Sitting on the ground several yards away, the boys' mother watched their play, the skirt of her moss green dress tucked beneath her. Four-year-old Nicky, as usual, was cheerfully screaming like a banshee; unusually, eight-year-old Jarrod was just as exuberant. It was a glorious day, their mother thought, and she hadn't seen her elder son so happy since before his father had mysteriously disappeared months earlier. She should be content, relaxed, at peace with herself and her world.

But, despite the warmth of the sun and the laughter of her children, Victoria Barkley's body was suddenly wracked by a violent chill.

Victoria had not yet celebrated her 27th birthday. A woman of unusual beauty, she was possessed of a trim, petite body and strong, uncompromising features. The wife of one of Stockton, California's youngest but most prominent businessmen, she held a high station in society, revered as a woman of refined tastes and strong moral backbone. However, her long auburn hair tumbled freely down her back and her sharp slate gray eyes glittered in the light, lending an unmistakable air of savagery. Her beauty was not classical, but pagan and striking, and oddly compelling. Her competence showed in her every movement, her intelligence in her stillness, her gentleness in the generous curve of her mouth. Her two sons were just the right mix of their mother and father: tall for their age, with hair so dark it was almost black, stubborn features, and vivid blue eyes. The two were sturdy, healthy young men who chose that moment to stop their play and bring Victoria a boquet of wildflowers.

Victoria hugged her sons and held them close, breathing in the precious scent of their squirming bodies, then gently swatted them and sent them about their play.

Victoria's eyes filled with tears and she impatiently dashed them away with the back of her hand. She never cried. Lately, though, her heart had been so heavy, as if part of it were made of lead. Last winter when Tom had been gone, presumed dead by almost everyone else, his wife had thought things couldn't get any worse. The loneliness, the desolation -- how her heart had ached. She had stayed strong, though, for her children and her husband, had kept her faith and prayed, and one afternoon, in the waning winter sunlight, Tom had come home. Oh, he had been thin and weak, his handsome face made haggard by the ravages of illness, and unable to remember but bits and pieces of what had happened to him in the mining country near the town of Strawberry. He could barely walk, having to lean on Victoria for support. The boys had been frightened. Victoria, as she sat at his bedside and nursed him, never doubted that Tom's health would return. And, day by day, it did. It was only after her husband was well again that Victoria had begun to worry.

And the worry had not abated. Tom wasn't himself. He was the same strong, courageous, inventive man she had married, more willing, as some said, "to die for a principle than live without one." He was the valley's paragon of strength, a civilized warrior. Yet something was missing. To his wife he seemed aloof and carefully controlled, holding himself away from her, forcing a distance between them. He no longer confided in her, laughed with her, or sought her opinions on anything but trivial matters. Gone, too, was the tender, ardent lover who had shared her bed and held her close, as if she were a precious jewel, while they slept. And Victoria was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been.

Tom was at the house today, going over papers concerning a land transaction. It was for that reason that Victoria had come to the meadow with her sons, who were resourceful and cautious enough to play unchaperoned. She couldn't bear having Tom so near but so untouchable, so she had escaped, and felt a coward for doing so.

Her mind went to another child, one with a slash of black hair and brown skin, a lithe body, and a heritage betrayed by his eyes -- slate gray like his mother's. Victoria had thought Tom dead once before, ten years ago now, and she had failed him. She'd never spoken of it, but in her heart she thought Tom knew and forgave her. He had told her once, when she was only 18, that he would forgive her anything, and she felt certain that we was speaking of her betrayal.

Now Victoria suspected that Tom had done something similar. Had there been another woman? If so, as painful as the thought was, Victoria would not -- could not -- begrudge him that. She loved Tom with a deep, abiding passion; she, too, would forgive anything. Anything at all. If guilt was keeping Tom from Victoria, then, please God, let him trust her to forgive him. Together they could banish the guilt.

The thought that gouged at Victoria's heart, that had driven her from the house today, was not the thought that Tom might love this other woman, but that he might no longer love Victoria. That she couldn't stand. Please, God, she implored, closing her eyes, let him still love me. I can stand anything as long as Tom loves me.

Victoria hadn't realized how late it had gotten, but suddenly it was almost dark. Sh estood and called, "Boys, time to go." When the children had mounted their ponies, Victoria swung herself into the saddle on Lady J, her favorite mount, and the three headed for the house.

She was in the kitchen preparing supper when Tom came in, leaning his tall, lean body against the door frame. "Where have you been?" he asked quietly.

"I went with Jarrod and Nicky to the meadow. It was such a nice afternoon. Did you need me for something?"

"No. No, you just disappeared without a word."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You're hardly a prisoner here, Victoria."

Victoria didn't answer, but she silently asked, "No, Tom -- But are you?"

Part II

"Daddy, Daddy!" Nicholas cried, running to his father. Tom, coming in from a long day on the range, swung his young son up onto his shoulders, and the child laughed with delight.

They entered the house like that, and encountered Jarrod having a philosophical discussion with Silas on the back stairs. Tom put Nick down with orders to wash up for supper, then went into his study. The lights were off, but when the soft yellow glow of the lamp illuminated the panelled walls and huge mahogany desk, it also illuminated Victoria sitting at the desk, dwarfed by its immense size.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," she replied, and stood slowly. "Supper will be ready soon. I know you're hungry."

"All right. What are you doing in here?"

"Nothing." She gently ran her fingers across the desk top. "Just resting a moment among your things." She could hardly explain that this was the only way she had of feeling a little closer to him.

When she passed him on her way out, he gave her a one-armed hug and a distracted kiss on the forehead, and Victoria's stomach clenched.

Tom was awakened by some soft sound shortly after midnight. For a moment he lay still, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, as he tried to decipher what had pulled him from sleep. Then he heard the sound repeated, a soft, gasping noise like a sob. "Victoria?" he asked, his voice made gruff with sleep. His wife made no sound or movement in answer. Tom raised himself on one elbow and peered across the bed at her. She lay on her side, facing away from him, her knees drawn up almost to her chest. Her breathing was the slow, even breath of sleep, but when Tom moved closer to see her face there were tears on her cheeks. "Victoria," he repeated. "It's only a dream. Don't cry." Lightly, he used his thumb to brush her tears away. "It's all right, sweetheart."

Her hand suddenly came up to grip his so tightly that he thought she was awake, but no; she was still asleep. Victoria clung to Tom's hand, and he touched her cheek, trying to lull his body back into the deceptive relaxation of sleep.

In the morning Victoria woke alone, as usual. After she had washed and changed into a fresh dress, she braided her hair and went down to the kitchen. She liked to do the cooking for her family. She scrambled eggs, fried a thick slab of bacon, and made her famous fluffy white biscuits and gravy from the leftover grease. She was brewing very strong coffee when she heard Tom come into the house, his booted feet thumping against the wooden floor.

Victoria went into the hall. "Tom," she said, and he turned. "How long have you been out?"

"A couple of hours. I got up before four. I've got branding to do, but I wanted to get that fence fixed first. Breakfast smells good."

"It isn't ready yet." And then Victoria, looking at Tom in his chaps and spurs and the vest and blue chambray shirt that matched his eyes, went to her husband and wrapped her arms around him, breathing deeply against his broad chest. She felt a tremble, but wasn't sure if it was his body or hers, and his big, work-roughened hands came up to caress her back and the curve of her hip.

"Oh, Tom," she murmured, her arms around him tightening. "Tom, I love you."

She heard his ragged breath and felt his lips against her hair and, acting on impulse, Victoria rose on her tiptoes and firmly kissed Tom's lips.

"Victoria-"

She silenced his protest. "Kiss me back. Please. Kiss me," she pleaded.

Tom caught her up, lifting her face to his, and kissed her with a swift passion and need. She melted against him, and he pressed her back into the wall, running his hands over her body as he kissed her, his lips trailing over her jaw, down the column of her throat, and across her shoulder, making Victoria's breath come faster. His kiss became deeper, more intimate, and he groaned and pressed his wife closer to the wall, closer to him.

"Tom," she repeated, and he was murmuring sweet words against her skin.

"So beautiful," he said. "My wife -- so very beautiful -- so strong, and sweet --" His tongue moved over her skin and she shivered. He loved her! she exulted. He hadn't stopped loving her after all...

But suddenly he thrust her away, so suddenly that she stumbled, and turned, walking away.

"Gotta brand the calves," he said tersely.

"But your breakfast--"

"Don't worry about it."

She listened to the door close behind him, then went back to the kitchen and sat down. She tried to drink coffee, but her hands shook so violently that she spilled the hot liquid down the front of her dress. She let the mug fall to the floor and was dimly asare that it shattered as she stared into the middle distance, her gaze bleak.

Victoria coped by pretending the morning's incident had never occurred. Using the most instinctive of defense methods, she curled up like an armadillo, her hard shell to the world, and became as prickly as a porcupine. The boys, Silas, Sam, Ciego, and the other hands were understandably wary of her. She didn't think Tom noticed.

Saturday evening there was to be a dance in Stockton's town square in honor of the town's Founders Day. Victoria had spent her day helping with the First Christian Church's bazaar, and she had been up until all hours the night before making cakes and pies for the annual Founders Day bake sale. She was tired and, perhaps, she conceded, just a touch irritable. Perhaps Tom would want to skip the dance. He would not, his wife thought sourly, want to dance with her, anyway.

But Victoria found herself that night in her favorite blue dress and suitable dancing shoes, a sapphire necklace encircling her slender throat, and with her hair put up neatly. Jarrod and Nicky were running about, the older keeping a watchful eye on the younger, playing with the other children and trying not to get caught at anything overtly naughty. Couples of all ages, from grade school sweethearts to the town's resident octagenarian and his scandalously younger sixty-five-year-old girlfriend, whirled about the town square in time with the music. Victoria, from where she stood with several of her friends, could not help but tap her foot ot the fiddle's bouncy tune.

"Good evening, Victoria."

Victoria turned to her friend Isaiah Neilsson and smiled. "Good evening."

"Is Tom's dancing foot broken?"

"It does appear to be."

"Then perhaps you'll take a turn with me."

"No, thank you, Isaiah. I don't think I--"

"Oh, come now, Victoria. Tom isn't such a jealous husband as all that." He held up his arms in the proper dancing partner pose.

"No, of course not." Forcing a smile, Victoria took her friend's proffered hand and they began to dance the reel.

The reel ended and the soft strains of a waltz filled the night air. Victoria was claimed by her old friend Joshua Kelley, who praised, "You dance divinely, Victoria."

"Thank-you, Josh. You keep up very well."

"Excuse me, Joshua. I'd like to dance with my wife."

"Of course, Tom."

Tom lightly took his wife in his arms. "I didn't think you wanted to dance," she said.

"I want to dance with you." A shadow flickered across Victoria's face and Tom frowned. "We don't have to dance."

"No, this is fine."

"Victoria, yesterday morning--"

"Doesn't matter."

"You're upset."

"I don't want to discuss it, Tom."

"This isn't like you."

She looked up, her eyes filled with angry tears. "I don't think this is the time or place," she said in a very hushed voice, "to discuss the reason why the thought of touching me is so repulsive to you."

"Don't say that."

"Then why--"

"Oh, Victoria."

Tom's arms tightened reflexively and Victoria instinctively leaned into him. "What's wrong, Tom?" she asked despairingly, her anger gone. "Please trust me. I love you."

"I know you do. And I do trust you."

"Then trust me with this. Please."

"Tory --"

"You haven't called me that in so long...You said once that you'd forgive me of anything."

"You've done nothing!"

"You forgave me once, didn't you? So don't you trust me to forgive you?" He started to speak and she shushed him with the light touch of her fingers. "No, don't tell me what it is. I forgive you anything. Accept that from me, Tom."

"Oh, God --" For a moment she thought her husband might cry, but he just stopped dancing and yanked her close, his hands making fists in her hair. "I love you so much, Victoria. I don't deserve you."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Oh, yes, you do."

An ungodly ruckus interrupted their tender moment.

"What is that?" Tom demanded.

Reluctanly, Victoria raised her head from his shoulder and grinned ruefully. "Guess. You get three chances, and the first two don't count."

A dignified voice at Tom's elbow spoke. "Ah, excuse me, Father, but I --"