Heath thought about spending the night at the bunkhouse. He'd never done it before, though, and he was embarrassed and uncomfortable at the thought of going now. Surely they'd all guess that there had been trouble at home. No doubt they'd think he'd been tossed out by the big beautiful blond woman, whom they assumed to be domineering and insatiable to boot. Well, they could think what they wanted, but he was in no mood for joking.

He found a quiet spot by the river, not far from Vaquez's property. He was getting soft, he thought. Getting used to sleeping in town. Getting used to sleeping beside her. By now he was a little chagrined. It occurred to him that he'd taken Sarah's words too much to heart. The sad truth was that she was right: a man like him would never end up managing a big herd--much less a big herd of his own. He was skillful enough, and he learned. Every place he went he learned more.

But--there was no kindly uncle Vaquez who would just give him a herd. And he might be smart enough to manage a herd like that someday--hell, he might be now. But sooner or later he'd do what he'd done today, talk back to the owner, or pick a fight with the wrong hand. What was it Spencer had said to him, back in Los Angeles? Settle down and lose the temper? Well, so far he hadn't managed to lose the temper, and tonight made him wonder how well he was doing at the settling down business. Her words stung. She might not have meant them as meanly as they'd sounded. But, he thought miserably, shouldn't a woman think better? Shouldn't she have more faith? He thought he'd done a fair job by Sarah so far. She didn't know the full truth about him, she didn't know just what bars lay in his path. Or could she tell? Could anyone tell? Did his silence hide nothing?

On those nagging thoughts he slept poorly. Work was more of the same, just as dissatifying. At the end of the day, after a moment's indecision, he headed home to Hermosillo. The prospect of another night on the ground held no pleasure.

She came to meet him, wrapped her arms around him, kissed him warmly and long. Inside there was fresh water for him, and he knew how much hauling that was for her. Fish stuffed with shrimp, and he knew how she disliked preparing shrimp. And afterwards, she opened her arms to him. Tired as he was, he went to her with relief. Good to be home. Home. How long was it since he'd thought of a place as home? No words had been spoke between them, but he felt sleepy and content, her head on his shoulder.

She rose up on one elbow. Quietly but firmly, she said, "Don't leave me alone again like that. I know I hurt you and I'm sorry. But it's not right to leave me like that. You won't do it again, will you?"

"All right," he said.

She settled back down. The evening had gone just as she hoped. Her anchor was back in place, her safety reaffirmed. In the morning she would seek out the professor and learn Spanish proper. Perhaps she could learn it well enough to do something. In the meantime she was happy to have him back.

When he was sure she was asleep, he pulled away and turned on his side. After all this time, he thought. Was it all just a matter of commerce with her? Did it mean nothing more? He was just a hired hand here, too. If she could, would she have just paid him in coin instead? All this tonight, it had just been show. Just to make sure the hand didn't go looking for another job. If it had been something different, why didn't she ask where he'd been? Why didn't she ask why he'd left? Because she didn't care, he realized. She just wanted to be sure he stayed, just wanted to be sure he went on doing for her.

Well, he told himself sadly, you knew it from the first. You knew this wasn't no romance. You knew she wasn't like the other Sarah. She was just a woman looking to keep her own pretty hide in one piece, and who could blame her for doing that the best she could?

He could blame her, and he did. Mostly he blamed himself. Not enough to change anything. He supposed there was a limit to his self-disgust. But he hadn't reached it yet, and he knew he would keep coming home, keep taking care of her, keep taking what she offered. Perhaps even more so now, with the trouble at work and the future suddenly uncertain. And he knew, too--or hoped?--that he would lose sight of this night's understanding, that he would fall back under her spell, until some fresh crisis reminded him that here, too, he was just another temporary employee.

The Jesuits had planned to build a great university in Hermosillo, with a separate chapel and library, and a magnificent equestrian statute of Padre Kino. But little had been completed before the Jesuits were expelled. They left behind a single building and the beginnings of the planned library. Out of this kernel grew Hermosillo's Politecnico.

It was no university. The sons of the remaining aristocracy and the most ambitious merchants sent their sons to Mexico City, or to Spain proper, for their education. The politecnico remained to serve the needs of the rest of the merchants, who were happy if their sons spoke proper, formal Spanish--and learned the power of double-entry bookkeeping, as well. So strong was the emphasis on the more practical arts that the politecnico, to its regret, realized it did not in fact have a place for the famed Dr. Raoul Mendez, noted lecturer and professor of literature. After Dr. Mendez's return from Mexico City the politecnico had been pleased, more than pleased, to offer him a spot on its faculty. But after a few months the administrator realized that Dr. Mendez was simply too advanced for the politecnico. With regret, Dr. Mendez was let go after the term ended in January. But from time to time he visited the library, and the adminstrator had once or twice sent private students to him.

In this spring of 1872, Raoul Mendez was forty-five. He had been born and raised in Hermosillo, but he had not lived there for more than twenty-five years, when he had set off to Mexico City and Europe for his education. Such homecomings might be pleasant. So his might have been too, especially since the father with whom he had been unceasingly at odds since adolescence was dead. But he returned not in triumph but in failure, and his dismissal from the politecnico just underscored the depth and the finality of that failure.

Raoul Mendez was the son of a family that had been among the first to settle New Spain. From the old world they had brought distinguished bloodlines and important connections. In the new world they found wealth, and they managed to keep it. Raoul's father, Ferdinand, saw no tension between his aristocratic mores and his commercial interests, which he oversaw with the avidity of a Venetian. It was Ferdinand's opinion that to live properly one had to have money, and it was the responsibility of a great nobleman--for such is how he saw himself--to maintain his property so as to maintain his honor and his manner of living.

Ferdinand had no objection to his son's extensive education nor the trips to Europe. It was altogether fitting that a Mendez should be educated on the continent. Nor did he truly object to his son's plans to teach, given that the university was the finest in Mexico, and the subject--literature--was suitably abstract, suitably useless, more of an avocation; it was not as if the boy wished to teach bricklaying. So Ferdinand supported his son through long years of study, and he provided a generous allowance that, along with the modest salary of a university professor, allowed his son to live in the capital as a Mendez should.

There was a time when Ferdinand was even proud of his son. Raoul was a well-respected and popular lecturer at the university. Of course society in Mexico City was over-refined and underemployed, and lectures about romantic poetry and little-known Spanish masterpieces were a good way to kill an afternoon in that lethargic city. His lectures drew a wide audience, the student body well augmented by nice young matrons and their bored husbands. In a small way Raoul Mendez was a well-known man in the right circles of Mexico City.

No, it was not Raoul's profession that bothered his father, but his politics. Raoul had been infected with a taste for radical politics. He learned German just to read some of the more extreme journals, and he followed continental politics with avidity. He owned every work by Marx and Engels. He shocked and horrified his mother by espousing the heretical theories of Feuerbach--at Easter time, no less. Through the powerful lens of these European politicians and philosophers he looked at the misery and poverty of Mexico with new eyes.

The words alone were enough to infame Ferdinand. Years of angry letters and ruined holidays ended with the senior Mendez disinheriting his only son.

Yes, all of that reading taught Raoul to look at his world in a new way. Looked--that was the operative word. For all his father's lamentations, that was all his son did. Oh, there were a few pupils who listened to Professor Mendez's lectures on Richard II and took it as an invitation to smite the foreign pest, Maximillian. But that was as near as he came to any sort of action. Great events rippled around him, convulsing the country and the people that he loved. Yet he had remained in the cozy confines of his university. He had watched others take up arms against the invaders, he had watched others topple the cruel monarchy.

He had done nothing more.

And in the years since the abdication of the hated Maximillian, there had been other disputes, other aborted rebellions. Again, he had done nothing. From his privileged place in Mexico City he had watched as Juarez, whom he had once admired, who was perhaps the only honest man to ever rule Mexico, gave in to his desire to be an autocrat. Rebellions flared up here and there throughout the country as it chafed under the increasingly strict rule of the man they had labeled savior. Just a few months ago Diaz had attempted to lead a revolt down in Oaxaca.

Raoul had explained his inactivity to himself in a number of ways. This was not the true revolution. Juarez or Diaz, it made no difference; from a historical point of view they were cut from the same cloth. Necessary oppressors. But Maximillian? How was it possible, Raoul asked himself in the quietest hours of the night, how was it possible that he had stood aside and watched his country invaded, trampled, and had done nothing to deliver her? He knew that nationalism was just another false consciousness, another tool of the oppressors--but what sort of man could stand by and see his country abused in such a way? And while he knew he was correct about Diaz--that he would be no different that Juarez, certainly no better--he knew that his country suffered as deeply as it had before, as deeply as it ever had. Even from his posh neighborhood in Mexico City he could see that.

Of course some would said he had done something. Some of his old pupils, those who had helped topple Maximillian, would have cited him as an inspiration. And last year, when Juarez moved to tighten his grip on the country, Raoul had made a few remarks in the course of a lecture on Pericles that might have been interpreted as criticism of the regime. And were so interpreted. After years of popular service, Raoul was dismissed from the university. He should have been pleased and proud that it had been on account of his principles, but he knew how little the action really meant, how little it really cost. This was a time when words could lead to a prison cell or a firing squad.

Of course, the dismissal cost a great deal in pride. He might have the honor of being at least a minor martyr of the current regime. But he still needed a place to live, and the only option open to him was Hermosillo, and the family home. His father had disinherited him, but his mother retained a life interest in the property, and a hopefulness that, back in Hermosillo, her Raoul would leave off this political foolishness, find a nice woman, and produce the next generation of Mendezes. Living with her meant living in a manner that had come to embarrass him, amid a welter of servants and too much furniture and tables groaning with enough food for ten, when only two sat down to a meal.

The return to Hermosillo held other embarrassments, other diminishments. His tenure at the politecnico did not go well. They were rude boys, scarcely literate, interested only in filling the tills of the family businesses. He looked out over the sea of faces and saw not a single spark. Nor did these boys, nor any of the faculty, share his interest in politics. Hermosillo was peaceful, Hermosillo was prosperous. When did politics bring anything but trouble?

So those winter days were suffused with melancholy. He lived on his mother's charity and alongside her entreaties. He still received his European books and journals, but he found no one to share them with, no one to talk to. He took in a private pupil or two, younger sons of the gentry who wished to prepare for the rigors of the university in Mexico, but even these boys were interested only in results, they had no desire to linger over their books, to delve deeper.

From time to time he told himself that all was not lost. Opportunity might present itself at any time. Hermosillo might be prosperous, but even here he saw the faces of the miserable, the disappointed, the hopeless. Juarez was ailing. Might the great moment come then?

But his hopes were always muffled. The great moment might indeed come, but he believed that would pass him by, too. Perhaps it was cowardice. Perhaps it was the result of too much education. Perhaps he was just one of those given by nature to contemplation rather than action. But it was only too easy to see himself going on just as he was now, living on his mother's charity and the second-hand reports of the deeds and the thoughts of truly noble spirits. For many years he had read of the problems of the poor, dreamed of ways to relieve them. Now he was learning there were other forms of poverty, poverty of spirit, poverty of will, that could be just as corrosive. In the handsome house near the Palacio, in fine clothes and with a full belly, a hidalgo's son could be just as poor as any Indian.

She was an inspiration. Not a Beatrice, not a Dulcinea. More like a Valkyrie. She might have stepped straight from Delacroix--Liberty leading the People.

Those were his thoughts before the lesson was more than a few moments old. Of course he'd heard his mother speak of the two handsome blond Americans living in Hermosillo. Despite her social position his mother remained as ignorant and superstitious as any peasant, and she was as entranced by the blondness of the two as was any fishmonger. Good luck, she insisted, they brought good luck. Raoul doubted this. Any gringos in Hermosillo weren't likely to be suffering from an excess of good luck.

But seeing the woman with his own eyes--that was another matter altogether. She was tall for a woman, as tall as he, and sturdily built. A woman of the people. Not his people, of course--but the people just the same. The hands, square and strong, were a little roughened and reddened with household chores. But even without the hands you could tell she was not a high-born lady.

And yet she was different. American women had a reputation for being licentious. Where they got the reputation Raoul could not fathom, for all the American women he saw in Mexico seemed to be nuns or the wives of missionaries, like those tedious women who, with a concertina, had set to singing hymns in front of the Carmen Chapel. Certainly nothing about those women suggested licentiousness.

Nor did this woman. Raoul had heard, everyone had heard, that the big gringo with whom she lived was not her husband. Yet she did not seem loose or licentious. Or even embarrassed. A modern woman, he thought, free from the constraints of false consciousness and femininity. A Marianne, a Liberty leading the people...

A Delacroix she might be, a pupil she would certainly be. He had never taught anything so basic as reading and writing, but how hard could such work be? He refused her offer of payment. It came to him that, if he were successful in teaching this woman, he should teach others. A school for Indians and mestizos, right here in Hermosillo....But for now he would content himself with this one pupil. He would not just teach her Spanish; he would teach her destiny.

Sarah didn't learn much Spanish.

At first she was just too overawed. She had seen the beautiful houses in the hills behind the Palacio but the idea of actually entering one had only been a dream, or a joke. It was more wonderful than she could have imagined. Dark cool rooms crammed with heavy furniture, carved wood and age-softened leather. The servant who let her in, the one who brought tea, who looked at her with mixed awe and curiosity.

And Professor Mendez--she could not think of him as Raoul. He was so courtly. He spoke English beautifully, better than she did, but with a soft, lilting accent. Always so well and so formally dressed. And how he spoke to her! From the time she was 12 or 13, men had ignored her or treated her as a dumb animal. Heath had been the first man who had been kind to her. But Professor Mendez was the first man who had treated her with such elegant manners, such softness, who took her hand in greeting and asked after her well-being, and listened with such interest. Until meeting him she hadn't known for certain that such men existed, that such manners existed. She basked in attention which to her carried no taint of sexual desire.

They began the lessons as they meant to go on, and she learned the alphabet in Spanish, including the strange n. How funny to think that letters themselves had different names! The lessons in her Christmas copybook grew a little easier. But in that house it took so little to distract her from her lessons. The walls were lined with books, and the desk was covered with neat piles of papers and journals. Waiting for Professor Mendez to join her she sifted through the newspapers, remembering, with a smile, her lie about being a correspondent for the Tribune. She wondered if she might find a New York paper so far south. But to her surprise the papers were not in English, nor, as best she could tell, Spanish, either.

Her curiosity pleased him rather than annoyed him. "French," he said in answer to her question. "Some German. And that is from a city in Italy."

Yes, he read and spoke all of those languages. It was astonishing. She knew few enough people who could read and write their own one language. How wonderful to sit in a place like Hermosillo and yet be able to see into all of those strange lands. How even more wonderful to learn that he'd actually seen such places! He showed her on a map where they were. And he had stories to tell of each of them.

For Italy there was the heroic tale of the Risorgimento and the brave men who had cast off the heavy yoke of foreign powers. Sarah thought of fleeing Tucumcari and nodded. For Germany there was the cunning Bismarck and his stealthy absorption of all the formerly free states into one smothered whole. Sarah thought of the dead weight of her father's religion and nodded.

But France--France was the best of all, and he told that story with the most feeling. The terrible war with the ugly Prussians; the great spirit of the people, ever ready to flame into open rebellion. The exhilaration of the Commune; its terrible betrayal and wreckage. Professor Mendez, usually so moderate, so soft-spoken--when he talked of the Paris Commune his voice grew full, trembled a little with emotion.

Yes, when he told these stories she shivered with emotion and an instinctive understanding. But when he tried to explain more, tried to explain the ideas behind the men of the Commune, the ideas that made his own eyes grow intense, she grew confused. Until she'd left Tucumcari she had never really understood that other folks lived differently. The dusty, desolate world of the southwest was all she really remembered. Life was hard there, and it was hard for everyone. Certainly there were people below them, but they were Indians and Mexicans, people too shiftless to make it in that demanding country.

Of course she'd had an idea that things were different elsewhere, and certainly there had been sermons about Mammon and the evil enticements of the world. But she had not really seen them until the cavalry came through Tucumcari and swept her away in its wake. In Mexico, even in middle-class, busy Hermosillo, it was impossible to miss the divide. There were the beautiful houses, like this one and like the great hacienda on the Vaquez property. And there were the terrible hovels that surrounded the southern, dry side of town, that housed an incalculable horde of miserable Indians, drawn to the city by the promise of work but resigned by birth to the city's lowest and most tenuous rungs.

Professor Mendez told her it was noble to be of the people, to be among those who labored for their living. She was pleased to be thought of as noble, but she wondered. Given her choice, of course, she had a sneaking desire to living in a house such as this, to be waited upon by servants, to have other hands take over the rough work of cooking and washing. Professor Mendez told her it wasn't wrong to want to be free of such work; it was wrong that only a few were. If everybody worked a little, if the great wealth of the world were shared equally, everyone would be easier, and happier.

Yet she grew troubled, the more he spoke of such things. She wasn't sure if it was right even to think such ways--she had left her religion behind but hadn't managed to shake quite all of its proscriptions, and she had a vague idea it was sinful to waste your life wishing you had something you didn't. Wrong to wish that you could take things from other people, even if Professor Mendez said those people had no right to those things anyway, since they had been stolen from the people.

He noticed her puzzlement and withdrew a little. But he remained convinced a great soul slumbered within her, just waiting to be awakened to injustice and action. She had told him only the scantiest story of her origins. Of her present situation he knew enough.

One day he said to her quietly, "Miss Sarah, your problem is that you are not like a woman."

She bit her lip, upset. Did he mean--did he mean the way she lived with Heath? Nettled, she said, "What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean no offense. I mean, your spirit is larger, hungrier than that of other women. It is like a man's spirit. Restless. Empty. Destructive, even, until it has found its purpose. You have not yet found your cause. Perhaps," he said daringly, "perhaps that is why you are here. In Mexico you will find your cause."

That response took away all of her irritation. It renewed all of her enthusiastic reverence of her instructor. How perceptive he was! How well, already, he knew her!

And yet...Walking home through the now-familiar streets, she grew troubled again. Her cause? What on earth was her cause? She had heard talk of women who wanted to vote. She had no interest in voting. Even Professor Mendez's stories couldn't get her interested in politics. She had heard, too, of women who had wanted to close saloons and ban whiskey. In that, too, she had no interest. Religion?--but no; just the thought of that made her shiver. She would never, never put herself under the domination of anybody's faith again.

Sarah fixed supper mechanically. Heath was late and she ate alone. When he did finally come home, he was tired and more silent and more withdrawn than usual. She watched him eat. Finally, she asked, "Why are things the way they are? Why do some people have so much and some people so little?"

He looked up, surprised. He wasn't used to thinking of Sarah as someone who thought much about the world outside herself. Thinking of Vaquez, Jaime, himself, he said with a grim little smile, "I guess some folks are just lucky."

"But it's not right," she said, half to herself. "Why should some people have so much and some people have so little?"

"Because the world ain't fair," he said wearily.

"But can't you make it more fair?" she asked earnestly. "What if--what if you took some of what rich people had and gave it to poor people? Like if you split up Vaquez's herd."

"Took? You mean--steal it?"

She frowned. This was a part that troubled her, too. Perhaps she just didn't understand it well enough? "Well--if it didn't really belong to them. If maybe they'd stolen it first."

Dryly, Heath said, "Stealin it back is still just stealin. I wish that herd was mine, I'd do a damned sight better with it. But stealin--Sarah, I been mighty low before. Low enough to eat peeled cactus and to be glad of it. But I ain't never stolen nothin in my life." Suspiciously, he said, "Where you gettin these ideas, Sarah?"

"From a newspaper," she said.

"Not no Mexican newspaper," he said.

"No, from a--from a French one."

"French?" Heath raised an eyebrow. "He's already done taught you Spanish and now he's teachin you French? That's some teacher."

She fumbled, somehow not wanting to discuss Professor Mendez with Heath. "But say--say you could break up the herd anyway. Give everyone a few cattle. Wouldn't that be better?"

Heath shrugged again. "Still might not be enough grass for everyone. Not everyone would manage em well. And who would buy?" He took a drink, slowly. "If you broke up that herd and spread it around--Sarah, I doubt there'd be enough to make anyone much better."

She frowned; numbers weren't her strong point. Professor Mendez didn't deal in numerical proofs. "Why don't people try it, though? Just take the cows."

Heath laughed. "Because of the law, Sarah. It's against the law."

Here, at least, she had an answer. "But there's not enough law to get everyone."

"There may not be, but there's enough law to be damned awful if it's you that's caught. Stealin cows is a hangin offense down here." But the question had made him thoughtful. "I think Mexicans don't do it because it just don't occur to them. From what I understand things have always been bad down here. In fact they used to be a hell of a lot worse. So I guess they just don't think otherwise."

"But America," Sarah said. Professor Mendez had spoken often of America, how perfect things were there to change. "Those cavalry," and she colored a little, remembering, "those cavalry were the only law I ever saw, I think."

"Well, America's different. Folks there don't mind other folks bein so rich cause they figure they'll be rich some day."

She remembered Tucumcari. Hard work there had been, but no talk of riches. Riches were evil, of course; but it was absurd to think of drawing more than a bare living from that harsh place. "But they won't be."

"Of course most of em won't. But it don't stop them from thinkin it. Look at the way all those folks rushed across the divide when they found gold. As if there's enough gold lying around in any stream to make all those folks rich. Didn't stop em from coming, and lookin. And same thing happens every time someone finds gold or silver anywhere."

It was a lot for him to say. He didn't have the smoothness of Professor Mendez, yet she had the sense that Heath had just made, in a simpler way, some point that Professor Mendez had tried to explain. Alongside Heath's blunt words Professor Mendez's theories did not seem so clever. But she tried again. "But how can you just accept things being like this? You said yourself you could run that herd better. How do you stand by and let someone else do it wrong?"

For a minute a dark anger washed over his face, and she shrank away a little. But it passed.

He put a hand to his forehead. He was angry at first. The same old anger that had been choking him for the better part of a decade. How can you just accept things being like this? But I can't accept it, he thought, and that's why things always go wrong. He thought, briefly, about explaining to her, about telling her the truth of his life and his long war against it. But he quickly dropped the idea. It had been too long kept.

What he felt, when the anger was gone, was just more weariness and failure. His time in Hermosillo was coming to an end. The trouble at Vaquez's place was mounting. He doubted he would stay, even if Vaquez kept him on. Too much ruination; too many other vaqueros pushed out. And, too, lately he'd been aware of a certain distance in Sarah. Something, he didn't know what, was pulling her away. He should have been glad, glad to think that the burden of caring for her would pass on to someone else, glad that he would be free to leave Hermosillo at will.

Yet he wasn't glad. The time here had turned into an experiment, an attempt to live differently, more quietly, more settled. There had been moments when the experiment had brought him great pleasure, times when he had felt an unexpected kinship and understanding with this woman. And there had been uglier times, too, the moments when he could not ignore the crude base on which their house had been raised.

It was hardly perfect. Just one step away, he'd said to her. Here that one step was proving elusive. Yet it was the closest he had ever come, on his own, to something like a normal life. If he failed here, if the lowered expectations he now harbored couldn't be met, what was the point? Sarah was an equivocal prize, a woman already tainted and a woman a little too ready to see things in a cold, practical way. Did Sarah ever wonder if something more could happen between them? If friendship and barter might yet prove to be fertile ground, if some sweeter emotion could grow out of them?

Perhaps not love. Perhaps love was too much to ask--and in any case, he thought with some bitterness, love had not served him well, remembering his other Sarah. Nor had it served his mother well. In any case, he found he could not think of losing Sarah--he was ready to admit it would be a loss--without regret.

She surprised him by asking, "What do you really want, Heath? If you could choose."

He thought. It was a question he rarely ventured to ask himself, for the gap between his wishes and his abilities to fill them seemed to widen with time. "A place of my own," he said finally. "Wouldn't have to be a big one. Just so's I could be the boss." He didn't add: a family. A name. Not wonderin who I really am. But she wouldn't understand any of that.

"There are still places where you can get land," Sarah said quietly. "Homesteading."

He smiled a little at her efforts. "Land, yes, but you still need money for stock. I'm afraid I ain't a farmer. And for stock you need more'n 160 acres, I reckon."

Sadly, she said, "You'd probably have that money if you weren't keeping me."

That drew real laughter from him. "Sarah, you don't know what stock cost. Believe me, Vaquez don't pay me that well--and you don't eat that much."

His plate was clean, the mug of beer empty. He took his plate and his mug away to wash them. His back to Sarah, he said quietly, "I may be leaving Hermosillo soon. If I do, what do you want to do, Sarah?"

She thought. She could not see his face, but something in the hunch of his shoulders made her remember the proud boy who had wanted her to see him at work; the generous man who'd brought a dictionary home for Christmas; the lover who had lain with her on the beach at Kino. Briefly, disloyally, she remembered the big cool house behind the Palacio, the hushed rooms, the kindness and the courtliness, the rich strangeness of those visits. But Professor Mendez was right. She was of the people, she thought. This was the sort of place she belonged. Was that so terrible?

"I like Hermosillo," she said. "I like it here better than anywhere I've ever been. But if you go I want to go with you."

A small nasty voice said: of course she'll go, who else will take care of her? But when he turned, so he could see her, the face that met his was grave but calm, the blue eyes meeting his levelly. Was he wrong, or did her smile not have any of the calculation that he'd seen before? Perhaps he wasn't wrong, for she stood up and came to him, put her arms around him. It was a rare spontaneous act for her. Perhaps he was selling them both short. Perhaps their shabby little union could lose the taint of expediency.

The next day, Sarah asked Professor Mendez: "My cause. Could it be a person?"

Inwardly Raoul cringed. He understood only too well the nature of her question. For it could only be one person, and that person would not be him. She had never talked too much about her gringo, but she had done so often enough to make him realize that the ties between the two were deeper than she realized. A man who kept a woman merely for sex did not buy her books or find her grammar lessons. A woman who lived with a man out of laziness or greed did not want to make him a cause.

And it was a disappointment at a more intellectual level, too. It made him wonder if he had been wrong about her altogether. It was so much a woman's way to choose a man above everything else--and to choose a handsome young man to boot. Such actions were hardly fitting for a valkyrie, for a woman of destiny. "Yes," he said finally. "I suppose it could."

She smiled, then, thinking that a great matter had been resolved. She had been driven out of Tucumcari by desperation, but since then her life had been lived haphazardly. Now, she felt stronger, more sure. Heath hadn't been put in her path just to see that she found her way to Mexico. He had been put there for a reason. She still wasn't quite sure what the reason was, or how best to serve that reason. But she would make him her cause.

Her decisiveness looked well on her. Never had she looked more completely the part of Liberty. Perhaps, Raoul thought, it was not right to give up on her just yet. And so the lessons went on.

One afternoon Heath got to leave the ranch early to drop some papers off at the Palacio for Vaquez. It was a relief. The atmosphere among the vaqueros was growing ever more despairing. They covered over the anguish of spending their days burning dead carcasses and worrying about their next job by obsessing over the rodeo. More than a few were counting on winning prizes to banish the specter of unemployment.

Even Vaquez's prize French cows had gone off, and all but one of them had wasted away. He'd told Vaquez that himself, remembering the owner's pride and plans, hoping the loss might jolt Vaquez into taking some action before more damage was done. But Vaquez was still as resigned, or as nonchalant. "It was an experiment," he said. "Experiments fail." Vaquez lifted an eyebrow. "But why do you worry, Rubio? I've already told you there is still a job here for you."

Heath turned away in time to hide an expression of distaste. Yes, he'd have a job, but most of the others wouldn't. And all those cows! Dead of drought and starvation they were an absolute loss; even the hides were worthless. Even if Vaquez could absorb the loss it was infuriating to think how many others might have benefitted.

Experiments fail. Heath wondered if Vaquez might be thinking of his nephew, too. The Boy was wild these days, driving the men in an inhuman way, as if working fast enough could stave off the inevitable. He worked all the men hard, but he was doubly hard on Heath. Heath had never been able to puzzle out the source of Jaime's dislike. Sure, he was a gringo, but he was just a cowboy, he wasn't taking anything away from Jaime. There was something strange and implacable in Jaime's resentment. Heath was used to contempt, used to being discounted and underestimated. This was something different. This was real hatred, sharper and madder even than he'd seen once or twice in his uncle's drunken rants. Vaquez might keep him on, but he wondered if it would be worth it to stay on after the herd was gone. But perhaps it would be the Boy who would have to leave. That, Heath thought dryly, wouldn't make the Boy any fonder of him.

He rarely came to this part of town. Today the city looked a little bedraggled by the long winter drought. The grounds around the Palacio and those around the big haciendas that climbed the neighboring hills looked gray and defeated. The slanting late afternoon sun was still strong and hot and showed harshly the work of drought.

He was about to mount up and head home when he caught the sound of singing. That alone wasn't so surprising-it seemed to Heath there was always some fresh religious holiday breaking out, with all its odd popish color and noise. But he realized the singing was in English, and he headed toward the sound.

A small group of women, dowdy and tightly bonneted, were at the foot of the steps to the Carmen Chapel. They'd been on the steps proper, but a padre had shooed them off. Farther, though, they would not go. One of them was playing a little concertina, the accompaniment incongrously tinkling and cheerful alongside the more doleful nature of the hymn. He'd heard there were various missionaries in Hermosillo but he'd never really seen them. It seemed hopeless to him. The Mexicans he'd met, Spanish or Indian, seemed tightly bound to their own freakish faith.

In the small crowd he thought he saw a familiar face. A little farther away was a wagon that he definitely recognized. He made his way over.

Homer caught sight of him and gave a big smile of welcome. "Well, if it ain't my young friend from Los Angeles! I see you took my advice. From the looks of you Hermosillo suits you just fine."

"Hermosillo suits me just fine," Heath admitted. "I'm a mite surprised to see you, Homer. Thought you was headed for Tijuana."

Homer sighed, but it was a pleased sound just the same. "Tijuana it was, and I lost all my summer's hard-earned money there. Ah, that Lupe! Costs a king's ransom, but she's worth it. Tried to convince her she's wasting her time in Tijuana. A whore that talented ought to be in Mexico City, at least."

Lupe was a topic Heath still wasn't eager to touch on. "Where'd you go after that?"

"Down Baja. A poor trip it was, my friend. I can't recommend a single town out of Tijuana. Poorer, more miserable folks you've never seen."

"I'd think they'd be pretty ripe for salvation," Heath said a little meanly.

"Salvation, yes. But they're in no position to pay for the sort of comfort I've got. So I took ship across the gulf. Was hoping to get to Oaxaca. But it's getting on for summer, and I thought I'd best head back to the States."

"Oaxaca!" Heath whistled. He'd never been that far south. "That's damn near South America, ain't it? What's in Oaxaca?"

"Trouble," Homer said placidly. "Some feller named Diaz tried to stir up a little rebellion. Seems this former friend of Juarez don't like the way the government's going." Homer grinned. "Nothing like a little political trouble to stir up the hunger for a good little revival. Yes, indeedy. That's part of what's wrong with the States, youngster. Not enough trouble. Have to wait on drought or hail or some other mischievous work of the Lord to bring in the souls."

"We got trouble here," Heath said. "Drought."

"So I heard," Homer said, still grinning. "Fact is, I heard there was a big gringo cowboy round here, and I couldn't help wondering if it was you after all." Homer's grin narrowed into a leer. "Fact is, I heard the gringo had a blond lady with him. Couldn't help wondering if it was that handsome creature you had in tow in Los Angeles."

"I didn't have her in tow," Heath mumbled.

"Humph. Fine bit of sleight of hand that was, asking me to look out for her when you had your eye on her yourself. Oh, don't get hotheaded on me. That's one fine-looking woman, if I remember rightly. And when it's a woman I most generally do. No need to apologize. I'd have done a good bit of dancing to get her myself." He sighed. "But a woman like that, I reckon she's better off with a strong young feller like yourself. Probably too much for me to handle, eh?"

Heath shrugged a little. Things with Sarah had been quiet recently. He liked it. He wasn't eager to revisit just how he'd met up with her. To change the subject, he said, "So the salvation business is good these days?"

Homer frowned. "Look at them damned women," he huffed. "Plain as dust storms. But they got that damned concertina. That's all it takes to mesmerize these Indians. Simple-minded, they are. Look how they fall for all that popery."

Homer's professional jealousy made Heath smile. "Why not just get a concertina yourself, Homer?"

"Would you believe I had the chance to buy a whole organ? Handsome rig it was, too. Oh, if I could just play that damned thing! Went to another feller, younger'n myself. Handsome, too. With that organ I bet he's hauling ladies in by the boatload. Nice ladies, too. Nice American town ladies." He sighed. "Whilst I, myself, who taught that lad a trick or two, can't compete with a couple of lousy Mormon ladies with a concertina."

"Mormons?" Heath frowned. He'd come across a Mormon or two over the years. He couldn't remember them out singing hymns on street corners, especially with a concertina.

"Well, they call themself Mormons. I think I run across this band before. They're so strange regular Mormons won't have no truck with them. That's why they're down here in old Mexico."

"Strange?" That made Heath laugh. "As I recall them Mormons is pretty strange already. How much stranger can you get?"

Homer's expression grew darker, and for a moment he seemed serious. "Plenty strange," he said, but he didn't elaborate.

"I wouldn't worry," Heath said. "As I recall their brew's pretty harsh. I don't think you'll sell many Mexicans on givin up drinkin and smokin."

"They got other things to offer," Homer sniffed.

"You mean extra wives?" Heath thought of his own situation. Half to himself, he said: "Seems like one woman's more'n a handful. I can't see takin on any more."

That made Homer laugh. "Ah, so the handsome lady is a handful! But I imagine she's worth it. Whereas," he gestured toward the singers, "it'd take at least a half-dozen of them to make life worthwhile."

"Now, Homer," Heath said, "they do have faith on their side."

"Faith!" Homer sneered. "They're selling, just like me. They're just not sharp enough to take a profit. It's all selling, youngster. If it makes the buyer happy, what do I care?" He bit his lip. "But that damned concertina..." Homer looked Heath over. "You know, my offer still stands. You and your lady friend too. I could use you both, specially down here. These Mexicans don't see many blonds, they think they're lucky. Oh, my eyes, what money we'd make! We'd sell you as brother and sister. Deaf and dumb, maybe. How about it?"

Heath smiled a little, shook his head. Homer's cynicism about religion reminded him a little of Frank Sawyer's dour pronouncements on women. But, Heath thought uneasily, Frank had been more than a little right. What would Frank think of him now? Frank would probably think he was doing just about right-that Sarah Longstreet was bound to be trouble, and it was best not to tie yourself permanent to that kind of trouble.

These uncomfortable thoughts were interrupted by Homer. "The rodeo," Homer repeated. "Ain't you headed that way?"

"Hadn't planned on it, no."

Homer tsk-tsked. "Youngster like yourself, it's not something you should miss. A real big to-do. Not just Mexicans, you know, but some real American cowboys come too. Ain't you heard? Top prize for bronc riding is two hundred and fifty dollars. American dollars, not pesos."

"That's only for the winner, Homer."

"One-fifty for second, and seventy-five for third." Homer winked. "Ain't you got a lady to keep? Any man with a good-looking woman could always use a little more cash."

"She ain't like that," Heath said.

Homer shrugged. "They're all like that." He brightened. "There's plenty of girls, there, too. Leave the lady at home, have a little fun on the road. Ol' Homer here can show you the choicest picks of the Carne rodeo crowd."

"Really, Homer, I ain't goin. I was never much for rodeos. I do it for work, that's enough."

Homer sighed. "Principles. Really, youngster, ain't you lost em yet here in Hermosillo? Or maybe Tijuana's really the only place for losing principles. And I suppose-well, if you got that lady willing at home, I can't really say there's anything at Carne to top that. She's choice." His eyes half-closed in pleasant reminisce, he said: "Definitely choice. Not no Lupe, of course. But I can sympathize." He leaned over. "Maybe you'd like to invite me home for supper. I wouldn't mind seeing the lady again."

Heath doubted that Sarah would be eager to see Homer again, or be reminded of Los Angeles. "I don't think so."

"I don't blame you. You're a nice enough young feller, but I'd probably forget my manners and try to cut in on the lady, and then where would we be? I didn't ought to be cutting around the ladies of cowboys with guns."

"Wouldn't the Lord look out for you?" Heath said with a little malice.

Homer laughed. "I believe the Lord's busy with sparrows. I ain't never seen much sign that he's overly interested in humankind. But looky here, don't forget about that rodeo. This side of the border by the Colorado. Hell, bring the lady friend with you. It ain't to be missed."

Heath shrugged, but he shook hands with Homer and grinned as the traveler gave the hymn-singing women one last murderous look, lingering on the concertina.

He stayed a while longer. The singing wasn't good, nor, really, was the concertina playing. The hymns weren't familiar. But it was a powerfully long time since he'd heard such singing, and he found it hard to leave, even though it brought on low thoughts. He couldn't see those women without thinking of his other Sarah. Oh, she was so different from them. These days she'd be wearing that black habit, spending her days working and praying. He wondered where she was. San Diego? Maybe she was even back in Spanish Camp, now that he was safely gone and she was safely sworn. Teaching school, just like she'd been when she'd met him. What would she say if she could see him now? Terrible enough to think that he could have gone straight from her to his obsession with Lupe. Yet even that aberration was easier to explain than his situation here. Sarah had thought him noble and gentle, she'd thought a good man lived alongside his more wayward impulses. She wouldn't see any of that good man now, shacked up with a woman with a shadowy past in a distant Mexican town. She'd been able to look on sordid things without judging, but this was somehow worse than the poor beaten-down whores plying their trade in the shanties behind Spanish Camp's leading saloon. He knew better; she'd shown him better.

The hymns...they were unfamiliar, but he couldn't hear women's voices raised in praise-singing without thinking of home. Hannah had sung all day, whatever her chores, and on pleasant evenings his mother had joined in. Even their sad songs had had more joy in them than what these women were singing. But his mind kept stubbornly turning back to that porch, summer evenings, sitting at the feet of those women, not really understanding the words but thrilling to the sound and feeling safely enfolded by their love and faith.

So long ago. So long since he'd turned away from that place, turned, really, away from them. Who could believe that Leah's son, Hannah's charge, could stand and joke about salvation with the likes of Homer Bugby? But then who could believe that he, of all men, could casually take a woman and live alongside her and damn the consequences? Who knew better than he did how the world looked on a woman like Sarah Longstreet? Like Leah Thomson?

Not like, he thought sharply. She had been sweet, once, sweet and innocent and trusting. Never, not before his birth or even after, even after she was shamed, would she have approached a man the way Sarah Longstreet had approached them. The two were nothing like. The situation was nothing like. Leah had been a victim, cruelly used by some man. Sarah Longstreet-Sarah Longstreet was no victim. She knew what she had to sell, and, like Homer, she sold it.

And what does that make you? he asked himself. It was the question that had gnawed at him for months, the question he never squarely faced. He did not face it now, either. It's nothing like, he reminded himself, though the words brought a sour expression. Nothing like.

But even if he could turn his thoughts away from the darkest corners, he could not shake a gentle nostalgia. He hadn't seen his mother in two years. Nor, this winter, had he sent her any money. He'd had the extra expense of Sarah and the house, and it was a fool's errand to try and send money through Mexico anyway. But, he thought, it was time he made some effort. Not this summer; but when summer was over, he thought, he'd go back to Strawberry. He remembered, unhappily, the tense misery of earlier visits. Here, in faraway Hermosillo, comparing her to Sarah Longstreet, it was easy to be his mother's champion, remembering her at her finest, her softest. Once back in Strawberry, once in that cramped cabin, old angers and resentments, harsh judgments would crowd out his memory of much of that fineness and softness, and the visit would deteriorate into another charged silence. And how, in God's name, would he ever explain Sarah Longstreet?

The singing had broken up, and the women were moving through the small crowd. He backed away hurriedly. He caught sight of one of the women as she spoke to a few Indians in sharply-accented Spanish. Whatever they were selling, Heath thought, they were selling hard. It looked more like damnation than salvation. Maybe Homer should have stayed to work the crowd after all. And then, disgusted with himself, he thought, maybe Hermosillo ain't such a bad place to lose your principles after all.

But as he rode home to Sarah that softness came over him again. The memory stayed with him, cultivating a vague homesickness.

As the hands were let go most of them were intending to head north to the Colorado for the big rodeo. A few had the sense to head east, having heard the drought in the central valley wasn't so severe and there was still work to be found. But for most the lure of the rodeo was too great, even if they didn't plan to participate. It had been discussed and anticipated all winter; now, after the heavy days at Vaquez's, the rodeo seemed like salvation.

Miguel was one of the few left, and he rode out with Heath one afternoon, under Jaime's glowering eye, to move some of the stronger animals into the best remaining pasturage. The animals were so dispirited that it was possible for the two men to handle them alone, although the Boy's angry interference slowed them down.

When they got the animals down, Heath looked over the pasture and said to Miguel, "This won't hold em more than a few days."

Miguel shrugged. "There's no place better."

Heath was surprised to see Vaquez approaching. The hidalgo drew up alongside them, looked over the thin animals, the poor pasture. Ignoring Jaime, he said, "Are there still animals worth saving, Rubio?"

Heath, glad that Vaquez was finally taking an interest, said, "There's a few. But they need fodder. These fields have been grazed over already and haven't come back yet."

Vaquez nodded curtly. "Cull out the weakest and put them down today. Use the feed stores as you need them. Let me know what else is needed."

Jaime said, "I don't think-

Vaquez said coldly, "I am not interested in your thoughts on this matter. I have given your head for far too long." To Heath and to Miguel he said, "From now on you will consult me in all matters relating to the animals. My-" Vaquez paused, then continued, "nephew is no longer interested in these matters."

"But it is my herd!" Jaime objected. "You gave it to me, you promised!"

"I gave it to you, and you have ruined it. It is finished."

"You owe it to me," Jaime growled. There was a threat to his tone, the dark rumble of approaching thunder.

Vaquez's nostrils flared; he looked at his nephew with distaste, but his voice remained level. "I have given you far more than I owed you. It was a foolish and sentimental gesture. You are not a Vaquez. You are your mother's son. I wash my hands of you."

There was still anger in the Boy's dark eyes, but the realization was washing over him, that he could do nothing to stop this. "But what am I to do now?" he whined.

"Do as you will, but go, and go today. I do not wish to see you on this place any longer. If you are here by sundown I'll have you removed." Vaquez shrugged. "I hear the army is recruiting. Perhaps they can make something of you. I cannot." To Heath, he said, "Do what is necessary, Rubio." And with that he rode away.

The whole transaction puzzled Heath: apparently he'd misunderstood Jaime's relationship to Vaquez. And glad as he was, what had made Vaquez wait so long? Why had he finally intervened now, when so much was already ruined?

"You," Jaime hissed. He turned the full weight of his fear and his disappointment to Heath. "You brought this on! Gringo! You brought disease and ruin. Anthrax. Anthrax and gringo magic. I should have seen it, I should have gotten rid of you long ago!"

"Me?" Heath was astonished. "This ain't disease, it's drought and starvation. I never hurt your cattle."

"You've done it," Jaime snarled. "You will pay, Rubio, you will pay. I will-"

"Enough," Miguel said quietly. "You had best leave, Senor Chavez. You don't wish to anger your uncle any further. Go."

With one last festering look, Jaime finally turned and galloped off.

Heath shook his head. "Where's he get his wild ideas?" he asked. "Anthrax? Any fool could see this isn't anthrax."

"Don't you understand, Rubio? He hates you. He truly hates you."

"But why?" Heath said. "That's what I don't see. Why?"

Miguel sighed. Rubio was a good fellow, and not a bad cowboy for an American. But he was stupid in the way all the Americans Miguel had met were stupid. If Rubio didn't know that men like Jaime Chavez existed, if he didn't understand the darker and stranger desires of mankind-well, it wasn't Miguel's job to explain such things. He said nothing.

Finally, Heath said, "We'd best see to getting some fodder up here."

As they rode, Miguel's innate caution warred briefly with his fondness for the gringo. When they were nearly back at the main corral, he said, "Watch yourself, Rubio. The Boy won't forget."

"He'll be gone," Heath said.

He might leave, but his hatred would not. But, Miguel figured, I warned him. It was enough.

Heath went home to Sarah, tired and dispirited. Vaquez's intervention should have made him glad, glad that the irksome tyranny of the Boy was ended, glad that at least some of the herd would be saved. But the day's events had just sharpened the faint melancholy that had crept over him recently. He couldn't understand why Vaquez had acted as he had; why wait so long? There had been something else going on, some other conversation had really taken place between Vaquez and Jaime. Miguel, he thought, had understood. But he did not. It was the bullfight all over again, another reminder that, pretty as it could be, colorful as it was, dramatic as it was, Mexico was a foreign country. He might speak the language a good bit better than he used to, but he was still a stranger. And he was just beginning to understand just how dangerous his ignorance might be.

Sarah was in a fine mood. She had had a wonderful long lesson with Professor Mendes, and a beautiful tea, as well. There had been some lovely fresh fish in the market, and she was making that fish stew, as best she could remember it. The kitchen had a rich, sea-like smell to it.

So it was a surprise to see him just sit there at the table, his head down, his shoulders rounded with weariness. It occurred to her that lately he hadn't been quite himself. She was pleased with the realization; it seemed proof to her that her decision to make him her cause was paying off. Already she felt she knew him better.

She went over to him, ran a hand over the dark blond hair on the back of his head. It was longer than usual. "Are you going vaquero on me at last?" she said lightly.

"Hardly," he grumbled. But he sat up straighter and took a good look at her. She had long since lost her tan, but her skin still had a healthy glow to it. She was prettier, and softer, than when he'd first met her. She, at least, was a stranger here too. Impulsively, he said, "Come for a walk with me."

"Now?" she asked. "But the stew's almost ready."

"Come anyway."

It was so rare of him to ask. She took the stew off the fire and took off her apron.

The days were getting longer; it was still full light, and the streets were still crowded. He took her hand as they made their way downtown. That, too, was rare, and she walked along beside him happily, although she realized that, purposeful as his walk was, he was still in a low mood. But that knowledge couldn't keep her from being pleased and proud, noticing, as always, how much admiring attention they attracted. But as they approached the Palacio, she grew a little uneasy. Just back there was Professor Mendez's house, where she had passed so many pleasant afternoons. Surely that was not... "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Just to the square. There are some ladies there-American ladies-that sing in the afternoon."

She laughed. "A concert? Really, I should have changed my dress!"

Her tone finally provoked a small smile. "It ain't like that. It's just some American ladies..." They were near the Carmen Chapel now, and his steps slowed. The singing was over; the ladies had fanned out again to do their proselytizing. Oh, the singing hadn't been that good, and the concertina was worse. But it was home-like, and this day he'd particularly needed it. "It's over," he said. "We might as well go on back."

Sarah was relieved that she wouldn't have to listen to any street-corner singing, glad that they'd had this pleasant stroll into the square. How good the afternoon sunlight felt! She was overwhelmed, just then, with a sudden surge of pleasure. How much she liked Hermosillo! How pleasant life had turned out to be! She gave a little skip, feeling very satisfied.

A shrill female voice: "Sarah! Sarah Longstreet!"

Sarah froze, turned slowly toward the sound of the voice. Coming towards them was a middle-aged woman in a plain dark dress and bonnet. To Heath she looked like one of the singers. She carried a small book clutched tightly in her hands. When she caught up with them, she looked Sarah over carefully and said, "Sarah Longstreet. What are you doing in this Godless place?"

This was plenty strange, but stranger still was Sarah's reaction. Everything about Sarah suggested flight, the suddenly tense, fearful look on her face, her posture. But she didn't move.

"I might have known you would be living in such sinful circumstances." The woman looked briefly, contemptuously at Heath. "Woman, do you wish to be damned? It's not too late. Get yourself back to Tucumcari and your husband and pray God he'll take you back. Does he know where you are? You know a woman parted from her husband is damned!"

It was the word husband that sank in; the rest of it was just nonsense. Husband. Husband. Of course, Heath thought sickeningly. Of course. You knew there was more, you always knew there was more. But what a way to hear it, from the pursed mouth of a harpy.

It took a moment for Heath to realize that Sarah was gone, to realize that he was standing alone, in a rapt circle of onlookers, with this vengeful missionary. He'd been right, he realized quickly: what she'd been selling wasn't salvation but damnation. Sarah: a terrible mixture of disappointment and fury rising in his throat. He turned, pushed his way through the crowd.

His legs didn't work well, stiff and jerky, as if he'd just learned to use them. Just as well. If he'd gotten home sooner anger would have still been driving him, and who knows what he might have done? But by the time he reached-could he still call it home? Did a home have such strangers, such lying strangers?-all he felt was disgust.

She had thrown herself on the bed. She was still weeping, a streaming flood that reddened her whole face, her whole body shaking with the effort. He wasn't moved. He said, "It's true, ain't it?"

"It's not true!" She spat out the words. "He-is-not-my-husband. Not really. Not legally."

"Sarah," he said. His tone made her look up at him. He said, "I can't take another lie from you. It's the truth this time."

"It's not true," she repeatedly wretchedly. "It wasn't-can't be-legal." She swallowed hard. Now it was her shoulders that caved in; dejection was overtaking her, drying up her tears. "They made me marry him. He was old-older than my father."

"That don't mean it wasn't legal."

"I wasn't the only one." Her voice was ragged. "I wasn't the only one. He had-he already had three others." Now bitterness crept in. "There were so few of us in Tucumcari. No one for me. And of course I couldn't go outside the group. We were the only true believers." She used the apron, thrown down on the bed a lifetime ago, to dry her face. "You don't understand. To them a woman's damned without a husband. She can't go to heaven without one. My parents thought it was better to see me married to him than in hell. They made me do it."

If there was any anger left in him it was disappearing.

She said, "I hated it. I hated him. But what else was I going to do? There was no one to help me, nowhere to go. And-and I suppose I believed them. It was all I knew." She looked up at him finally, her eyes dry and scalding and very sharp. "You don't know how awful it is, to be given to a man-to submit-he was so old and ugly..." She gulped, hard. "When the cavalry came through-that officer, he was nice to me, he flirted with me, told me I was pretty. No one had ever done that. He didn't know about Hiram. I didn't tell him. So when they left...Well, Hiram was tired of me, anyway. He'd only wanted me because I was young and he'd thought I'd give him more children. But after five years he'd pretty much decided I was barren." She put down the apron, sighed. She was so tired. "So when the cavalry left I went with them. I thought it was my best chance to get away from them."

Her chin came up. There was something of the old Sarah's confidence and boldness in that movement. "So there," she said. "There's the truth. Now you know. Think as badly of me as you want." And with that her defiance suddenly left her. Her head dropped down, fresh tears, though without the sobs, started again.

He said slowly, "I don't think badly of you."

And it was true. What he felt, rather, was a terrible sadness. What a loss. How different things could have been if she'd just told him from the very beginning. Right there in Los Angeles. Or, if, instead of offering her body to him that night in the mountains, she'd offered the truth. How differently he would have felt about her, all along. Even at the kindest, warmest moments between them he'd never let go of his idea that she was cold, calculating, hard. If she were any of those things-well, what hadn't she been forced into? She was, he realized sadly, too much like himself, twisted by circumstances she hadn't made and couldn't quite overcome.

"You-you won't send me back, will you?" Sarah asked. "They-I'm afraid they'll try to make me go back. Or tell them where I am. You won't do that, will you?"

"Of course not." He went to her then, put his arms around her, cradled her burning face against his shoulder. "Of course not." He had been so unfair to her, so unfair. All these months, had she known and understood how little he'd trusted her, how often he'd been wary of her? At times he must have seemed no better than the husband or the cavalry officer. But he would do better. There was still time, there was still so much they might have together. He could make up for all the wrongs, all the wrongs done to this beautiful woman, make things right. "We'll leave Hermosillo," he said. "Go back to the States. Nebraska, maybe, or the Montana territory. We can homestead."

How strong he was, how warm. She had gone into men's arms for shelter, but this was a different kind of shelter. He would not abandon her, he would take care of her. But he would do better than that, she realized. Was it right to let him? "You're no farmer," she said quietly. "And there's no money for stock."

"The rodeo," he said. "We'll go to Carne. Top prize is $250, American. That would get us started just fine."

Sadly, she said, "Only if you win."

He felt buoyed up, determined, a little desperate, even. "I'll win," he said firmly. "Sarah." He tipped up her chin, made her look at him. "I'll do right by you, I promise. I'll take care of you." She nodded, then let her head drop back on his shoulder.

"We'll start for Carne in the morning." There was still time. He could still set it all right.

They left Hermosillo at first light. Heath wasn't sorry to be leaving the town behind. Since Christmas he'd felt increasingly foreign in the city, and that sense hadn't been eased by the drought, the trouble at the ranch, or the poisonous enmity of Jaime Chavez. Out on the road again, moving quickly under the dry hot sun, Heath felt as if a mist of confusion and indecision were burning away. Somehow, the time in Hermosillo had been wrong; he felt as if he hadn't quite been himself, as if he'd been confused and stumbling through his time in Hermosillo. Of course, much of the confusion had stemmed from his shifting, indeterminate relationship with Sarah. But he pushed that knowledge aside. All that was gone. From here on things between them would be straight, and honest, and right.

The farther they got from Hermosillo the more sure he felt. The trail brought out the best in Sarah: she was hardy, able to take the long days in the saddle, and she took them without complaining. Being back out in the sun all day lightened her hair and darkened her skin; before they reached the rodeo she was as bronzed and handsome as she'd been that first day in Los Angeles. Or more so, he thought admiringly. There was an ease and a confidence, a real confidence, in her that had been missing in Los Angeles. He felt more optimistic than he had in years. See? He told himself, admiring her by campfire. See how everything comes around when you figure out what's right?

Sarah left Hermosillow with considerably more mixed feelings. Her experience in Hermosillo had been just the opposite: the longer she'd been there the more comfortable she'd felt. Finding Professor Mendez had been so lucky. She had never had a friend like that before, a man with whom she could talk freely and deeply, without all the messy complications of sex or religion. How kind he'd been! How much he'd taught her! She left a note for Senora Montego to deliver to him; surely he deserved that much. Of course a man as educated as that wouldn't likely truly miss her company; but his kindness deserved some notice.

Yes, she had been--happy? Why not use that word, at last?--in Hermosillo. But the encounter with the woman from Tucumcari had shattered that happiness. In a few seconds Hermosillo was tainted, tainted with the same poison that had sickened her in Tucumcari, the same sickly cloud whose mists had still been able to touch her in Los Angeles. She'd thought herself safe in Hermosillo, her past safely hidden. She'd told the truth to no one. Not to Heath; not even to kind Professor Mendez, who understood so much and so well. To see a familiar face here, in this foreign, distant place, this place that sheltered her so long and so well--

Well, she told herself, it was done. Hermosillo was ruined; but she wasn't. The irony of it: that woman's spiteful words, meant to destroy Sarah Longstreet and her fool's paradise. They might have destroyed Hermosillo, but they'd saved her future. The luck of it--the luck of choosing Heath, of all the men she'd seen in Los Angeles, the one man who could forgive her lies, the one man whose regard for her was strengthened just when she most needed it.

He would take care of her. She had no doubt of it now. Oh, she hadn't really seriously doubted it before. While she'd sensed from time to time that he was unhappy, and guessed that she was part of that unhappiness, he'd made no effort to leave her, or chastise her. She knew he wouldn't do anything now. Somehow he understood; somehow he understood how a woman like her could be driven into doing things she hated and regretted. Somehow he didn't hold it against her.

No, as sad it was to leave Hermosillo, her life had worked out far better than she could have hoped. Riding alongside him during the day, laying beside him at night, she felt increasingly confident, and almost happy. He was a good man. He'd win the money at the rodeo; they'd go back to the states, find a place of their own. She had no doubt he'd make a success of it. If he could do only one thing, it was work. And she--she certainly hadn't lived soft. The prospect of homesteading in Nebraska or Montana didn't shake her. A few hard years getting started, and they'd been on their way. And, she thought, he would make things right, as he promised. In Nebraska, married, settled, she could finally lay Tucumcari to rest for good and all. Her people wouldn't dare follow into settled country; they would never reach her, or find her, again.

They had traveled this country together before. They both thought, with some satisfaction, how far they had come together since then. They both thought they had only good fortune in front of them. They both found a greater regard, a greater gentleness, toward the other than they'd known previously. Those days on the road were the best days they'd ever had, better even than their time at Kino. Lying beside her the word love slipped loose from him, and afterwards he felt a kind of relief. Of course he loved her. It was not the same feeling he'd felt back in Spanish Camp; it could not be. But why not call it love?

Sarah heard it. She'd never heard it before. It warmed and strengthened, like a good shot of brandy when you were cold. Yes, he would do right by her. Smiling, she drew him in closer to her and dreamed.

The land around the Colorado south of the U.S. border was owned by a man named Carne, part Mexican, part gringo. He had all the Mexican passion for the artistry and drama of the rodeo, plus an American's fine eye for money-making. The rodeo had started out spontaneously, but Carne soon corraled that wild animal and tamed it. As the years went by and the crowds grew Carne put up some permanent facilities, including a fenced-in rings and proper holding pens. The rodeo was a money-maker in and of itself, for even at $20, American, a head per entrant it still drew quite a crowd of vaqueros eager to preen before an appreciative crowd. A small trickle of American cowboys were beginning to make the trek south, though they remained in a distinct minority and certainly didn't capture the judges' fancy in the roping competitions.

The rodeo hadn't done much for the little town of San Luis along the Colorado. Carne had quickly figured out that while vaqueros might pay plenty to participate, and Lord knew it wasn't a rodeo without oceans of beer and tequila and mountains of barbecue, vaqueros wouldn't pay for accomodations; they were too used to sleeping outside anyway. So most of the entrants and the spectators found themselves comfortable billets on the Colorado, and counted on Carne to provide, at a handsome price, good steaming mounds of beef.

Heath and Sarah reached the rodeo in the afternoon of the first of three days. Heath wasn't all that surprised to see Homer and his wagon. Homer was particularly pleased to see Heath--or perhaps it was just Sarah he was pleased to see. But he offered her the use of his wagon for a little lay-down, and offered to show Heath around.

The bronc riding was about the most popular event at Carne's, and the final round was the last event of the last day, preceeded by the bullriding finals. Homer took him around to the various pens, where an impressive number of fractious horses were milling around. "This year the bronc riding's in two phases. You got to get through a preliminary round tomorrow, and the final the next day. Judged by time on the horse. If there's a tie, it goes by style."

Heath frowned. "Style! What the hell's style?"

"I don't know but I doubt you got it. These Mexies never think Anglos got any style."

That was true enough, and why he wasn't even thinking about entering any of the roping contests. He might bring down more animals, and bring them down faster, but he didn't throw the rope the pretty way the vaqueros liked it. Hearing that he might be judged on style in the bronc riding made him a little uneasy. What the hell style could you have? Well, he thought, you'll just have to hang on longest. Judging from the other fellows hanging around the mustangs, he thought he'd do well enough: they all seemed shorter and smaller. For once brute strength would just have to do.

He paid his entrance fee. It had to be in dollars, and Heath had to do a good bit of swapping to make $20. He figured most of the trades weren't in his favor. When the fee was paid he was pretty short. They'd have a damned hard time making it to Nebraska on what was left. Hell, they'd have trouble reaching Yuma on that. But he pushed those thoughts away. He'd win. With $250 in hand the $20 wouldn't matter.

He saw Pedro and Ernesto hanging around the bull pens. They were surprised to see him. "But you always said no to the rodeo, Rubio. And you've still got a job."

"I quit," Heath said.

Ernesto shook his head. "You'll have a hard time finding another one in Hermosillo."

"I ain't goin back to Hermosillo," Heath said. "Goin back to the states."

Pedro and Ernesto exchanged glances. They liked Rubio fine, but with him gone there'd be at least one open spot at Vaquez's. "Did you finally get tired of the Boy?"

"No," Heath said. "Just time to go home, that's all."

They came up to one reinforced pen. It was right up against the ring, and it held a massive bull with a broken-off horn and small, mean eyes. Heath had never seen an animal that radiated such menace. "What the hell is that? And why's he up so close?"

"That's the widowmaker," Pedro said with relish. "They put him up front so people can see him. He's famous. And so he can see the rodeo. The more he sees, the madder he gets. He hates men and he hates horses."

Heath laughed. "How can you be so sure? Maybe he's just mad cause the fence is blockin his view."

Pedro shook his head sagely. "He's killed two men and three horses. And injured more. He's here at Carne every year. To win the bullriding prize you must ride the widowmaker. For two straight years now no one's claimed the bullriding prize."

Aside from the surprising malevolence of the small eyes, the animal had a broad back. He'd be damned hard to ride under any circumstances. Given the look in that animal's eyes...Heath suppressed a shiver.

"You want to try, Rubio?" Ernesto asked.

"Hell, no," Heath said. "I ain't never ridden a bull and I don't reckon he's one to learn on. I'll stick to broncs."

"I'm going to try," Pedro boasted.

Ernesto spat. "You won't make it to the finals. You've never ridden a bull. It's just money thrown away."

Pedro said, "I've got a chance. And where else will I get $200, American?"

"Fine for you," Ernesto grumbled. "You don't have a family to keep. You can risk your back."

"How about you, Ernesto?" Heath asked. "You entered for anything?"

Ernesto shook his head. "Too much money to get in, too small a chance to win. I'll keep my money. But maybe I'll find a job here. Gringos are bringing cattle down into Arizona. Maybe they need vaqueros who have done dry ranching."

"Is it true that the Boy was thrown off the ranch?" Pedro asked.

Heath smiled. "Yeah, it's true. Vaquez finally got sick of the way he was ruinin the herd. Course if he'd done something three months ago..."

Again Pedro and Ernesto exchanged glances. "He's here, you know," Ernesto said.

"Who?" Heath asked. "Chavez?" That brought a smile, a little twisted. "What the hell is he doin here? He's no vaquero."

"I don't know what he's doing here," Ernesto said. "But he's here, and he seems plenty angry."

"Well," Heath said, "maybe he'll try to take a ride on the widowmaker."

"Maybe," Ernesto said doubtfully.

Heath was at first worried about shaking Homer for the night. But Homer soon found a little dark-skinned girl willing to hop into his wagon, and Heath and Sarah were free to find their own billet for the night. They moved well away from the rodeo crowd, down by the riverside.

Sarah was catching the excitement of the rodeo crowd, and she was anxious for the next two days. Heath, though, seemed in a serious mood. "You aren't worried, are you?" she asked.

"Bout the rodeo? No, not really." He'd made a fire for coffee and cooking, but the evening was warm and the heat unnecessary. He decided to let the fire go down. "Sarah, if you're going to go on with me--I reckon there's something you ought to know about me."

His tone was so solemn. She felt suddenly cold and uneasy and wished he'd kept the fire stoked. Was he going to leave her after all? Was he--was he married, just like the calvary man? "What is it?" she finally choked out.

"I got no proper name to give you," he said. "My mother--my mother wasn't married when I was born. I don't know who my father is."

"Oh, is that all!" she blurted out as relief came over her. She was not going to be abandoned after all. Of course he wouldn't do that.

"Yes, that's all," he said, nettled. How could she be so casual about it?

When she felt a little steadier, she said, "That's not so bad. Really. But what is your name, Heath? You never did tell me."

"Thomson," he said. "My mother's name was Thomson."

"Well," she said brightly, "that's good enough, I suppose." Heath Thomson. Heath and Sarah Thomson. It sounded fine to her. "Stop fiddling with that fire," she said gently. "You've got a busy day tomorrow. Let's turn in."

"In a minute." He was slow finishing off the fire. Her reaction bothered him. But, he thought, this was no time to start wondering all over again, no time to start thinking, as he often had, that she was cold and coarse. Perhaps she was right: perhaps it wasn't so bad. If she were still willing to take him, what difference did it make? In the Carne crowds he couldn't help noticing the eyes she drew. If she'd been desperate in Tucumcari, well, she didn't have to be. In the wider world there were plenty of men who'd be willing to take her on. Surely by now she knew that. If she were still willing to stay with him, knowing his past and knowing his prospects--wasn't that enough? It had to be enough.

The fire was truly out. He settled down beside her, but did not sleep.

In the morning the carnival atmosphere was even more noticeable. The crowds were bigger, livelier. Heath, with Sarah on his arm, found himself enjoying the spectacle. There was more roping in the morning, and the early rounds of the bull riding. The widowmaker wasn't brought out, but it was hard to ignore the furious beast, pawing up the ground in his pen.

"You're not going to ride that, are you?" Sarah asked with obvious concern.

"No, of course not," Heath answered. Her arm was linked through his. Nice to feel her hand tighten around his arm. Silly to fuss over what she'd said, or not said, last night. In the daylit, festival atmosphere of the rodeo, in the light of the envy and approbation in all the eyes that fell on them, it was easier to feel good about Sarah, easier to feel bright about their future. It was their future; that part was irrevocable for him. Even if he didn't feel as good as he did this day, even if she weren't so handsome, even if the concern in her eyes and her voice weren't so real, it would still be that way. He'd made his promise to her; he meant to keep it.

When the bronc riders were called, he said, "Why don't you go sit with Homer?"

She made a face. "He'll try and put his hand on my knee."

Heath smiled. "I think his interest is more professional than personal. And I doubt he'd be half so persistent as these other fellas. Go on, that way I won't have to worry about you."

She smiled. She liked to think of him worrying about her. She kissed him once and headed off for Homer's wagon.

Heath wasn't called until almost at the end of the preliminary round and got to see most of his competitors. It made him feel that much better. There was a fella from Baja that was pretty good, and an American from Texas. But most of the other riders weren't very good. As the afternoon went on he felt more and more confident.

He drew a good mount, a tall, deep-chested paint. The ride was pretty wild, but he hung on. As the seconds wore away, and he stayed on the paint, a rumble started in the crowd. Before he let go, the pony, so animated at the beginning, had finally given up, and the rumble had turned into a roar.

He slid off the horse, too shy to wave to the crowd but his eyes combing through it quickly, looking for Sarah. Before he could find her, though, a movement caught the corner of his eye: a dark shape moving near the animal pens. He thought briefly, surprised, it was Jaime Chavez. But that realization was quickly pushed aside. Fear washed over him. The widowmaker had been freed from his pen, and was charging right towards him.

Fortunately there was no doctor in San Luis. Any doctor would have taken a look at that leg, with bone showing above the knee and blood seeping through an improvised tourniquet, and had the sense to amputate. Instead, there was just an old Indian midwife with a little local reputation for healing. Once the widowmaker was brought down, it was to the midwife that Pedro and Ernesto took Heath.

It took a little time for Sarah--or rather, it took Homer, for Sarah couldn't understand the strange Spanish the Indians up here spoke--to find Heath. They were close enough to hear the unholy sound Heath made when the bone was set; it made the hair on Sarah's neck stand up. For a moment she stopped, afraid to go on. But she knew she couldn't just leave him like this. She took a deep breath and pushed in.

By that time, mercifully, Heath had passed out. The midwife went on, packing the gash with some greenish, grassy-looking mixture before bandaging the mess. Despite her efforts the midwife looked gloomy. She exchanged a few words with Homer. Pedro and Ernesto, their work done, slipped away, back to the rodeo or back to Hermosillo--Sarah never knew.

Homer stayed. She was glad, for she needed all the help she could get. That night she really thought she'd lose Heath. He grew paler and cooler and more clammy as the night wore on. The midwife did nothing to raise the heavy atmosphere. Sarah still didn't speak much Spanish, and the dialect here was particularly difficult, but she picked up enough to understand that, despite the easy time she'd had setting the bone, the midwife didn't expect anything good to come of it.

At first he was so weak, and so low, that nothing mattered very much. But as a little strength came back so did his reason. Any relief he might have felt at still being alive, and more or less in one piece, was swamped by two powerful emotions.

First and foremost he felt an angry disgust. He'd always been disdainful of rodeos, hating the mockery of making a game of what for him was serious, and prideful, work. This time, though, he'd let himself be swept up in Sarah's desperation, in their mutual hectic desire to get away from Hermosillo. The need to shake off the dead entanglements of their unhappy pasts and start clean, really clean, in some new place. His own need to atone for having treated her so poorly.

And this is what it had led to. Well, he was old enough and wise enough to know that little good ever came out of following an impulse like that. Winning the bronc riding was never more than a long shot, and, even if he'd won, was it really enough to make such a difference? Two hundred and fifty would have bought a few animals, but probably not enough to make a proper start on a herd.

Stewing in bed, in a strange, cramped room and in pain, he was clear-headed enough to know that more had been at work. Not just the common-sense desire for a little nest egg. No, he had wanted to start their real life together off properly, with a bang. Wanted to reassure her that she was making a good choice. The same impulse that had made him drag her out to watch him break horses in Yuma. Nothing good had come of that, either.

Which led into the other feeling that soured his convalescence. When he was too tired, or he'd taken a little too much tequila, or when Sarah had been gone a little too long, panic came over him. What would he do if that damned leg didn't heal? He was active by nature but it was more serious than that. He had a little book learning, but he certainly didn't have enough of it to get him any kind of office job, even if he could stomac the thought of it. There were no one-legged cowboys. What kind of work could he do? Maybe bartending. Maybe sweeping up somewhere. Certainly not at a cowhand's wages--and God knows most cowhand wages weren't all that fine anyway.

No, whatever he could find to do on one leg would hardly be enough to take care of himself. Much less Sarah. Who would take care of Sarah if he couldn't?

Sarah, who had trusted him; Sarah, who was counting on him to take care of her. She couldn't be turned out alone into the world again; look at the hash she'd made of things so far. That family back in Tucumcari; that cavalry colonel. Hell, even him: how long had it been before he'd taken the trouble to learn anything about her, to try and appreciate her? Poor Sarah, who'd been used and taken advantage of by every man who had crossed her path. Without him she would have to do what she'd done before: latch onto some man and hope for the best.

Not that there wouldn't be plenty of men angling for the job. Heath had seen the look she drew at the rodeo. Even Homer--even Homer was probably just hanging around on the hopes of taking over responsibility for Sarah. Maybe his interest was just professional, but there was a fine gleam of appreciation in his eye when he looked at Sarah. No, Homer would take advantage of her soon enough if he got the chance.

If it weren't so painful it would be funny. In his hurry to take care of her, to keep her out of the clutches of the Homers of this world, he'd hurt himself so badly he might not be able to take care of her at all. He might have made inevitable the one thing he'd wanted to stop. Often she'd disappointed, even disgusted, him. Now, though, now that he knew her story, knew the sad little shunted-aside life she'd led, he couldn't bear the thought of losing her. Couldn't bear the thought of her losing her back to that mean world, losing her to any man. He had made his promise; he had to find a way to keep it. He couldn't have Sarah Longstreet lost and on his conscience.

Raoul Mendez was pleased that Sarah had been considerate enough to send a note. Her departure was quite sudden and quite unexpected--she had been here the preceding day and had made no mention of any plans for leaving Hermosillo. But her note was quite definite, although shorn of explanation. Her greeting to him, and the letter's close, could not have been warmer or more charitable. But she was not coming back to Hermosillo.

Raoul thought he should be happy for her; thought, in fact, that he was happy for her. Whatever the difficulties, the little slights, the little disappointments she had talked of, Raoul felt sure she had wanted some permanence from her cowboy, and now she would get it.

Nebraska! No doubt it was a suitable place, and challenge, for his woman of the people. No doubt she would meet the troubles of homesteading with that fine courage he saw in her. There was something heroic about this woman hacking life and civilization from dark virgin soil. He had seen the cowboy once, running an errand at the Palacio. Not really a handsome man, certainly not a refined one, but he'd looked strong and determined. No doubt he would be a good farmer on the frontier.

Not that he would take any interest in Sarah's education. He probably had little himself. Yet it was a disappointment--a tragedy, really, to have Sarah's education cut off so soon. Of course it had been early days, and there was still so much left for Sarah to learn. Not just Spanish, but ideas, politics, philosophy. So much she might have been. Yes, she would be a good frontier wife. She might, under his tutelage, have been so much more. The embodiment of a whole class, untrammeled by the past or its crushing prejudices, strengthened with the very best learning he could distill for her. What she might have been! What they might have done....

It was not to be. Of course there were a great many other young women in Hermosillo, and they had the great advantage of not being gringos, if he were truly looking for a princess of the proletariat. But he did not look. He was convinced that there was no one else out there, no one with her beautiful sensitivity and surprising strength. How eagerly she had listened to his words! How ardently she had desired the knowledge he offered! No, he did not look for anyone else.

He tried to settle back into his routine. Her absence brought home, painfullly, that after all this time back in Hermosillo, he still had no routine. He had allowed himself to give over more and more of his time to Sarah. Now there was nothing to fill the long afternoon hours. Oh, there were still journals to read, and newspapers. Juarez really appeared to be at death's door this time. His death would unleash terrible forces; all the corruption he had managed to hold at bay would be backing, looking to devour this poor, feckless nation. He hardly cared.

His mother fluttered about more than usual. She was glad the rubia was gone. As interesting as it had been to see her up close, Senora Mendez had begun to worry about the amount of time Raoul spent with the foreigner. She was not just a foreigner--she was a foreigner of low morals. As much as she still hoped to see Raoul settled, she wasn't quite ready to accept the rubia as her daughter.

But she took his interest in any woman as a good sign. Once the rubia was gone she began dropping little hints, issuing invitations. More than once Raoul came down for supper only to find guests--inevitably an eligible young lady and her scowling duenna. No doubt these bloodless, overbred aristocrats were what his mother thought appropriate. At these meals his mother's rich meals clogged in his throat.

He arose one day with new determination. The rubia had sought out her destiny; he would seek out his. Hermosillo, apparently, was not home enough for either of them. Juarez was dying, the fate of Mexico would hang in the balance. To Mexico City, then. Perhaps he might still have a chance to do something.

And so on one fine morning he put on his shabbiest clothes--which were still very fine indeed--and took his dead father's favorite horse, and without a word, set off for Mexico City and his destiny. He took one last look at Hermosillo over his shoulder, still mourning for Sarah and her lost greatness.

Sarah had known Heath had a temper, but she'd mostly experienced it through the sound of a slammed door. Living with it at close quarters was another matter altogether. It was rare that the anger came out in rough words directed at her, but she always had the sense that another outbreak, one that might be violent, was just one wrong look or word away. And after all this time, she thought, she apparently still didn't quite understand what the wrong look or word might be. It was like living in a cage with a large and half-trained cat.

She understood he was in pain, not that he mentioned it. But then why wouldn't he take the laudanum that Homer had somehow scared up? All he would take was tequila, and the local brew was powerful if unpredictable. He drank heavily, but Sarah could see it didn't do much for the pain. It did even less for his temper.

After the worry of that first night, Sarah had become convinced that Heath would get well. Why, she wondered, wouldn't he do the one thing that he had to do? The midwife was adamant: he had to stay down, he had to give the bone a chance to knit. But he wouldn't. After the first few days had passed he insisted on getting out of bed. He tried a cane first, but even he couldn't manage with just a cane. Homer made him a rude crutch, and with that Heath was able to hobble around a bit. You could see what a terrible strain it was, how much effort it took, how painful the leg still was.

But he kept at it. She was gentle at first, then firm, then wheedling, and finally whining. None of it stopped him in the least. She began to think it was just pure mulishness, that he wasn't a man who could bear doing what anyone else told him to do. No wonder he'd had trouble at Vaquez's; no wonder he'd been drifting around Los Angeles when she'd met him.

Of course there was compassion in her efforts. But she wasn't the sort--who was, she wondered--who could keep meeting rebuffs with yet more gentleness. Alongside her compassion was growing up a tangle of sadness and sullenness. If he noticed a change--if he noticed that she made fewer and fewer efforts to keep him down--he said nothing.

She began to see how it would go. He might get better, he might not. But in any case he would blame her, and everything would be ruined. He said nothing, but in his angry looks, the way he pushed her helping arm away, she could see the signs. It would all be her fault. It had been his decision to come to Carne, his decision to enter the bronc riding. But now that it had gone badly he would blame her.

It had been the same way with Hiram, she remembered. At first he'd been thrilled with his pretty new toy. But as time went by and she didn't give him what he wanted, he grew disappointed and then bitter. After five years of disappointment she wondered if Hiram wasn't really glad to be rid of her and the fruitless burden she'd become.

Heath would be just the same way. Once he'd been eager to get her and keep her. There was nothing of that eagerness in him now, nothing of the kindness he'd shown her in Hermosillo. Just a man whose anger seemed out of all proportion to his situation, a man who couldn't bring himself to say just a few civil or kind words to her. Yes, he was disappointed. Perhaps--perhaps once he was well he'd find a way to get rid of her, just as the cavalryman had. Just as her father had.

She had trusted Heath for a long time, largely because she'd had no other choice. She had only recently begun to trust him because he seemed worthy of it. That feeling was too new, too weak to sustain any kind of assault. She started going out with the midwife during the day, doing some chores for her. On the face of it she was doing it to help pay their freight, but she did it really to escape the thick air around him.

His impatience wasn't helping the gash on his leg heal any quicker, either. One morning, about ten days after the accident, the midwife had to lance it. It was a messy and painful ordeal, and when it was done, he turned straight to a new bottle. Sarah, without a word, left with the midwife.

All day an idea grew in her mind. When she and the midwife finally returned to the shack, it was dark. Homer was still there, sitting on the buckboard of his wagon and reading from a little book by an oil lamp. As always he tipped his hat to her, gave a big sly grin. She suppressed a shudder. She was thankful he'd stayed, for sometimes he was able to give Heath a little diversion. But she didn't like him, didn't like him any more than when she'd first seen him in Los Angeles. Why was he hanging around? There was something buzzard-like in his perch and his grin.

Heath was asleep, or at least he wasn't conscious. His breathing was slow and heavy. He hadn't passed a quiet day. There were dark, damp spots under his arms and on his chest. He'd made no attempt to shave for the last few days, and he was more raggedy than she'd ever seen him. Already you could see the changes in his face: it was thinner, the dark circles under his eyes never left or faded, and the lines from his nose to his mouth were deeply etched. The new bandages were already fouled, and even through the bandages she could feel how hot and taut the skin was. He had gone to the trouble of shoving a wad of blankets under the bad leg, trying to ease it. It was a rare admission of just how bad the pain was.

She sat beside him for a long while, trying to decide. He didn't wake. He mumbled a little. It wasn't her name, he was asking for his mother. His mother, she wondered. He had mentioned once that he'd been happy as a child. But nothing more. Was his mother even still alive? she wondered. Where was she? What was her name? Why didn't he ever speak of her?

It made her realize, again, how little she knew him. How much he'd kept back! Hard to believe she had lived for months with a man who had been unwilling to tell her his last name. Of course there were things she had withheld for a long time; things even now she hadn't told. But this reminder of his distance just seemed more proof that everything had gone wrong.

It was all ruined. Whether he got better or not, it was all ruined. Even the anger that frightened her now would pass, and it would just all be disappointment, sighs, heavy looks.

She walked out to Homer, who was still reading by the poor light. "I want to leave," she said firmly, "and I need you to take me."

Homer put down his book grinning. So the little lady wasn't even ready to wait to see her cowboy into the grave! Well, he was glad he'd been patient. "Where to, little lady?"

She thought. Where to? Where to? Yuma--Los Angeles--Tucumcari--this miserable hole. "Hermosillo," she said suddenly. What was in Hermosillo? Well, there was--yes, there was dear Dr. Mendez. Perhaps he could help her. Perhaps he would have some ideas, he was so smart and seemed to think so highly of her. But even without Dr. Mendez there was Senora Montego, who would perhaps take her in. And, she thought, suddenly close to hysteria, there were her people. She could always go back to them!

She pulled herself together. "Hermosillo," she repeated.

"Hermosillo!" Homer snorted. "I just come up from that way. If you're travelin with me, little lady, you're gonna have to earn your keep." Seeing her wrinkled nose, her instinctive withdrawal, Homer cackled. "Oh, not that way, dearie. Though I must say--there's things a wise old coot can do that even a healthy young buck can't. But I won't force you, dearie. No, I mean the other way--you'll have to help me work the show."

Sarah remembered the mustachioed little woman in Los Angeles. Dreadful. And yet better than staying here, watching his disintegration into disappointment and blame. "All right," she said finally.

Homer thought a bit. "Tell you what," he said. "I don't want to just backtrack--no money that way. No big towns, neither. You come with me to Chihuahua. We'll clean em up down there. Then I'll take you south and we can cut over the mountains to Hermosillo."

"Fine," Sarah said, too anxious to go to worry about details.

"You won't be sorry," Homer said. "We'll make us some money, that's for sure."

Money...had they any money? "I need some now," she said.

"For what?" Homer yipped. "You ain't earned none yet!"

"But we will. I need some now. I need to make sure the midwife will go on taking care of him."

"Ain't that sweet," Homer snickered. "Still care a little for him, do you, dearie?"

Indignant, Sarah said, "I'm doing this for him!"

"Of course you are, dearie," Homer said.

She wanted to be gone right away, so they would be well away before daylight. She gave a little of the money to the midwife, hid the rest in Heath's saddlebags. She sat beside him for a few more minutes. Again, he didn't waken. If he had....But he did not, and she rose certain she was doing the right thing. It was all ruined. She climbed into Homer's wagon and they headed south in the darkness.

Heath woke late the following morning. The fever had run its course, and the pain in his leg was definitely duller, but the previous day's tequila was still around in the form of a bad taste in his mouth and a slowness in his thoughts. So it took some little time before he realized that Sarah was really gone. She hadn't left a note, or given him any warning. Not until the midwife returned that night did he accept the obvious.

At first he was furious and hurt. But remorse soon stifled his anger. Eventually he understood that Sarah had gone with Homer, and they had headed south, toward Hermosillo. When he found the money hidden in his saddlebag, the last embers of his anger went out.

Of course she'd gone. She'd taken far more of his bad humor than any other woman would have stood for. And she hadn't really run off-she was just going back to Hermosillo. He felt a little uneasy at the thought of her at Homer's mercy for the long trip back to Hermosillo-but Homer wasn't such a bad sort, he thought; look at the way he'd been so helpful to them. No, Homer might hector Sarah into doing a little shilling, but, aside from an encounter with the gluepot, she was probably as safe with Homer as she could be without Heath.

He'd been disappointed with her for not having been more honest with him; for weeks he'd thought how much better things might have gone with them if she'd just told him her whole miserable story at the beginning. Yet he'd been no better. These last days, when he'd sulked and snapped, he'd kept his fears to himself, not wanting to frighten her. But with her gone, he wished he'd found some way to talk to her. He'd been too proud, and too afraid, and too uncertain that he could find words that could show his concern without making her feel like a burden.

Poor Sarah. He remembered her tears at the corrida. No doubt she'd felt goaded here, too, just like the bull. But she'd be safe in Hermosillo. No doubt Senora Montego would take her back in, at least for a bit. And when he was well he'd head straight back there himself, and find her, and everything would be well again. Even without the bronc riding prize they could still head to Nebraska.

Her leaving did what all her nagging couldn't do. Anxious to be whole again, anxious to get back to Hermosillo, he finally accepted the inevitable and gave up his painful and fruitless efforts to circumvent the healing process. He settled down and waited, lulling himself with thoughts of his reunion with Sarah-would she be surprised?-and their future in Nebraska.

It took a month. The leg still ached a little, and he had a hard time dismounting, but he felt sound enough. He headed for Hermosillo straightaway.

There weren't many towns on the way south, but he asked in at each one. A few remembered Homer, but it was from his earlier trip. No one had seen him recently, or seen him with a handsome blond woman. He was growing increasingly uneasy by the time he reached Hermosillo.

And he could find no trace of them in Hermosillo, either. Sarah wasn't with Senora Montego, as he'd blithely assumed. Nor had she heard from Sarah. Aside from Senora Montego, Heath had no idea of where to look for Sarah in Hermosillo. She'd taken those English lessons, but he couldn't remember the teacher's name. He went back to the Politecnico, but no one had seen her there, and he couldn't find the man who'd recommended the teacher in the first place.

After a few frantic days in Hermosillo, Heath realized he was probably looking in the wrong place. Homer wouldn't want to come back the same way he'd just come-there would be no money in it. And lying on the other side of the Occidental, was the plump and tempting target of Chihuahua. A real city, a regional capital, and Homer with the prize rubia in his employ. A lesser huckster than Homer could hardly pass up that opportunity. There was a pass through the Occidental just south of Hermosillo; from there it would be easy enough to pick up the track.

He found no trace of them in the tiny towns he passed through in the Occidental. In Chihuahua he got lucky: yes, the sky pilot had been there, and had healed a beautiful rubia with a terrible scar. But they had left Chihuahua sometime before. No one knew where they'd headed. He went south of Chihuahua, south of the pass that would have taken them to Hermosillo, but no one had seen them.

Perhaps, he thought uneasily, they hadn't been headed for Hermosillo, after all. He headed east into the central valley, but, again, he found no trace of them. Somewhere outside Chihuahua the huckster and his shill had disappeared.

He had passed through Hermosillo in too much of a daze to notice any change. But here in the central valley there was an ugliness in the air. There were whispers that Juarez was dying, or dead. Whatever control he had exercised would die with him. The country seemed on the edge of anarchy. These days people were looking at strangers with sullenness and fear. He saw only a handful of Federales, all of them blustering but timorous. There were fewer people on the road than usual, and those that were on the road looked dangerous. He took to wearing his gun unlatched in its holster, just in case, and he took care to sleep close to a town when he could.

He'd combed a wide arc of the central valley when gradually the truth sunk in. They had vanished into thin air. There was no pleasant explanation for it. The likeliest one seemed foul play. No doubt Homer had been right, and he'd made a killing healing the beautiful Sarah. No doubt someone had noticed, and followed them from Chihuahua. What happened next was easy enough-and painful enough-to imagine. If that had happened-if they'd fallen into the hands of some of the rough-looking men he'd passed on the road-the best he could hope was that it had happened quickly. He finally accepted that Sarah, and Homer, too, had been swallowed by a shallow grave somewhere along these roads.

Giving up his search was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. To his eyes it was the ugliest country he'd seen. The drought had done bad work here: everything looked stunted and twisted and dried-out, including the people. Terrible, terrible to think that his beautiful rubia was moldering away to bones and dust somewhere in this awful place. Tucumcari couldn't have been much worse...

When he finally gave up, and turned northwest, heading instinctively back to the States, his dejection was complete. He had failed Sarah from first to last. He had taken advantage of her without knowing the whole of her story; he hadn't troubled to find out that story until months of familiarity had already hardened him toward her; he had never given her credit for her better qualities, for the real courage she must have had, for her loyalty. And at the last-when he'd finally begun to understand her, to appreciate her sufferings in this world, to understand how much she needed his strength and protection-he had failed her. Better that she'd never met up with him.

At night, on the drought-hardened ground, he was wide-eyed and sleepless, miserable at the realization that she'd never lay with him again. All the sweetness that might have grown between them, all the tenderness he might have shown her: all gone, all lost in the dry burning bowl of this cursed country, all doomed by his selfishness and short-sightedness. Sarah, who said she'd never known happiness. She'd never know it now. Neither, he thought, would he, with her hungry ghost to remind him of his worst failure.

Heath hurried through Yuma, remembering that contemptuous Army officer and his own anger. Retracing the route he'd traveled with Sarah ensured that she was never far from his mind, ensured that his dejection and guilt did not lift.

But it was June or thereabouts, he figured, and the money Sarah had left him was virtually gone. However hard it was, he had to let go of his grief and get back to the practical business of making a living. He gave no thought to going onto Nebraska alone and trying the homesteading. Maybe there was a good life to be found out there, but that dream belonged to another life. Without someone to strive for, it seemed silly. Might as well go back to being a cowboy, or a stage driver, or even a miner. Just so long as he could keep himself and his horse fed. Pointless in trying for anything more. Twice now he'd let himself get hopeful, building his future castle on air. Well, he was done with that. Of course he'd said that to himself before-but this time he meant it.

Yet he couldn't quite apply himself, and he drifted through the town, remembering his last visit here. Last fall he'd stood on this very corner and wondered if he was marked, permanently, for mischance. Now he had a lot more proof that his worst thoughts last September still hadn't been dark enough...

The tarp had been repainted, with stars and animals and other strange symbols he couldn't place, and now it promised "Your Future-Told by the Stars!" The paint was fairly new, but the wagon wasn't, and Heath would have recognized those long-suffering mules anywhere. No wonder no one remembered the sky pilot: Homer had changed his gig. Relief washed over him, warm and knee-weakening. They weren't rotting by some Mexican road; they were right here, in Los Angeles.

It took a minute for his legs to steady enough to obey his command. He found Homer in a restaurant a few doors down from the wagon, reading a little book. Homer looked up just as he burst in. "Small world, ain't it?" Homer grinned. "And you got two legs! I wouldna laid odds on that, last time I seen you."

Homer was healthy and whole and clearly hadn't been tangling with any Mexican bandits. "Where have you been?" he stammered, when he could finally speak.

"Cleaned up in Chihuahua. But on the way back to the States I figured this religion business is just about tapped out. Got this fortune-tellin' book from a fellow traveler at the Carne rodeo. Decided it's time to give it a chance."

"Sarah," Heath said impatiently. "Ain't she with you?"

"With me?" Homer snorted. "Naw, she ain't with me. You think I'd be givin up the religion business if I still had her around? No siree."

Oh God. Where had he left her? What trouble might she be in now? All his dark premonitions returned. "Where is she, Homer? What happened?"

Homer shrugged. There might have been a spark of sympathy in those bright eyes, but it was quickly snuffed out, and a certain malice crept in. "She's on her way to Mexico City."

"Mexico City? Alone? Homer-you seen what it's like down here. By herself-

"Didn't say I let her go alone, did I? What kinda feller you think I am? I wouldn't leave a dog on them roads alone. No, she wasn't alone."

Heath was genuinely puzzled. "Then who..."

"A gent," Homer said. His smile was nasty. Knowing she'd rejected this good-lookin young cowboy made her rejection of him a little less itchy. "A real aristo."

"A real aristo?" Heath echoed.

"Yes, an older gent. Wearin fine clothes and ridin about the finest animal I did ever see-puts that poor little pony of yours in the shade."

What madness had overtaken her? Or-worse-what had Homer done? "Why would she go off with a stranger, Homer?" he hissed. "What'd you do to her?"

"Nothin, nothin," Homer said hastily, not liking the look of the cowboy, whose hand was a might too close to that gun. "Of course I made her earn her keep. But nothin more than that, I swear. She knew the feller, and he knew her. He seemed right glad to see her. 'Miss Sarah,' he called her," Homer did a mincing imitation of an upper-class Spanish accent, "'how lovely to see you.' He knew her, all right. She seemed right glad to see him, too. He was on his way to Mexico City and she went with him. Off to see the revolution, they said."

And well lost, Homer thought. After turning her nose up at him-well, apparently her objection didn't extend to all older gents. Of course that feller had been one smooth piece of work. From his young friend's blank face, he figured Heath was giving Sarah's defection the attention it deserved-which was just about none. Good-lookin woman, but trouble. Homer had seen that from the very beginning. "So what do you think about the new gig? Seen the tarp? This astrology business is s'posed to be five thousand years old. It's June now, which makes it Gemini. Listen here: Gemini is the sign of the twins, and the person born under this sign will be shallow and changeable, some would say two-faced..."

Good thing Homer was there. If it hadn't been for the old huckster and his jaybird chatter, Heath thought he might have just put his head down on the table and cried, ashamed at his own naivete. All these weeks, thinking her lost, and in truth she'd been off to Mexico City with some gent. Some gent she already knew. Heath didn't know anyone in Hermosillo who met that description. What kind of a life had she been leading while he was off working for Vaquez? Why had she even bothered to go to the rodeo with him? Had she ever meant to go to Nebraska with him, or was she just curious to see how foolishly she could make him act? Perhaps she'd planned to do a bunk all along.

Shallow and changeable, two-faced. That was his Sarah, all right. Another man. All these weeks worrying about her, and she was off to Mexico City, enjoying herself with some new lover. No need to worry about Sarah Longstreet. There would always be some fool man who'd be taken in by her beauty and her sad stories. Trust Sarah to have another iron in the fire-and a better one than him, obviously. A gent, with fine clothes and a fine horse. She'd get to Mexico City after all, and she wouldn't have to worry about writing newspaper dispatches to earn her keep. How long had she been false to him?

Why, oh, why, had he ever forgotten his initial mistrust of her? Easy to remember now that the only words of feeling, kindness, love, had been spoken by him. No word of attachment or feeling for him had ever passed her lips. Not even at Kino, not even after the corrida, not even those times when their lovemaking had seemed to promise something more. Well, at least she'd been honest about that.

Was any of her sad story true? Oh, he had no doubt there was a husband back in Tucumcari-but now he doubted everything else, the sad childhood, the forced marriage, the polygamy. No doubt her husband was just some poor fool, as stupid about her as he himself had been. Perhaps she had even abandoned children back in Tucumcari. Every bad thing seemed possible now. A gent on a fine horse. Who knew where her deceit began? Beautiful Sarah Longstreet. His beautiful and duplicitous Sarah, for whom he had a sudden, disheartening hunger. His weakness and stupidity were disgusting.

"...so that's how I plan to work this fortune-tellin thing. Pretty good act, don't you think? Think it'll sell?"

"It'll sell," Heath said bitterly. "There'll always be some damned fool who wants to buy."