saddle, but I kept my seat and slashed at the knight with my broadsword as he hurtled past, chopping an iron leaf from the chaplet encircling his basinet, but doing no other damage. My men held together under the Castilian charge, and soon there was a fine swirling mêlée in progress. I was surrounded by visored helms and glittering blades, men yelling and horses screaming, and glimpsed my standard bearer ahead of me, shouting and fending off two Castilians with the butt of his lance. Another Englishman rode in to help him, throwing his arms around one of the Castilians and heaving him out of the saddle with sheer brute strength, and then a fresh wave of steel and horseflesh, thrown up by the violent, shifting eddies of battle, closed over them and shut off my view. I couldn’t bear to lose my banner again, and charged into the mass of fighting men, clearing a path with the sword’s edge. A mace or similar hammered against my back-plate, sending bolts of agony shooting up my spine, and my foot slipped out of the stirrup as I leaned drunkenly in the saddle, black spots reeling before my eyes.

The horses, reluctant and excited from the first, become furious and wild. At the next shoal-personal nastiness being past consideration-we dismount, at knee-deep, to give them a moment's rest, shifting the mule's saddle to the trembling long-legged mare, and turning Mr. Brown loose, to follow as he could. After a breathing-spell we resume our splashed seats and the line of wade. Experience has taught us something, and we are more shrewd in choice of footing, the slopes around large trees being attractively high ground, until, by a stumble on a covered root, a knee is nearly crushed against a cypress trunk. Gullies now commence, cut by the rapid course of waters flowing off before north winds, in which it is good luck to escape instant drowning. Then quag again; the pony bogs; the mare, quivering and unmanageable, jumps sidelong among loose corduroy; and here are two riders standing waist-deep in mud and water between two frantic, plunging-horses, fortunately not beneath them. Nack soon extricates himself, and joins the mule, looking on terrified from behind. Fanny, delirious, believes all her legs broken and strewn about her, and falls, with a whining snort, upon her side. With incessant struggles she makes herself a mud bath, in which, with blood-shot eyes, she furiously rotates, striking, now and then, some stump, against which she rises only to fall upon the other side, or upon her back, until her powers are exhausted, and her head sinks beneath the surface. Mingled with our uppermost sympathy are thoughts of the soaked note-books, and other contents of the saddle-bags, and of the.hundred dollars that drown with her. What of dense soil there was beneath her is now stirred to porridge, and it is a dangerous exploit to approach. But, with joint hands, we length succeed in grappling her bridle, and then in hauling her nostrils above water. She revives only for a new tumult of dizzy pawing, before which we hastily retreat. At a second pause her lariat is secured, and the saddle cut adrift. For a half-hour the alternate resuscitation continues, until we are able to drag the head of the poor beast, half strangled by the rope, as well as the mud and water, toward firmer ground, where she recovers slowly her senses and her footing. Any further attempts at crossing the somewhat "wet" Neches bottoms are, of course, abandoned, and even the return to the ferry is a serious sort of joke. However, we congratulate ourselves that we are leaving, not entering the State.

But she learned in two hours what most girls of her age would only have learned in two weeks, for she was without fear, and after each tumble she was up again, dizzy and bruised yet laughing, and back in the saddle almost before Sir Benjamin had time to draw rein.

I thought the horses would run over me, that any moment their feet would crush my back and head. Something struck me, and I fell and landed on my face; dust filled my eyes. I heard the sound of a man landing from his horse and some shuffling. Then I was in the air. I had been lifted by the man, whose hand was gripping my ribs, the other hand my legs. ... He had put me on his saddle and he tied me onto it. I felt a rope against my back, digging into my skin. He was tying me to the horse. ... Two days later I was thrown onto the ground and told that that was where I would be sleeping. I awoke to the smell of something burning. It smelled like flesh on fire... the Arab was putting a burning metal rod to my head. He was branding me. In my ear he branded the number 8, turned on its side. Moses turned to show me. It was a very rough marking, the symbol raised and purple, scarred into the flesh behind his ear. —Now you will always know who owns you, this man said to me. The pain was so intense that I passed out. I woke when I was being lifted. I was thrown on the saddle again and he tied me down again, this time tighter than before. We rode for two more days. ... It was some kind of military camp. Hundreds “of boys like me were there, all under twelve, Dinka and Nuer boys. I was put in a huge barn with all of these boys, and we were locked inside. There was no food. The barn was full of rats; everyone was being bitten by them. ... Every time there was a battle, the boys would be brought out from the barn and made to give blood. ... I was put on a horse again and we rode for many days. We stopped at a house, a very well-built house. It was the house of an important man, Captain Adil Muhammad Hassan. I learned that I was being given as a gift. Hassan was very thankful and the two of them went inside to eat. I was still tied to the horse outside. They were gone inside all evening and I stayed on the horse. ... The man had two wives, and three children, all the children very young. I thought that the kids would be decent to me, but they were crueler than their parents. The kids were taught to beat me and spit on me. “The kids especially liked to whip me. The oldest boy, when he was left alone with me, would whip me without pause. ... I squatted in the yard like a frog, and he brought his children out and told them to jump on me. They sat on my back and pretended that I was a donkey, and they laughed, and Hassan laughed. They called me a stupid donkey. And the kids fed me garbage. They said I had to eat it, so I ate it—anything they gave me. Animal fat, tea bags, rotten vegetables. ... “There was another Sudanese there, a girl named Akol. She worked in the kitchen, mostly, but she was pregnant with Hassan’s baby so his wife hated her. The wife would find Akol crying for her mother and she would scream at her, threatening to slit her throat with a knife. She called her bitch and slave and animal.

I ride behind the dog out of the city; the city of burning, the city of ghosts. When the gatemouth has shrunk behind us, the dog stops and come back and ties my hands to the saddle. Then we ride again. I don’t know how long we ride. Everything hurts, and the city is screaming behind me.

Looked around at the wind-blasted peaks and the swirls of mist moving past them. It was hard to take my eyes away. I had been up on some of them, and I would be up there again. There was something different to see each time, and something different from each one. All those streamlets to explore and all those tracks to follow through the glare of the high basins and over the saddles. Where did they lead? What was beyond? What stories were written in the snow? I watched an eagle turn slowly and fall away, quick-sliding across the dark stands of spruce that marched in uneven ranks up the slopes. His piercing cry came back on the wind. I thought of the man at his desk staring down from a city window at the ant colony streets below, the man toiling beside the thudding and rumbling of machinery, the man commuting to his job the same way at the same time each morning, staring at but not seeing the poles and the wires and the dirty buildings flashing past. Perhaps each man had his moment during the day when his vision came, a vision not unlike the one before me.

I’ve always found that everything in life is a lesson. I truly believe that. I think that everything that happens bad to us is also a blessing, and that wrapped in every bad experience is a valuable blessing. A gift, if we’re willing to receive that gift. Sometimes you gotta dig through some muck to find that gift, but it is there. . .I wanted to write about a time and a place where going without electricity, going without indoor plumbing was no big deal. Everybody did it. And, you survived! Of course, you survived! You know, people have survived throughout most of history without indoor plumbing. It’s only within the last couple of years that we’ve gotten such luxuries. As I said, everything in life is both a blessing and a curse, and those luxuries are blessings, but they can also be a curse if you start thinking you need them to survive. Because you don’t. And one of the great things about going through hardships is that you come to know the differences between wanting things and needing things. And we all need a lot less than we think that we do. And I think that was something that Lily had to learn time and time again, that you know you can fall on your behind and you just gotta get back up. Anybody can ride during the good times, but it’s knowing how to fall, that was a lesson she learned early in life. Knowing how to fall takes great talent. You get up, you dust off your behind, get back on the saddle and you start riding again. And that’s a good thing to know. Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself.

I want to show you something,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower than usual and causing a shiver to run down my spine. “What?” I asked. “I said show, not tell. You have to come with me.” Curiosity nagged at me and the champagne urged me into recklessness. He’d promised to be nice after all, so why not? And even though I’d said I wanted to go back to the snooze fest party, I didn’t really. Given the choice, I’d just head back to the Academy. “You’d better not be about to whip your junk out again,” I warned. “Because I’ve seen way too much of you for my liking.” “Oh I think you liked it just fine,” he countered and the heat that flooded my cheeks at his tone stopped me from raising any further argument on the subject. He stepped a little closer to me and I fought against the impulse to lean in. “Come on then, don’t keep me in suspense,” I demanded though a little voice in the back of my head wondered if I meant something else by that statement. Darius’s mouth hooked up at one side and he inclined his head to yet another door on the other side of the room. I followed him as he led the way through the manor to a grand atrium before opening the door onto a dark stairwell which led down to what must have been an underground chamber. I eyed him warily but at this point I was pretty sure he’d have attacked me already if he was going to. Darius Acrux may have been a lot of things but it seemed he was a man of his word; he’d promised to be nice to me tonight and that was what he was delivering. I’d have to keep an eye on the time though, at midnight his Cinderella spell might come undone and he’d turn back into an asshole shaped pumpkin. Lights came on automaticaly as we descended and at the foot of the stairs, he opened another door and led me out into into an underground parking lot. I eyed the row of flashy sports cars in every make and model imaginable but he didn’t pause by them, instead leading me to the far end of the lot. A smile tugged at my lips as I spotted the lineup of super bikes. They were all top of the range, ultra-sleek, ultra-beautiful speed machines. My fingers tingled with the desire to touch them as the tempting allure of adrenaline called to me. “You said you could ride,” Darius said, offering me a genuine smile. “So I thought maybe you’d like to see my collection.” Damn, the way he said ‘my collection’ made me want to punch the entitlement right out of him but I didn’t miss the fire burning in his eyes as he looked at the bikes. That was a passion I knew well. He was a sucker for my kind of temptation too. “Have you done any modifications on them?” I asked, reaching out to brush my fingers along the saddle of the closest red beauty. “They’re top of the line,” he said dismissively like I didn’t know what I was looking at. “They don’t need any mods.” I snorted derisively. So he liked to ride the pretty speed machines but he didn’t know how to work on them. “Figures pretty boy wouldn’t know how to get his hands dirty,” I teased. “Maybe the kinds of bikes you’re used to riding need work to make them perform better but this kind of quality doesn’t require any extras. Besides, I could just pay someone to do it for me even if they did.” “Of course you could. That’s not really the point though.” And he was wrong about the kinds of bikes I was used to riding. I spotted four models amongst his collection which I’d ridden within the last six months. The others could easily be mine with a little bit of time and a tool or two. Not that I felt the need to tell him that. “You wanna take one for a ride?” he offered. “You can test your supposed skill against mine; there’s a circuit to the west of the estate.” My eyes widened at that offer. I’d missed riding since coming to the Academy and I hadn’t really thought I’d be able to get out again any time soon. ...

Afterwards Jim said the witches be witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils.

The tawny man approached silently, save for the rhythmic striking of his horse’s hooves. When he drew near, he reined in his beast with a touch, and sat looking down on me with amber eyes. He smiled. Something turned over in my heart. I moistened my lips, but could find no words, nor breath to utter them if I had. My heart told me one thing, my eyes another. Slowly, the smile faded from his face and eyes. A still mask replaced it. When he spoke, his voice was low, his words emotionless. “Have you no greeting for me, Fitz?” I opened my mouth, then helplessly spread wide my arms. At the gesture that said all I had no words for, an answering look lit his face. He glowed as if a light had been kindled in him. He flung himself from his horse toward me, a launch aided by Nighteyes’ sudden charge from the wood toward him. The horse snorted in alarm and crow-hopped. The Fool came free of his saddle with rather more energy than he intended, but, agile as ever, he landed on the balls of his feet. The horse shied away, but none of us paid her any attention. In one step, I caught him up. I enfolded him in my arms as the wolf gamboled about us like a puppy. “Oh Fool,” I choked. “It cannot be you, yet it is. And I do not care how.” He flung his arms around my neck. He hugged me fiercely, Burrich’s earring cold against my neck. For a long instant, he clung to me like a woman, until the wolf insistently thrust himself between us. Then the Fool went down on one knee in the dust, careless of his fine clothes as he clasped the wolf about his neck. “Nighteyes!” he whispered in savage satisfaction. “I had not thought to see you again. Well met, old friend.” He buried his face in the wolf’s ruff, wiping away tears. I did not think less of him for them. My own ran unchecked down my face. He flowed back to his feet, every nuance of his grace as familiar to me as the drawing of breath. He cupped the back of my head and, in his old way, pressed his brow to mine.

Why did you get me drunk?” I asked. “I’m no rival of yours.” She made a quick, sharp gesture of negation. A diamond on her finger sparkled like spilled tears, and I realized her fingers were trembling. “It’s true,” I said, watching her bury her hands in the folds of her skirts. “What little you know of me ought to make one thing plain: I don’t lie. That is, I don’t do it very well. I don’t fault you for ambition. That would be mighty two-faced when my brother and I plotted half our lives to take the crown from Galdran. Our reasons might be different, but who’s to fault that? Not me. I gave that over last year. As for Savona--” “Don’t,” she said. “Why?” I demanded. “Can’t you see he’s just flirting with me? I don’t know much of romance--well, nothing, if you only count experience--but I have noticed certain things, and one is that in a real courtship, the two people endeavor to get to know one another.” Again I had that sensation of something important hovering just out of my awareness, but when I paused, frowning--trying to perceive it--my thoughts just scattered. “I think,” she said, “you are being a trifle too disingenuous.” I sighed. “Humor me by pretending I am sincere. You know Savona. Can’t you see him making me popular just to…well, prove a point?” I faltered at the words pay you back for going after Shevraeth and a crown? Not that the meaning escaped her, for I saw its impact in the sudden color ridging her lovely cheeks. Her lips were pressed in a thin line. “I could…almost…believe you had I not had your name dinned in my ear through a succession of seasons. Your gallantry in facing Galdran before the Court. The Astiar bravery in taking on Galdran’s army with nothing but a rabble of half-trained villagers on behalf of the rest of the kingdom. Your running almost the length of the kingdom with a broken foot and successfully evading Debegri’s and Vidanric’s warriors. The duel-to-the-death with Galdran.” I had to laugh, which I saw at once was a mistake. But I couldn’t stop, not until I saw the common omission in all of this: my disastrous encounters with Shevraeth. Had he spoken about my defeats, surely this angry young lady would have nosed it all out--and it was apparent she’d have no compunction about flinging it in my teeth. No. For some incomprehensible reason, he hadn’t talked about any of it. This realization sobered me, and I gulped in a deep, shaky breath. Tamara’s grimness had given way to an odd expression, part anger, part puzzlement. “You will tell me that your heroism if all lies?” she asked. “No,” I said. “But it’s--well, different. Look, if you really want to hear my story, we can sit down and I’ll tell you everything, from how I ran about barefoot and illiterate in the mountains joyfully planning our easy takeover, right down to how Galdran knocked me clean out of my saddle after I warded a single blow and nearly lost my arm in doing it. I think he attacked me because I was the weakest--it’s the only reason that makes sense to me. As for the rest--” I shrugged. “Some of it was wrong decisions made for the right reasons, and a little of it was right decisions made for the wrong reasons; but most of what I did was wrong decisions for the wrong reasons. That’s the plain truth.

Then suddenly Tamara was before me. “But we have strayed far enough from our purpose. Come, friends. I bid you to be silent. The Countess did promise to entertain us by describing her adventures in the late war.” I did? I thought, trying to recall what she’d said--and what I’d promised. My thoughts were tangled, mixing present with memory, and finally I shook my head and looked around. Every face was turned expectantly toward me. My vision seemed to be swimming gently. “Uh,” I said. “Mouth dry?” Tamara’s voice was right behind me. “Something to wet it.” She pressed a chilled goblet into my hands. I raised it and saw Savona directly across from me, a slight frown between his brows. He glanced from me to Tamara, then I blocked him from my view as I took a deep sip of iced--bristic. A cold burn numbed my mouth and throat, and my hand started to drop. Fingers nipped the goblet from mine before I could spill it. I realized I had been about to spill it and looked aside, wondering how I’d gotten so clumsy. My hand seemed a long way from my body. Even farther away was Tamara’s voice. “Did you really fight a duel to the death with our late king?” “It was more of a duel to the--” I felt the room lurch as I stood up. That was a mistake. “A duel,” I repeated slowly, “to--” I wetted my lips again. “To--burn it! I actually had a witty saying. Fer onsh…once. What’s wrong with my mouth? A duel to the dust!” I giggled inanely, than noticed that no one else was laughing. I blinked, trying to see, to explain. “He knocked me outa the saddle…y’see…an’ I fell in the--in the--” Words were no longer possible, but I hardly noticed. The room had begun to revolve with gathering speed. I lost my footing and started to pitch forward, but before I could land on my face, strong hands caught my shoulders and righted me. I blinked up into a pair of very dark eyes. “You’re not well,” said Savona. “I will escort you back to the Residence.” I hiccuped, then made a profound discovery. “I’m drunk,” I said and, as if to prove it, was sick all over Lady Tamara’s exquisite carpet.

This is Storm, and there’s nothing mysterious at all about me riding him at night, even if the good folk of Tarrytown have taken to making up tales about me and my nightly rides.” He patted Storm again. “Storm, if you must know, hasn’t tolerated sunlight well for the past couple of years. His eyes have turned sensitive to the light, but I didn’t want him to grow old before his time, which is why we ride when it’s dark.” A rather warm and mushy feeling began traveling through Lucetta, a feeling that had her knees going a tad weak, until she remembered she was talking to a man who’d yet to explain why he’d been wearing an eye patch when she’d first met him, or why questionable jewelry and a bloody sword had been stashed in his fireplace. Add in the fact that there was now a suit of armor meandering around, scaring unsuspecting guests in the middle of the night, and she had no business allowing her knees to go all wobbly. “. . . and since you have managed to track me down, would you care to join us as we continue on with our nightly adventure?” “Adventure . . . ? What kind of adventure?” she asked slowly. Bram leaned down and placed his mouth directly next to her ear, his closeness sending a chill, and one she didn’t think was from the cold air, down her spine. “We’ll just have to make that up as we go.” A thread of disappointment stole over her as he straightened, moved to Storm’s side, and then swung up into the saddle. “What type of adventure sounds fun to you?” he asked. “I’m not certain what you’re asking.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “Oh dear, you’ve forgotten how to have fun, haven’t you.” Annoyance was swift. “Of course I haven’t.” “Prove it.” Not one to back down from a challenge, Lucetta smiled. “Very well, off the top of my head, I believe it would be great fun to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and . . . walk amongst the gravestones.” Smiling, Bram sent her an approving sort of nod. “Very good, Miss Plum, you’re obviously a lady after my own heart, although I will admit I didn’t take you for the type who’d enjoy places that embrace a rather gothic nature.” “Or morbid, one might say,” she added. Nodding

Wilhelm!” he called again. “Show yourself!” Wilhelm and a pair of his guards rounded the keep at a run. He reigned in Gil’s horse. “Where is she? Where is my wife?” “Right behind me. What happened, man? Are ye wounded?” Malina came running around the keep with Constance. Relief surged through him to see her blessedly unharmed, though her face was drawn with concern. She was worrit for him. He flew from the saddle and dashed to her. His ripped thigh protested, but he didn’t falter in his steps. Pain was nothing compared to the need to hold his sweet wife in his arms. Sweeping her up, he pinned her to his chest. Their hearts reached for each other with every beat. She clung to him as fiercely as he clung to her, and some of the horror of the last hour lifted from him. “Christ, lass, I thought…I thought—” He buried his face in her hair. She smelled of herbs and flowers, and underneath was her own scent of sugared custard. She wore a lovely kirtle of sapphire blue and an apron smudged with dirt as if she’d been doing chores in the garden. Her hair flowed like silk through his fingers as he ran his hand over her head and face, assuring himself she was hale, all except for the purple marks around her left eye from Hamish’s hand. Passing over her cheeks, his fingers came away wet with her tears. “Dinna weep, Malina mine. All is well.” “You’re hurt,” she cried. “Let me see. There’s so much blood.” “What happened?” Wilhelm demanded. “How much of the blood is yours?” Constance asked. He ignored all but Malina. “I’m all right, lass. I’m all right. Just a few scrapes.” He permitted himself a relieved breath as her face smoothed somewhat, but he refused to let her go. He couldn’t even bring himself to lower her feet to the ground. With Malina in his arms, he was whole. She wasn’t only his to love and protect; she was part of him. Realization struck him with blinding force. “I canna let ye go back,” he said. “I willna. You are mine, and I willna send you away to your time.” The tightness in his chest unfurled. Malina’s eyes widened with shock. Her rose-petal lips parted to say somat, but he silenced her with a kiss. He couldn’t help himself. Let her hate him for a time. He would find a way to earn her love and forgiveness. He’d earn them every day for the rest of his life.

The horse was a glossy brown, with a brown mane. What caught my eye about it was a white line of hair that curved down its chest to run between its forelegs. On looking a bit closer, I saw that it was an old scar. The horse shook its head as I got closer, and buried its nose in my hair and took a deep breath. The hairs on its muzzle tickled my neck. I tried to move away, but the horse followed, breathing out and in again, filling my hair with its warm sweet breath. "He likes you." Marcus had handed off the packhorse to another warrior, and now sat astride his horse, with a shield on his back and a sword at his side. He looked my animal over with a considering eye. "A good, steady animal. You shouldn't have a problem with him." Which I took to mean that the animal would be slow, and one a sick granny couldn't fall off of. But at least I wasn't being toted around like a sack of flour anymore. I pulled myself into the saddle, noticing that this horse had a number of scrapes and scars on its legs and hindquarters. He'd seen quite a bit of action in his day. "What is his name?" "Name?" Marcus gave me a funny look. "We call them 'horses'." The others moved in around me. I noticed that Marcus placed himself so that his blind side was covered by Isdra. "I know they are horses, Marcus. What is this one's name?" "I suppose you will now tell me that city dwellers name all their horses." Marcus rolled his eye, and the others chuckled. I closed my mouth. "Tens of thousands of horses," Marcus continued, "and we should name them all. Pah." Rafe laughed out loud. "Now tell all, Marcus. We name stallions and mares." "Lead stallions. Lead mares. Not entire herds." Marcus gave my horse a withering glance. Its ears were flicking back and forth, as if following the conversation. "But how do you tell them apart? Or get them to come to you?" I asked as I mounted. "What's to tell?" Marcus asked. "Rafe's black, Prest's brown with the notched ear, Isdra's roan with the scarred whither. And they come because that is the way of things. And while you might think so, they don't all look alike. Any more than people do.

I weave through LA's famous Farmers Market, which is really more of an outdoor food court, and now I'm a few minutes late. And the place is packed and there's still the uncertainty about where to meet when I look down and realize I'm wearing yellow pants. Yellow pants. Really? Sometimes I don't know what I'm thinking. They're rolled at the cuff and paired with a navy polo and it looks like maybe I just yacht my yacht, and I'm certain to come off as an asshole. I thin about canceling, or at least delaying so I can go home and change, but the effort that would require is unappealing, and this date is mostly for distraction. And when I round the last stall--someone selling enormous eggplants, more round than oblong, I see him, casually leaning against a wall, and something inside my body says there you are. 'There you are.' I don't understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. They're straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days. My knees don't buckle, my heart doesn't skip, but I'm awash in the warmth of a valium-like hug. Except I haven't taken a Valium. Not since the night of Lily's death. Yet here is this warm hug that makes me feel safe with this person, this Byron the maybe-poet, and I want it to stop. This--whatever this feeling is--can't be a real feeling, this can't be a tangible connection. This is just a man leaning against a stall that sells giant eggplants. But I no longer have time to worry about what this feeling is, whether I should or shouldn't be her, or should or should't be wearing yellow pants, because there are only maybe three perfect seconds where I see him and he has yet to spot me. Three perfect seconds to enjoy the calm that has so long eluded me. 'There you are.' And then he casually lifts his head and turns my way and uses one foot to push himself off the wall he is leaning agains. We lock eyes and he smiles with recognition and there's a disarming kindness to his face and suddenly I'm standing in front of him. 'There you are.' It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it and it's all I can do to steer the words in a more playfully casual direction so he isn't saddled with the importance I've placed on them. I think it comes off okay, but, as I know from my time at sea, sometimes big ships turn slowly. Byron chuckles and gives a little pump of his fist. 'YES! IT'S! ALL! HAPPENING! FOR! US!' I want to stop in my tracks, but I'm already leaning in for a hug, and he comes the rest of the way, and the warm embrace of seeing him standing there is now an actual embrace, and it is no less sincere. He must feel me gripping him tightly, because he asks, 'Is everything okay?' No. 'Yes, everything is great, it's just...' I play it back in my head what he said, the way in which he said it, and the enthusiasm which only a month had gone silent. 'You reminded me of someone is all.' 'Hopefully in a good way.' I smile but it takes just a minute to speak. 'In the best possible way.' I don't break the hug first, but maybe at the same time, this is a step. jenny will be proud. I look in his eyes, which I expect to be brown like Lily's but instead are deep blue like the waters lapping calmly against the outboard sides of 'Fishful Thinking.' 'Is frozen yogurt okay?' 'Frozen yogurt is perfect.

The woman sat up in the saddle, looked straight ahead, and began reciting a litany of steps. “I use a slightly increased pushing pressure with my lower leg and seat bone on the same side,” the woman said. “I sit slightly heavier on the inside seat bone, with my inside leg just behind the girth. Doing that should push the hindquarters forward and sideways at the same time.” “Okay. . . ” I started. “I apply that aid at the moment when the inside hind leg is lifted off the ground to start a forward-sideways step,” she continued. “I also put my outside leg in a guarding position behind the girth, blocking her from moving her quarters too far sideways and maintaining the forward movement at the same time.” “I see.” “My inside leg drives, while the outside leg controls.” She hesitated for a second, as if trying to remember the rest. “I guide the forehand along the wall with the outside rein. By supporting with the outside leg, I should be able to keep her from rushing away from the inside leg. The supporting outside rein prevents any falling out over the outside shoulder.” I waited this time to see if there was more. There was. “Ultimately, I’m trying to get her to be flexed away from the direction we are moving and her forehand guided in a shallow turn to align with the hindquarters.” She finally turned and looked back down at me. “Her inside legs should pass and cross in front of her outside legs.” She smiled. “Okay.” I nodded. “And how are you both doing with all of that?” “Not very well.” “Fair enough.” I nodded again. “So let’s try something a little different.

He looked at his feet and cleared his throat. He rubbed his neck, and sighed. How she wished again that he weren’t here. For the tears would spill onto her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop them. “Well,” Raffin said. “And I’ll see you again someday, my love.” She reached up for him then and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up off the ground and hugged her tight. She breathed into the collar of his shirt and held on. And then her feet were on the ground again. She turned away and climbed into her saddle. “We leave now,” she said to Po. As their horses cantered out of the stable yard, she didn’t look back.

What the f**k is this?” Trevor didn’t rise to the bait, as he hadn’t for the last several days. Calmly, he asked, “What?” “This.” Edgard threw the pristine, custom-made saddle on the ground within Trevor’s peripheral view. Shit. How had Edgard found it? And why in the hell had that bastard gone snooping around instead of figuring out what was wrong with Meridian like he’d promised? “Trev? I asked you a question.” “You know damn good and well what it is, Ed.” “I figured you would’ve gotten rid of it by now.” “Well, I didn’t.” Edgard practically growled, “That don’t tell me why you still have it. That don’t tell me nothin’.” Trevor turned his face toward the opposite fence to gaze across to the mountains. His reasons for keeping the saddle seemed sentimental, sloppy and stupid now, but he’d be damned if he’d share those reasons with anyone, least of all Edgard, the man responsible for those feelings. Bootsteps made a sucking sound in the muck of the corral as Edgard closed the short distance between them. “I ain’t gonna drop it. Answer me.” “Fine. You said I could do whatever I wanted with it. So I kept it.” “You didn’t use it at all, did you?” Trevor shook his head, keeping his eyes averted. “Why not?” “I have plenty of other saddles, saddles I like better.” “That’s a piss-poor excuse. Try again.” He stayed mum, wishing the damn mud would open up and swallow him like a sinkhole. “Were you hoping if you kept it I’d come back?” Trevor’s heart said yes but his mouth stayed tight as a rusty hinge. “Answer the f**king question, Trevor.” Edgard’s arrogant streak snapped Trevor’s forced patience. “What do you want me to say? It’s obvious I saved the goddamn saddle.” “Why?” “Because it reminded me of you, all right?” He kicked a chunk of mud and stalked away. “Fuck this and f**k you.” Edgard rattled off something in Portuguese, something Trevor vaguely remembered as being a plea. Or was it a threat? Dammit. His feet stopped. Trevor’s gaze zeroed in on Edgard, who’d circled him until they were standing less than a foot apart. “Tell me why.” Be cruel, that’ll nip this in the bud once and for all. “I didn’t keep the f**kin’ thing because I had some girlish goddamn hope you’d come back lookin’ for it like Cinderella’s lost glass slipper, and we’d pick up where we left off after you left me.” He locked his eyes to the liquid heat in Edgard’s, not allowing the man to look away. “Especially after you made it crystal clear you weren’t ever comin’ back.” Angry puffs of breath distorted the air between them. Several beats passed before Edgard retorted, “But I am here now, aren’t I?” “What? Am I supposed to be flippin’ cartwheels about that fact? I don’t know what you want from me, Ed. Take the saddle back if that’ll make you happy. I’ve got no use for it. I never did.” Angry, disgusted with himself, Edgard, and the whole uncomfortable situation, Trevor spun and walked toward the barn. Edgard laughed—the taunting, soft laughter that was guaranteed to raise Trevor’s hackles and his ire. “It’s that easy for you? To get pissed off and walk away?” “Yep. You’ve got no right to act so goddamned surprised since it’s a trick I learned from you, amigo.” Not two seconds later, the air left Trevor’s lungs as Edgard tackled him to the ground. Trevor rolled to dislodge the man from his back; Edgard countered, took a swing and missed. Trevor bucked and twisted his shoulders, but Edgard anticipated the move and used the momentum against Trevor to try and shove Trevor’s face against the fence. Before Edgard cornered him and held him down completely to land a punch, Trevor rolled again and pushed to his feet. A noise echoed behind him, but he ignored it as he fisted his hands in Edgard’s shearling coat, dragging him upright until they were nose to nose.

So, here they were, face to face with the Son of God! When they had first seen him in the throne room, he had been nearly indistinguishable from the Father. In a manner that defied explanation and description, both he and the entity who had leaned upon the back of the Father’s throne had been one with God himself. Now, outside the throne room, the Son was clearly his own person, yet his majesty and the wonder he evoked were not diminished. He was unsurpassably beautiful. Tall and graceful, he sat upon his fabulous steed with a dignity that emanated pure power. His snow white hair hung to his saddle-back in thick waves, two intricate braids caught back at the temples to form a tiara entwined with gold. Despite his snowy hair, his face, while containing all the eons of heaven, seemed ageless, eternally youthful. His clothing, while utterly elegant, was simple and straightforward. A gown of blazing white was topped by a sleeveless coat of sky blue, and draping all was a cloak of deep, dark scarlet, its ample hood spread out across his shoulders. Everything was trimmed with gold and silver braid, gleaming gems of many colors peeking here and there from the folds. His horse’s tack was fabulous, all of embossed gold and cushioned wood, carved with dazzling intricacy. But, they had only a moment to take all of this in, before the prince saluted them with an outstretched arm. “Good day, friends,” he hailed them. “We meet again.” Gabriel’s heart lurched. He would have returned the salutation, but his voice failed him. Supporting one another, the four archangels were determined not to fall down. But, it was no use. They simply had no strength to stay upright. Besides, they were overcome with the desire to worship this mighty prince. Slumping to the ground, even the most self-assured of them, Lucifer, was brought to his knees. Again, the seraph flew over them, this time raising them to their feet without laying a hand on them. A swift flick of his fingers, and they were upright, once again. By the time they had regained their composure, the prince had dismounted and was walking toward one root of the mammoth tree. “Follow me,” he said, waving them forward. “It is time for us to have a talk.” Michael was the first to comply. Gabriel followed, with Raphael and Uriel close behind, all of them tingling from head to toe.

To get leather, each department procured its quota of hides, made contracts with the tanners, obtained hands for them by exemptions from the army, got transportation over the railroads for the hides and for supplies. To the varied functions of this bureau was finally added that of assisting the tanners to procure the necessary supplies for the tanneries. A fishery, even, was established on Cape Fear River to get oil for mechanical purposes, and at the same time food for the workmen. In cavalry equipments the main thing was to get a good saddle which would not hurt the back of the horse. For this purpose various patterns were tried, and reasonable success was obtained. One of the most difficult wants to supply in this branch of the service was the horseshoe for cavalry and artillery. The want of iron and of skilled labor was strongly felt. Every wayside blacksmith-shop accessible, especially those in and near the theatre of operations, was employed. These, again, had to be supplied with material, and the employees exempted from service.

Lily propped her elbows on his chest and glared down at Cade's strong, angular features. In this light he looked neither Indian nor Spanish. He was just Cade, a man with a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. Impulsively, she leaned over and bit his shoulder. It was solid and hard to grip, but she managed to sink her teeth in enough to register. He hollered and jerked her back. Glaring, he asked, "What was that for?" "I thought maybe I could chew my way through that chip," she said sweetly. "Did you think you'd married a fool white woman who would be content to have a man in her bed and a child in her stomach? I'd better give this ring back if that's the case." Cade grunted and returned her to his side again. "I'm not stupid. You play the part of docile wife and daughter very well, but you're more like a wild mustang that stands still until the moment someone puts a saddle on its back. I don't mean to saddle you, but I'll put a bit in your mouth if you bite me again." Cade could feel the soft heaves of Lily's laughter, and he untensed long enough to grin. He hadn't known he was taking on an undisciplined brat, and he rather suspected she hadn't known it either. The years of childhood that had been stolen from her were emerging. He just didn't know why he had been the one to set them free. She

I do not want you to go, but I know you must, just as I knew you had to go with Houston. I'm not going to leave you, Cade. We're bound together for the rest of our lives, no matter what is thrown our way. I know the words were never said, but in marrying you, I agreed to be your wife until 'death do us part,' Just don't go getting killed on me. This brat of yours will need a man's handling." Cade smiled at the roof over their head. He had never owned more than a horse and a saddle, and he knew he didn't own Lily, but she was his, just the same, by her own admission. He liked the notion of having a companion for life, one who wouldn't walk out when she got bored or irritated. He sure as hell was tired of talking to four walls. And it wasn't just an end to loneliness, the beginning of something more. Remembering Lily's heated arguments and equally heated lovemaking, Cade's smile grew broader. "I think I'll bring a priest back with me. I want to hear those words said before a man of the cloth. I think I will feel much better if I can produce a witness when you start throwing things at me again." Lily laughed against his shoulder. "I'll hold you to that promise. I don't want you disclaiming this child when he starts screaming all night. If you think Ricardo is a formidable foe, you've never tended an infant." *

I suppose you’re wondering where I’ve been,” Caleb said, sounding damnably pleased with himself as he climbed down from the gelding’s back. “I wasn’t wondering any such thing.” Lily’s arms were folded, and her chin was thrust out. She couldn’t help noticing that Caleb wasn’t wearing his uniform—he had on dark trousers and a cotton shirt. On his head in place of the tasseled campaign hat was a slouchy leather one. Although he wasn’t wearing a holster and pistol, there was a rifle in the scabbard on his saddle. Caleb grinned as he reached up for his saddlebags. “That being the case, you probably wouldn’t be interested in the presents I brought you.” Lily took a reluctant step nearer. “Presents?” He slung the bulging saddlebags over one sturdy shoulder and gave a long-suffering sigh. “You won’t want to see them, of course.” Lily bit her lower lip. “That would depend,” she said. Caleb laughed. “On what?” There was no helping it; Lily had to smile. “On what they are, silly.” He tossed the saddlebags to Lily, and they nearly knocked her over. “Go ahead, sodbuster. Have a look.” Feeling self-conscious, Lily opened the flap of one saddlebag and peeked inside. It was bulging with fragrant, tangy oranges, and Lily’s mouth watered at the prospect of such a treat. In the other saddlebag she found two dime novels, Wilhelmina and the Wild Indians and Evelyn and the Mountain Man, along with a bar of chocolate and two pretty tortoiseshell combs for her hair. “I don’t know what to say,” Lily whispered. She’d never received so many wonderful presents at one time in her life. “Except for thank you, of course.” Caleb kissed her forehead. “Am I back in your good graces now?” Lily looked up at him, clutching the saddlebags to her chest. “That depends on whether or not you’ve decided to marry me.” His jawline tightened, and for one terrible moment Lily was afraid he meant to take back the oranges and the books and the chocolate and the combs. “I’ve decided,” he answered. His voice was so cold that Lily didn’t need to ask what that decision was. She flung the saddlebags with their cherished contents back into his arms, whirled on one heel, and strode back to the garden plot, where she began hoeing again with a vengeance.

Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Emma made herself meet his eyes. “No,” she said. “I do not.” He chuckled, unmoved, as always, by her discourtesy. “We’re going on a picnic Saturday,” he announced. Emma had had all she could take of Steven Fairfax’s audacity. She glared at him, her cheeks throbbing. “I hardly think that will be possible. You see, I’ve agreed to attend a party with Fulton on Saturday evening.” Steven sighed. “So you’re still seeing the banker, huh?” “Honestly,” Emma snapped, amazed, “you are insufferable. And I’m not going on any picnic with you, now or ever!” The silk crumpled between her clenched fingers, and she nearly stuck herself with the needle. “Perhaps I have finally made myself clear?” He smiled. “I do comprehend what you’re trying to say, Miss Emma. I just disagree with you, that’s all.” Emma hurled down the bodice of the dress she’d been sewing and bolted out of her chair. “What on earth gives you the idea that it matters, whether you and I agree or not?” His eyes glittered with firelight and humor as he watched her. “You are indeed a beauty, Miss Emma—the kind of prize a man dreams of winning. Win you I will, and when I do, I intend to have you well and often.” A tremor of mingled fury and desire coursed through Emma’s slender frame. “What will it take to make you go away and leave me alone?” she whispered, clasping her hands together as though she were praying. Steven drew her to him without moving, without extending a hand. Before she knew what was happening, Emma was standing on the hearth, looking up into his face. He touched her lips, very lightly, with his finger, sending a storm of fire all through her. “Go on the picnic with me,” he said quietly. “Then if you still want me to leave, I will.” Emma’s eyes widened. She felt hope, but also a raw sort of dismay. “You mean you’ll actually saddle your horse and leave Whitneyville entirely? You won’t even work on Big John’s ranch anymore?” “That’s right,” Steven answered hoarsely, winding an escaped tendril of Emma’s blaze-colored hair around the same finger that had caressed her lips. “If you can tell me you never want to see me again after our picnic, I’ll ride out.” Emma bit her lip and laid one hand to her heart, as though to slow its rapid beat so Steven wouldn’t hear it. “But the dance…” “You’ll be back in plenty of time for that.” Within Emma’s breast, reason and whimsy did battle. And as so often happened where this man was concerned, whimsy won. “All right,” she sighed with resolution. “But I expect you to keep your word.” She waggled a finger at him. “There’ll be no backing out after I say I never want to see you again.” He bent his head and kissed her lightly, tantalizingly, on the lips. “You have my word of honor,” he told her between soft samplings of her mouth that sent sweet shocks jolting to her nerve endings. Emma

It had taken Cyrus a while to come out of his shell. One of those “aw shucks, ma’am” kind of cowboys, he was so darned shy she thought she was going to have to throw herself on the floor at his boots for him to notice her. But once he had opened up a little, they’d started talking, joking around, getting to know each other. Before he left, they’d gone for a horseback ride through the snowy foothills up into the towering pines of the forest. It had been Cyrus’s idea. They’d ridden up into one of the four mountain ranges that surrounded the town of Gilt Edge – and the Cahill Ranch. It was when they’d stopped to admire the view from the mountaintop that overlooked the small western town that AJ had hoped Cyrus would kiss her. He sure looked as if he’d wanted to as they’d walked their horses to the edge of the overlook. The sun warming them while the breeze whispered through the boughs of the nearby snow-laden pines, it was one of those priceless Montana January days between snowstorms. That’s why Cyrus had said they should take advantage of the beautiful day before he left for Denver. Standing on a bared-off spot on the edge of the mountain, he’d reached over and taken her hand in his. “Beautiful,” he’d said. For a moment she thought he was talking about the view, but when she met his gaze she’d seen that he’d meant her. Her heart had begun to pound. This was it. This was what she’d been hoping for. He drew her closer. His mouth was just a breath away from hers – when his mare nudged him with her nose. She could laugh about it now. But if she hadn’t grabbed Cyrus he would have fallen down the mountainside. “She’s just jealous,” Cyrus had said of his horse as he’d rubbed the beast’s neck after getting his footing under himself again. But the moment had been lost. They’d saddled up and ridden back to Cahill Ranch. AJ still wanted that kiss more than anything.

There was no creeping up on it—the stone outcroppings and broken monuments studding the wastes weren’t enough to conceal approach, and Mia’s cloak of shadows was only big enough for one. Besides, she reasoned, if these were servants of the Lady of Blessed Murder, they may not take kindly to being snuck up on as they stopped to piss. Sadly, the caravan folk seemed happy enough to go as they went, so to speak. The pair were gaining ground, but after two full turns in the saddle, with Bastard nipping her legs and occasionally trying to buck her into the dust, Mia could take no more. Pulling the stallion up near a circle of weathered statues, she didn’t so much lose her temper as drop-kick it across the sand. “Stop, stop,” she spat. “Fuck this. Right in the earhole.” Tric raised an eyebrow. “What?” “There’s more bruises in my britches than there is bottom. It needs a breather.” “Are we playing alliteration and you didn’t tell me, or …” “Fuck off. I need a rest.” Tric frowned at the horizon. “We might lose them.” “They’re led by a dozen camels, Tric. A noseless dog could follow this trail of shit in the middle of truedark. If they suddenly start trekking faster than a forty-a-turn smoker with an armload of drunken prostitutes, I think we can find them again.” “What do drunken prostit—” “I don’t need a foot massage. Don’t want a back rub. I just want to sit on something that isn’t moving for an hour.” Mia slipped off the saddle with a wince, waved her stiletto at Bastard. “And if you bite me again, I swear to the Maw I’ll make you a gelding.