Texas Blonde

Chapter Twelve

Josh spent the better part of that afternoon and evening stewing over Blanche's letter. Grateful for the fact that Felicity seemed to be avoiding him, he gave considerable thought to his various alternatives. None of them were very appealing, especially when weighed against what was happening back at the Rocking L.

Josh really wasn't very surprised that Ortega was back. What did surprise him was the vehemence of the attacks. Grady and the men had found over twenty head of cattle shot dead out on the range. Rustling was something Josh could understand-stealing valuable property for profit- but wholesale slaughter was incomprehensible.

And then there were the attacks on his men. At first the incidents had been little more than annoyances, small groups of cattle stampeded across roundup camps and supplies mysteriously missing from the chuck wagon. Then Grady's ambush had solidified suspicions into certainties. Combined with Jeremiah's warning to Candace that Ortega was out for revenge now, too, the evidence was overwhelming.

Josh knew he had to return to the ranch. The only decision he really had to make was what to do with Felicity. He had already determined that Philadelphia was a dangerous place for her, a place full of too many temptations that would lure her away from him. But Candace's warning had convinced him that, for the time being at any rate, Texas held an even greater danger for her.

He really had no choice. In spite of how much he hated the idea, in spite of how reluctant he was to give Winthrop and Maxwell full rein with Felicity, Josh would have to leave her here.

But how could he tell her without arousing her curiosity? After so adamantly insisting that she go home with him, he did not dare change his mind without a good reason. If she even suspected that Jeremiah had returned to terrorize Candace again and that the ranch and the men were in danger, Felicity would ignore any potential danger to herself and insist on returning to Texas. No, the instinct that had made him destroy Blanche's letter was the correct one. He would tell her nothing of what was happening at home. He would take a different approach.

That evening, as usual, Felicity went to her grandfather's room to say good night. When at last she came into her own room, Josh could tell instantly that her mood had not improved one bit. She was still very upset over his ultimatum, as he had expected she would be. He only hoped her anger would work in his favor.

"Did you tell your grandfather that we're leaving?" he asked in a carefully neutral voice.

Felicity hesitated, trying to get control of her temper and her tongue before responding so she would not complicate the issue. "No," she said, with equal care. "I was hoping I could talk some sense into you first."

She watched in surprise as his handsome face reflected a trace of relief. "You don't have to," he said. "I've changed my mind about your leaving."

"You've changed your mind?" she repeated incredulously. At his nod, she allowed the straining joy in her to break free. "Oh, Joshua!" she cried, rushing to him and enfolding him in a grateful embrace. "I'm so glad! I know this visit hasn't been much fun for you, but I'll make it up to you. From now on we'll do things you like and-"

"Whoa," he said, forcing what he hoped was a good-natured smile, although it felt somewhat strained. "I didn't say I was going to stay. I said you could. I still have to get back to the ranch, but there's no reason you can't stay as long as you want."

Felicity saw the strain in his smile, and she could feel the tension radiating through his body. Something was wrong. She let her arms drop to her sides and stepped away from him warily, studying his face to discover what he was thinking. "I don't want to stay here without you," she said, frowning. "I'll be so lonely…"

"Will you?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows skeptically. As long as Winthrop was around, he doubted Felicity would ever be lonely.

Felicity knew instantly what he was thinking. He always got that faintly contemptuous look on his face when Richard was around. "I'll be lonely for you," she said, letting him see the truth of that statement in her earnest expression. "No one could take your place."

For one second some strange emotion flickered in his gray eyes, but he quickly controlled it. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, not sounding very glad at all.

Was that what he was thinking, that she had feelings for Richard? How could he believe such a thing? Richard was entertaining and charming and a master of all the social skills, but he wasn't Joshua. And he never could be.

"Well, it's settled, then," Josh said, turning away. "I'll go back to Texas, and you can stay here as long as you like." With apparent nonchalance, he began to undress.

Felicity watched his economical movements as he methodically removed his clothing. Something was still wrong, very wrong. He wasn't telling her everything. Earlier in the day he had insisted she return with him, but now…

Now he seemed determined to leave her here in Richard's tender care. The thought jolted her.

Joshua disliked Richard, and more than once Felicity had suspected jealousy colored that dislike. Earlier she had been convinced Joshua wanted to take her home to get her away from her cousin and all the temptations Philadelphia offered. She had suspected Joshua's old fears were influencing him, making him concerned that she might decide to leave him for her family the way his mother had done to his father. But that argument no longer made any sense.

Now Joshua was determined to leave her here. Although her mind clamored for the reason, her instinct warned her away from it. If he still loved her, if he still wanted her, he would never return to Texas without her, especially not if that meant leaving her with Richard. Testing her theory, she said, "I don't want to stay if that makes you unhappy. I'll just explain to Grandfather that we have to leave and-"

"No!" Josh said, too quickly, but he covered his mistake with a placating smile. "Don't be silly. I know how much you want to spend some time with your grandfather. There's nothing for you to do at the ranch, anyway. It gets pretty lonely for you at roundup time. You might as well stay here and enjoy yourself."

His words sent a shiver of apprehension over her. There was nothing for her in Texas, he had said. What did he mean? Was he giving her some hidden message? If so, she did not want to understand it. "How soon do you plan to leave?" she asked, fearing his answer.

Josh thought briefly of the events mentioned in Blanche's letter. Over a week had passed since she had written it. How much more might have happened in that time? "I thought I'd catch a train tomorrow. There's no sense waiting around," he said, feigning unconcern as he moved over to turn down the bedclothes.

The weight of his words seemed to crush her heart. He was leaving tomorrow. He could not wait to get away. She watched every movement of his powerful body with hungry eyes. Clad only in the underdrawers that hid little of his masculine physique, he made a beautiful picture. A picture she would not see again after tomorrow.

Not again, never again. She knew it with an awful certainty. He was leaving her. Sometime between their argument this afternoon and now, he had finally decided that she simply wasn't worth the trouble anymore. She couldn't give him the children he wanted, and she couldn't even comfort his bed. He could conveniently leave his useless wife with her family and claim that she had preferred them to him.

Blinded by pain and fury, she moved mechanically over to the large wardrobe that held her clothes. Opening the door, she used it as a screen to conceal herself from him as she undressed and slipped into her nightdress. Although her eyes burned, no tears came. Grateful for this small mercy, she reached up and shut off the gaslight, being careful to keep her back to him so he could not see her misery.

In the darkness, she groped her way to the bed and lay down stiffly beside him, horribly aware that this might very well be the last time they shared a bed, the last time they were ever alone together. She could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her, and although she realized the irony of the desire, she longed for the comfort she knew his arms could give.

Josh sensed her confusion and thought he understood it. She was wondering why he had changed his mind about taking her with him. Probably she had even perceived his eagerness to leave her behind and been hurt by it. He tried telling himself that he should have been glad she wanted to stay with him, but somehow the thought only made lying here beside her without touching her all the more difficult.

Although he had tried not to watch her undress and although she had been careful to shield herself, he had caught an occasional glimpse of the white skin he knew would feel like warm satin under his hands. Her sweet, feminine fragrance teased at him as he tried drawing a steadying breath. The bedclothes whispered tantalizing secrets as she shifted to a more comfortable position.

This was the last time he would be with her for weeks, perhaps months. How long until he would see her lovely face again, hear the music of her voice, or taste the honey of her kiss? How long until she would belong completely to him again? And what if Ortega and Jeremiah made good their threats? What if Josh was careless just once and a lucky bullet found its mark? He might never be able to summon her home.

Felicity shifted restlessly, aching for his touch but too proud to seek it. If he was determined to rid himself of her, if he was too much of a hypocrite to even tell her to her face that their marriage was over, she would die before she would display any weakness before him.

But what if she was wrong? What if he really was only thinking of her happiness? What if he was being noble and unselfish?

Felicity considered this for a moment and rejected it. If Joshua did want her, he would drag her back to Texas by the hair if she refused to go any other way. She was certain of that, but still something compelled her to ask, "Will you miss me?"

Josh heard the anguish in her voice, an anguish he shared. "God, yes," he answered, his voice ragged as he considered another possibility, a possibility even more horrible to contemplate than his own death. Suppose while she was here, alone and unprotected, Winthrop and Maxwell turned her against him?

Felicity's nerves quivered at the throbbing intensity of his reply. He would miss her! Perhaps she had misjudged him. Perhaps he was more noble than she thought. But even the most unselfish man alive could easily forget a wife who was little more than a companion to him. He had loved her once.

Could she awaken that love again?

Fury stirred in Josh as he pictured Winthrop with Felicity, charming her, seducing her. Josh wouldn't allow that. Couldn't allow that. She was his wife. She belonged to him.

"Joshua?"

"Ussy?"

They spoke in unison, their voices raw with suppressed need. In the next instant they came together, lips and hands frantically searching out remembered delights. Softness pressed sinew, satin stroked velvet, and needs became compulsion.

Josh knew he should not take her. He told himself that he would stop in just another moment, just another moment of the luxury of his flesh pressed to hers, of her mouth opened beneath his, of her arms clinging to his strength. But there was no way to stop, not when her hands found those secret places and stroked him into madness.

Felicity urged him on, taking his weight eagerly. How could this be wrong when it was so wonderful? Her blood sang in her veins, siren songs that promised a sweet destruction she was powerless to resist. "Love me, Joshua," she begged, desiring far more than just the physical act, but willing to settle for the blessed contentment that surged in her as he filled her.

But no sooner did she feel that surge than she heard his broken cry and felt the gentle pulsing of his release. His body went limp on hers for just a moment before he slid away, freeing her from his weight.

Still quivering from her unfulfilled desire, she did not at first realize what he was doing as he kicked free of the constraint of the underwear tangled around his legs. And then his hands were on her again, struggling with the nightdress that was bunched around her shoulders.

"Take this off," he commanded. His voice was almost grim, his hands rough.

"Why?" she asked stupidly.

And then she sensed a change in him. At her question, his touch gentled, and she could hear a teasing smile in his voice when he said, "You didn't think it was over, did you? You haven't finished… and neither have I."

With hands that fumbled, she helped him strip the nightdress from her body. This time they came together with no restraints, either physical or emotional.

Felicity strained against him feverishly as his desperation fed hers. Giving became receiving, and pleasure blossomed into a tangible force that pushed her over the brink into the deep, dark pool of ecstasy.

Josh cradled her through the aftershocks, holding himself back because they still weren't finished. Now that it was already too late, now that he had nothing more to fear from loving her, he was going to give her a memory to hold her through the lonely weeks and months ahead. A memory to seal her heart against the threat of any other man.

"Joshua, what are you…" she asked faintly when she felt his hands teasing her again.

"Shhhh," he whispered into her hair. "Don't ask stupid questions."

"But I don't think I can," she protested weakly.

But she could. And she did.

"Logan's gone," Henry Maxwell reported with satisfaction.

"Gone?" Richard repeated incredulously as he approached his uncle's bed. "What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean, he went back to Texas, just like that. He left this morning. He's probably in Baltimore by now," Henry explained.

"But why? Why would he simply leave without Felicity?" Richard asked. "He did leave without her, didn't he?" he added in sudden alarm.

Henry nodded triumphantly. "I'm not exactly sure why, though. He came to see me this morning before he left. He said there was some trouble at his ranch. He didn't say what it was, and I don't know why he told me unless he wanted me to know he wouldn't leave Felicity except for something very important, but in any case, he doesn't want her to know anything about it," Henry explained, frowning over the memory of Josh's adamance on the matter. "That suits my purpose, though."

Richard gave his uncle a considering look. "And what, exactly, is your purpose?"

Henry chuckled conspiratorially. "The same as yours, boy," he said. "I want Felicity to stay here… with us." He chuckled again at Richard's flabbergasted expression.

"I've told you before, I'm not senile yet, boy," Henry said, crossing his arms over his thin chest. "I've seen the way you look at her. I'd have to be pretty stupid not to figure out what's on your mind. And you can rest assured that I plan to leave her everything… after I've provided for Isabel, of course. The man she's married to will be quite wealthy."

"The man she's married to is Logan," Richard reminded him crossly.

"That could change, if you play your cards right," Henry said, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Logan has already brought her here and left her. That might easily be seen as desertion in a court of law. A good lawyer would point out that as soon as she lost his child, he sent her away."

"Something like that could be very ugly," Richard warned, but he was only testing his uncle to see just how far the old man was willing to go to keep his granddaughter.

"Not if we grease the right palms, boy. We could keep it quiet. Of course, she'd need a good reason to get a divorce. She'd have to be in love with someone else," Henry added meaningfully.

Richard smiled slowly. "She will be."

Felicity was sitting in the front parlor staring out the window at the park that was Rittenhouse Square when Richard found her. He winced slightly when he saw that she had been crying, but he forced himself to smile. "I'm sorry I missed saying goodby to Joshua," he lied.

"I'm sure he was sorry he didn't get to see you before he left, too," Felicity lied back, listlessly returning her gaze to the park, where the nannies were sunning their tiny charges in elaborate baby buggies. She usually avoided this view because of the heartache the sight of the happy, living infants caused her. But today she felt some masochistic urge to plumb the depths of her pain, as if to test her capacity for suffering. With Joshua gone, how could she possibly feel any worse?

"You are still planning to go to the concert with me tonight, aren't you?" Richard inquired cheerfully.

"What concert?" Felicity asked with little interest, still watching the prams with their precious burdens.

"You remember," he prodded. "The Women's Centennial Committee is putting on one of their concerts at the Edwin Forrest mansion. I believe it's to be a choral concert tonight. You enjoy those so much," he reminded her.

"I don't know…" she said vaguely.

"But you can't just sit here by the window moping," Richard protested. "He's not coming back."

Stung, Felicity whirled to face Richard. She searched his beautiful face for some hint of a deeper meaning to his words, but she found none. He was simply warning her that Joshua was on his way to Texas and would not be returning before the concert tonight. And he was right. She was foolish to stand here by the window as if she expected to see her husband coming down the street at any moment.

"There will be lots of people at the concert whom you know. Some of the ladies are involved with the plans for the Exposition. I told you there's going to be a Women's Pavilion, didn't I? I'm sure they could use your help on a committee," Richard assured her.

"They could?" Felicity asked, unconvinced.

"Certainly," Richard said enthusiastically. "Of course, you don't have to get involved if you don't want to, but just think, you'd be a part of history. You don't want to pass up an opportunity to help with such an important international event, do you?"

"Well, I…" Felicity began, not entirely certain whether she would or not, but Richard interrupted her.

"At least say you'll go to the concert tonight. I can't stand the thought of you sitting here all alone."

"All right," she agreed, realizing how little the idea of being alone appealed to her.

She enjoyed the concert every bit as much as Richard had predicted,.and afterward Richard introduced her to the conductor, Theodore Thomas. She also saw many people to whom she had been introduced previously and who made a point of seeking her out. Also as Richard had predicted, she received several invitations to help with the Exposition, to which she gave vague replies. She was struggling with the uneasy impression that all these people expected her to remain in Philadelphia indefinitely. Not one of them inquired about Joshua's whereabouts.

After the concert, Richard escorted her home. As was his custom, he came inside with her. He was behaving just the way he always did when he had taken her and Joshua out somewhere, except that Joshua was no longer with them. Suddenly she felt uneasy as Bellwood conducted them to the front parlor and closed the door behind them, creating an air of intimacy that disturbed her. Something was wrong, something more than just the fact that Joshua was no longer here.

"Would you like some sherry?" Richard asked. Was his smile more friendly than usual, or was it just her imagination?

"Yes, please," she said, hoping that by following what had become a familiar ritual, she could overcome her unease.

Felicity moved self-consciously over to the fire and held out her hands to warm them while Richard searched in an ornate cabinet until he located the bottle of sherry and poured two glasses.

She accepted the one he offered, but when she would have taken a sip, he said, "First, a toast: To my beautiful cousin." As he clinked his delicate cordial glass to hers, she reflected that this was a toast she, too, could have given to her cousin. Richard's elegant face seemed almost to glow with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire, and his dark eyes glittered down into hers with some secret message she was afraid to decode.

What was happening, she wondered frantically, too disturbed to even taste the sweet liqueur. There was something far too intimate about this scene.

"You haven't drunk to my toast," he chided gently, his voice pouring over her like warm honey.

"I think that would be immodest of me," she replied, moving quickly away from him toward the relative safety of a nearby sofa. "You can't expect a woman to drink to her own beauty," she added with a smile to lighten the mood as she sank down on the sofa in a billow of skirts.

She was wearing one of Mademoiselle Fabian's creations, a confection of violet silk. Richard paused one moment to admire the picture she made sitting there before joining her. Sensing her skittishness, he did not sit as close as he desired, but left a discreet space between them. "Joshua left rather suddenly, didn't he?" he said as if the thought had just occurred to him, although he had been planning this conversation all evening. "I hope there's nothing wrong."

"Oh, no," Felicity hastily assured him, trying not to think how painful such an admission was. "He… he had to start the spring roundup. That's when they gather up all the calves that have been born over the winter and brand them. Then they separate out the cattle they want to sell this year."

"That doesn't sound very complicated," Richard remarked. "I would think his men could get along without him for a while. But then, he didn't seem to be enjoying his visit here. Perhaps he was glad for an excuse to get back home," he mused.

Alarmed at hearing her own thoughts spoken aloud, Felicity jumped up, responding to some primitive urge to flee. But of course she couldn't actually run away. She settled for walking around the room and changing the subject. "Are you really going to take me to a wild West show tomorrow?" she asked with false enthusiasm.

Richard watched her drain her glass in one gulp and stifled a satisfied grin. She already had doubts about her husband's departure. Logan was a fool for not telling her his real reason for leaving. She was hurt now, but Richard was only too willing to comfort her.

"Yes, Buffalo Bill is putting on a show at the American Theater. It's called 'Scouts of the Plains.' He even has Kit Carson, Jr., in the cast. I hear it's quite exciting. I believe they even have an authentic Indian attack. Do you think it will make you too homesick?" he asked solicitously.

"Homesick?" she scoffed playfully. "My home has never been attacked by Indians." For one instant she remembered the day Joshua had shown her the chinks in the adobe of that home where Comanche arrows had struck during an attack long ago. She could almost feel his strong fingers guiding her hand over the jagged marks. Then, with equal clarity, she recalled the way those strong fingers had moved over her flesh last night, awakening long-dormant passions. The fulfillment he had given her had barely touched the craving he had aroused. And now he was gone. She trembled slightly.

"Felicity? Is something wrong?" Richard asked, genuinely concerned. Her face had gone pale.

"No, of course not," she said, dragging herself back to the present and managing to smile again. "I think the show should be great fun. I can hardly wait."

But Richard knew that her smile was forced. Had he pushed her too hard? He only wanted her to doubt, not to grow morose. "Are you tired? Perhaps I should go now," he offered.

Tired? Yes, she was tired, but the thought of going upstairs to the bed where Joshua had made love to her until almost dawn this morning was appalling. "No, I'm fine. Stay awhile. Would you like some more sherry?"

"Yes, please," he said, rising and following her to the cabinet, where the decanter still sat.

She filled both their glasses. "Another toast," she announced with false gaiety. "To Buffalo Bill and the wild West." She clinked Richard's glass and emptied her own. Maybe if she drank enough of this stuff, her memories would fade and the bed upstairs would not seem so empty.

This time it was Richard who forgot to drink. He studied her face, the strained smile and the pain-filled eyes. For one instant he actually hated Logan for leaving her, for causing her such anguish. But only for an instant. She needed comfort now, and he was the person to give it. He removed the glass from her unresisting fingers and set it and his still-full one back on the cabinet.

"Felicity, I think it's time I went home," he said softly, capturing her puzzled gaze with his own.

She wanted to protest, to ask him to stay, but something in his eyes stopped her. His eyes were brown, the color of the sweet chocolate some thoughtful servant placed on her pillow every night. So engrossed was she in this thought that she hardly noticed when he took her hands in his.

"Sleep well, lovely one," he whispered, and before she knew what was happening, he bent and touched his mouth to hers.

His lips were soft, and warm, and sweet from the sherry, sweet but not chocolate, she noted distractedly in the moment before sanity returned and she jerked away from him.

"Richard!" she cried, lifting the back of her hand to cover her mouth.

She looked aghast, but Richard had expected just such a reaction. He gave her an amazed little laugh, as if he were surprised she had taken offense. "It was just a friendly kiss between cousins. I told you, we're kissing cousins. You remember that, don't you?"

"You mustn't ever do that again, Richard," she said, horrified because for just the barest second she had found the kiss a pleasant comfort against her terrible sense of loss.

He managed to look abashed. "I certainly won't if it disturbs you so much," he promised. "I only thought you might be feeling neglected because Joshua left you and…" He stopped at the sound of her anguished cry, genuinely sorry to have caused her more pain, but knowing he would have to cause her more still if he was to succeed.

"Please, Richard, I… I think you'd better go now," she said, alarmed to discover she was trembling. But she was far too upset to decide whether the trembling was caused by Richard's kiss or by his reminder of Joshua's hasty departure.

"Yes, yes, of course," Richard quickly agreed, but when he tried to take her hand again, she shrank from his touch. He settled for a formal bow as he took his leave.

Felicity allowed herself one more glass of sherry before summoning a maid to help her undress. At least she would not have to enter the bedroom alone, she reasoned. But the girl was much too quick in her ministrations, and too soon Felicity found herself alone in the dark, curled up under the covers of the big bed.

Her heart still seemed to beat too quickly, and she shivered against the silken sheets, every nerve quivering with the need to be touched. How could Richard's kiss have caused such a reaction? she wondered miserably. The very thought was wicked and sinful, especially when it wasn't Richard's touch she longed for at all.

No, she realized sadly, it was Joshua's touch she wanted. Her reaction to Richard was simply a result of her last night with her husband. She shivered again and surrendered at last to the relief of tears. She would have to be very careful. Richard was an attractive man, and he cared for her very much. If she gave him any encouragement at all, something terrible might happen, something terrible that they would both regret.

"Oh, Joshua," she sobbed, "why did you do this to me?"

Josh raised his hand in greeting when he caught sight ol Grady waiting for him in the ranch yard. He kicked his rented mount into a trot to cover more quickly the final distance to his home. He hadn't notified anyone of his arrival, just in case some of Ortega's spies were waiting for that information. When the stage had left him at Prospect this morning, he had gotten a horse from the livery stable and headed home.

Home. Josh glanced around the ranch with a practiced eye, looking for any sign that something was out of the ordinary, but he saw nothing unusual. Nothing, that is, except for the sling on Grady's arm. And the fact that Felicity would not be there to greet him.

"Welcome home, boss," Grady said when Josh reined up beside him. "I'm sorry I had to send for you. I hated like hell to ruin your visit and all…"

"That's all right," Josh reassured him, swinging down from his horse. "Just tell me what's been happening."

As Josh unsaddled, Grady filled him in on the events that had occurred since his own ambush.

"… and then yesterday we found ten calves with their throats cut," Grady finished, reluctantly giving Josh the last in a long list of atrocities.

Josh swore. "That just doesn't sound like Ortega. The man has never been vicious," he protested.

But Grady shook his head. "We've been hearing all kinds of rumors. Seems like he almost died last spring when you shot him, and he's out for revenge. From the things he's been doing around here, he must be plumb loco."

Josh had to agree, if it was indeed Ortega who was responsible for these acts. Unfortunately, he also had another enemy who might well hate him enough to destroy his property in such a cruel manner. "Has anybody seen that Jeremiah fellow around?" he asked.

"No, but…" Grady hesitated a moment, reluctant to mention something that might be painful to Josh. "Candace finally told me that he came to see her. She said you already knew about it."

"Yeah, Blanche put it in the letter," Josh reported as the two men started toward the house, where Josh knew he would find Candace.

Candace was waiting for him, and Josh stopped short at the sight of her. How could she possibly have aged so much in the few short weeks he had been gone? The face he had seen every day of his life had gone from ageless to old in a month's time.

"Oh, Mr. Josh," she cried, tears spilling down her ebony cheeks. "I'm so sorry!"

"There, now, it's not your fault," he murmured, taking her trembling body in his arms. Had she always been this thin? he wondered as he led her over to the settee and made her sit down. He motioned to Grady to leave them alone, and then, sitting beside her, he put his arm over her shoulders and soothed her as best he could until at last she quieted.

"I should never have made you promise," she said, wiping the tears from her face with the sleeve of her dress. "If you'd killed him then-"

"Hush, you don't mean that," he chastened. "He's your son! And besides, we don't know that he's involved in what's been happening."

"But he's evil, Mr. Josh, all filled up with hate. You should have heard the things he said about you and Miss Felicity. Mrs. Delano thought maybe he was only trying to scare me, but she didn't see his eyes. He hates you so…" Candace drew a shuddering breath. "And he told me he was going to join up with Ortega again and help him ruin you. And it's all my fault."

"Candace, it is not your fault," Josh insisted.

"Yes, it is," she insisted right back. "If I'd gone home with your mother like she wanted me to, this never would have happened…"

"We don't know that," Josh said in exasperation, fighting an urge to try to shake some sense into her. Why was she so determined to take all the blame for something that was clearly not her fault? "What's done is done. We can't go back and change it now, anyway. I don't want to hear another word about it. Do you understand?"

She nodded miserably. "And I'm sorry you had to leave Miss Felicity back there…"

"She's having the time of her life," Josh assured her, although the words almost stuck in his throat.

"But she'll miss you…" Candace tried.

"She'll be fine," Josh said, knowing only too well how true his words were. "Now, how about rustling me up something to eat? My stomach is starting to gnaw on my backbone," he added with a forced smile.

"Right away," she sniffed, rising from the settee.

Josh watched her go with a frown, noticing for the first time the way her proud shoulders had begun to stoop. When had that started? And why had he never noticed it until now?

The next day Josh insisted on going out to see the murdered calves, although Grady and the men strongly objected. They argued that Ortega would love an opportunity to take a potshot at Josh, but Josh ignored their warnings. As it turned out, no one took a potshot at him, on that day or on any of the days that followed. In fact, all the previous harassment ceased abruptly.

Too abruptly, everyone agreed as the tension mounted hourly. Something big was about to happen, and the strain of waiting began to take its toll on all the men. They went about their duties with every sense alert for trouble, but still nothing happened. The days dragged into weeks, and the weeks became a month. The bluebonnets turned the grass into an indigo carpet, heralding the formal beginning of summer. And still no sign of Ortega. Or Jeremiah Logan.

Felicity wrote faithfully, and although her letters arrived sporadically and sometimes two together, Josh received a clear picture of her life in Philadelphia. Richard took her to a concert. Richard took her to a play. Richard took her to see Buffalo Bill. Richard took her to the park. Her grandfather bought her more new clothes and gave her some jewelry that had belonged to her grandmother.

Oh, she said she missed him and hoped the roundup was going well, too, but that was just common politeness. Although she signed herself "your loving wife," she never mentioned coming home. Josh tried not to torture himself about it at night when he lay alone in the big bed they had once shared. He told himself that as soon as this mess with Ortega straightened out, he would summon her home. If she refused, he would simply return to Philadelphia and fetch her. Then they would be able to pick up the pieces of their lives and start over.

Meanwhile, he could not bring himself to reply to her letters. He sat down at least a dozen times to write, but there was nothing to say. He dared not mention the trouble with Ortega, and he had no other news. He also dared not mention how much he missed her and wanted her here with him for fear she might actually come. Although it was his fondest wish, he refused to put her in danger.

The perils she faced in Philadelphia, while just as real, were far less hazardous than the ones awaiting her in Texas. And whatever Winthrop might plot, whatever Maxwell might scheme, Felicity was still Josh's wife. She belonged to him, and no amount of money would ever change that fact. But such thoughts were cold comfort to him as he waited day after day for Ortega's next move.

Felicity looked up in surprise when Bellwood informed her that her grandfather wanted her to come to his room and meet someone. Normally she only visited her grandfather in the afternoon, when she either read to him or the two of them just talked. During those times, he had told her many things about her mother and himself, and she in turn had filled him in on the part of her life he had missed.

As Felicity hurried up the stairs in response to this unusual summons, she reflected on how the afternoon visits with him and the activities that Richard planned for her had helped pass the lonely days without Joshua. Unfortunately, nothing could help her with the lonely nights. And both the days and nights seemed to be getting longer as each mail failed to bring her a letter from her husband. At first she had excused him, remembering how busy he would be with the roundup, but no excuse could explain why no letter had come after all these weeks.

Sometimes she became angry and swore she would not write another line to him until he responded. Then she would decide it was better to torment him with tales of her glamorous life in Philadelphia, so she would write page after page. When these tales still brought no response, she would grow frightened. What if her earlier fears proved true? What if he really had decided he no longer wanted her as his wife? Had he left her here for good? Was this silence his way of telling her their marriage was over?

Sighing over that thought, she stopped outside her grandfather's bedroom and knocked. "Come in, child."

Maxwell called, and she did.

Her grandfather's visitor was a man about her grandfather's age who still bore the air of authority Maxwell must surely have had before his illness.

"Felicity, may I present my good friend, Alexander Evans?" Maxwell said. "Alex, this is my granddaughter, Mrs. Logan."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Logan," Evans said, taking the hand she offered. "I've been looking forward to this moment ever since I first saw your work."

"My work?" Felicity echoed, giving her grandfather a puzzled look.

"Yes, my dear," her grandfather confirmed. "You see, when I first saw your photographs, I was quite impressed, but since I am no expert, I asked the opinion of one who is. Alex here helped organize the Philadelphia Photographic Society. He's a photographer himself."

Felicity smiled, delighted to discover a kindred soul, but before she could respond, Evans contradicted the assessment. "I'm only an amateur compared to you, Mrs. Logan. I know Henry didn't tell you, but he gave me your photographs to take to the last meeting of the Photographic Society. The gentlemen there were quite impressed."

"Grandfather!" Felicity chastened him, not certain whether she was angry or not but certainly displeased that he had taken such a step without consulting her. "You shouldn't have done that."

"My granddaughter is becomingly modest," Maxwell said by way of excuse for Felicity's reaction.

"I am justifiably modest," she corrected him, giving Mr. Evans an apologetic smile. "You are very kind to flatter me, but I know my work is only passable…"

"Passable?" Evans repeated, obviously astounded. "Do you mean to tell me that you really don't know how much talent you have?"

Felicity's face mirrored his astonishment. "Photography is a craft. It doesn't require talent, not the way painting and sculpture and things like that do," she said, repeating the theories she had heard her father recite.

But Alex Evans was shaking his head. "That's what painters would have us think, but only because they're afraid of the competition. Of course, your statement is true of many photographers who fritter away their lives simply taking pictures, but for a select few-like you, Mrs. Logan-the theory simply does not hold true. Can't you see for yourself the difference between your own work and that of others?" he asked.

Felicity started to protest, a natural reaction ingrained in her from birth. It was wrong to put herself forward or to exhibit any pride in her accomplishments. But the truth of Mr. Evans's words stopped her. She had already recognized that her work was good, even though her father had given her scant praise. She knew Caleb Storm had only been afraid she would grow proud. He often quoted the Scripture verse about pride going before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction as an admonition.

But she did know her work was good, and here was someone well qualified to judge it who confirmed that opinion. She smiled gratefully. "As Grandfather said, I'm modest," she excused herself.

"What a waste of energy," Evans said, smiling back. "The reason that I'm here today is to ask your permission to display your work in the Photography Pavilion at the Centennial Exposition."

"What!" Felicity cried, incredulous. As confident as she was about her work, she had never dreamed it deserved such an honor. "Now you really are flattering me."

"Not at all," Evans replied. "I am on the selection committee, and the other members agree that your work merits inclusion in the display."

"Oh, Grandfather," Felicity said in frustration, turning to the old man. She knew he would understand her feelings, how all her training rebelled at such a public show of what was a very private pleasure for her.

Maxwell understood, but he did not let that influence him. "It would be very selfish of you to refuse Alex's offer."

"Selfish?" Felicity could not follow his logic.

"Yes, just think how proud Josh will be of you. And think of the future. Your children and grandchildren can brag that your work appeared at the Exposition," Henry explained persuasively.

Felicity stared at him in shock. Her children? How could he say such a thing? But then she remembered that he did not know the details of her baby's death. All she had told him was that the baby was stillborn. Her grandfather would naturally assume that she would have other children. Even she herself had not yet given up hope completely. But what if Joshua's predictions were true? What if Caleb Joshua was the only child she would ever produce? What then would she leave behind her when her life came to an end? The answer was ridiculously simple: her pictures. For now, at least, they were her babies, the only thing she could produce of lasting value.

Feeling an unfamiliar surge of determination, Felicity turned back to Mr. Evans, who seemed a little surprised at the sudden change in her. "Thank you for your offer, Mr. Evans. I would be honored to have my pictures displayed in the Photography Pavilion."

Mr. Evans was absurdly grateful, at least to Felicity's mind. After he left, her grandfather was, too.

"Thank you for humoring me, my dear," he said. "I know how difficult it was for you to agree."

But she smiled reassuringly. "I simply decided you were right. Pride is a sin, but it's a sin to hide your light under a bushel, too."

Maxwell thought it best not to comment on that remark. Instead he said, "I suppose this means you'll stay at least until the Exposition opens. You'll have to be here to receive your accolades."

Her smile flickered only slightly. "If there are any accolades," she replied, but she was really thinking about the other part of his statement, the part about her staying until May. It was certainly a reasonable expectation. What disturbed her was the thought that if Joshua did not want her back, she would be staying long past May.

How happy her grandfather would be if that was the case. He would gladly keep her here. He had often mentioned wistfully that he wished he could do so. And Richard, too, would be pleased. More than pleased, she realized sadly. Although he had not tried to kiss her again, he had managed to make his feelings for her obvious nonetheless. He would be delighted to take Joshua's place in her life.

The problem was that no one could ever take Joshua's place.

"I'd better go now so you can get some rest," she said, eager to escape her grandfather's perceptive gaze. He was watching her as if he could read her thoughts.

He made an impatient noise. "There'll be time enough for rest when I'm dead. Right now I have a chance to look at the prettiest young woman in this city, and I'm going to take it. Sit down and we'll talk for a while."

Felicity frowned at the reference to his death, a reference he made rather too frequently for her peace of mind. "Dr. Lowell said that if you take care of yourself, you can live a long time," she reminded him.

"Pshaw, a few months one way or the other won't make that much difference to a man my age. I say, enjoy the time you've got. Better to live a short while and have fun than a long time and die of boredom," he told her with a wink that brought a grudging smile back to her mouth. She had come to love him very much in the few weeks she had known him, and the thought of his death disturbed her greatly, although she knew he did not want her to show it.

"In fact," he continued thoughtfully, adjusting the bedclothes with the air of one who has an important announcement to make, "I've been thinking about having a party."

"A party!" Felicity echoed, thoroughly shocked. How did he think he could host a party from his bed?

"Well, I wouldn't attend, of course, but Richard could serve as host," he explained, anticipating her objections. "And Isabel can muddle through as hostess if you stand beside her and make sure she doesn't faint," he added with a wink. "I want you to be introduced into Philadelphia society properly."

"But there's no need to introduce me into society," Felicity assured him quickly, once again fighting the sudden fear that she might indeed find herself a permanent resident of this fair city.

He frowned at that but decided not to pursue the argument. Instead he offered one against which she could make no protest. "And I'd like to hear music in this old house once more before I die."

Felicity frowned again at the mention of his death, but she could not object to his request. "If you want to have a party, I'm sure Richard would be glad to host it for you." Of that much she was certain. "And I'll help Isabel any way I can."

"Good," he said, grinning slyly. "And we can use the occasion to announce that your pictures will be displayed at the Exposition."

"You wouldn't dare!" Felicity cried, horrified at the very thought of having such a fuss made over her. Having the party in her honor was already more than she should allow.

"We'll talk about it later," he conceded, wisely not pressing her. She had already given him more than he had expected today. If he did not mention this again, she would think he had forgotten. "Now, why don't you read to me awhile?" he suggested with an innocent smile.

Felicity gave him a reproving glance and picked up the book lying on the bedside table. She took her customary chair beside the bed, but before she could begin reading, a discreet knock at the door interrupted her. It was Bellwood, who announced that Dr. Strong was here to see Mr. Maxwell.

"Well, send him right in," Henry exclaimed with a pleased smile.

"A new doctor?" Felicity inquired when Bellwood stepped out to summon the guest.

"An old friend," Henry said, still smiling.

A moment later, a stocky, middle-aged man with graying hair and muttonchop whiskers burst into the room and greeted Henry boisterously.

"How did you find Paris, Ezra?" Henry asked when he had returned the greeting.

"With very little difficulty," Ezra Strong replied, grinning slyly. "The trains stop there now, you know."

"Humph, thanks to me," Henry replied huffily.

Ezra chuckled, but he had lost interest in the banter. Instead, he was looking intently at Henry's face. "You're looking awfully chipper for a man who's supposed to be at death's door, Henry," he remarked after a moment. "How have you been feeling lately?"

"Always the doctor," Henry muttered in good-natured complaint. "I've been very well indeed, and it's because I've had such good nursing care." He gestured toward Felicity, who had risen from her chair and now stood beside the bed.

"By heaven," Dr. Strong exclaimed, noticing Felicity for the first time. "I'd look a lot better, too, if I got to see that face every day. Where'd you ever find her?"

"She's my granddaughter, you old fool," Henry said.

Dr. Strong's eyes widened in amazement. "Not little Felicity? You found her? By God, no wonder you look so much better." Dr. Strong hurried around to the other side of the bed and took Felicity's hand. "Ezra Strong, at your service, Miss Storm. It does my heart good to see you here at last, and I know this old coot feels exactly the same way."

"Old coot!" Henry protested in mock outrage.

"Thank you, Dr. Strong. But my name is Felicity Logan now. I'm married," Felicity told him, smiling politely even though mention of her marriage caused her a slight pang. Her grandfather's explanation caused her another.

"Her husband went back to Texas, but she's spending some time here with me, brightening my last days," Henry said.

"Well, whatever, we're glad you're here," Dr. Strong said before turning his shrewd glance back to Henry. "And speaking of 'last days,' how have you been feeling lately?"

"Too good to be stuck in this bed all the time," Henry grumbled.

Dr. Strong reached over and took Henry's wrist in one hand while he pulled a large gold pocket watch from his vest with the other. Felicity watched in fascination as the doctor took her grandfather's pulse. "Hmmmm," he said, examining Henry's fingertips before dropping his wrist and replacing the watch. Then he pulled down one of Henry's lower eyelids and studied the color of the skin revealed there. "Hmmmm," he said again.

"Quit playing doctor and tell me about your trip to France, Ezra," Henry ordered, jerking away from the doctor's grasp. "He went over there for his daughter's wedding," he explained to Felicity. "She married a count."

"How exciting," Felicity exclaimed, glad for something to turn her thoughts away from her grandfather's health and her troubled marriage. "Do tell us all about it."

"In a while. First I think I'll examine your grandfather," Dr, Strong said, moving toward the door.

"Examine me? Whatever for?" Henry shot Felicity a puzzled look, but she was as puzzled as he.

"Because I think you may have gone and gotten well while I was out of the country," Ezra announced as he opened the bedroom door and stuck his head out into the hall. "Bellwood! Run next door and tell them to give you my black bag, will you? There's a good fellow." Then he turned and walked back over to the bed. Seeing Felicity's confusion, he explained, "I live right next door. Henry built this house so he'd have a doctor at his beck and call."

"What a liar you are, Strong," Henry chided him. "You came here after I did and only so you'd have a rich patient close by whenever you needed money."

Dr. Strong found that remark hilarious, and while he was laughing, the import of his earlier words finally registered with Felicity. "Do you really think Grandfather is getting better?" she asked.

The doctor sobered immediately. "I won't know until I examine him, of course, but I can say for sure that your presence has improved his disposition. Why, he used to be downright nasty!"

That, Felicity realized, was another joke, but when she smiled, her smile was in appreciation for the small hope he had given her. In a few minutes the doctor's bag arrived, and Felicity went out into the hall to await the verdict.

"Well, how much longer do I have, Ezra?" Henry asked resignedly when his friend had completed his examination.

Dr. Strong finished putting his instruments back in his case before he replied. "What does Lowell say?"

"Not much, but I don't think he holds out any hope for me. He as much as told me that if I got out of bed again, I'd be signing my own death warrant," Henry grumbled.

Dr. Strong shook his head. "I hate to contradict a colleague, but I think the best thing you could do is get out of this bed."

"Trying to get rid of me, Ezra?" Henry asked with a sardonic grin.

"No, I just happen to think that, in your case at least, Lowell has made a mistake in his diagnosis."

"But you said he was the best!" Henry protested.

"He is the best, in his field. That's why I recommended him when I thought your problem was with your heart. Now I think we both made a mistake. I'm starting to think that spell you had wasn't your heart at all, or if it was, you've made a complete recovery. I think you had a much more serious problem in your mind."

"In my brain?" Henry asked in alarm.

"No, of course not," Ezra assured him hastily. "I said your 'mind.' I think you made yourself sick because you couldn't find that little girl out there," he said, gesturing toward the hallway, where Felicity waited. "Now that she's here, you aren't sick anymore… or at least you won't be if you get out of that bed before you waste away to nothing."

Henry stared at him for a long moment as he digested this last piece of advice. "Ezra, hand me my pants," he ordered, throwing back the bedclothes.

A few minutes later Dr. Strong found Felicity out in the hall and escorted her to the downstairs parlor, where they could talk in privacy. He explained his theory for her grandfather's illness.

"It's hard to believe that a person could get so sick just from being sad," she said when he had finished.

"The human mind is a powerful force, Mrs. Logan. Any doctor will tell you that," Dr. Strong said. "I'll have two patients, both with the same problem. I treat them both exactly the same way. One dies and one recovers to live an active, healthy life. What makes the difference?' He shrugged. "Some call it 'the will to live." That's as good a name as any. I think Henry lost his will to live when he couldn't find you, and I fully believe that if you hadn't shown up when you did, he'd be dead by now."

Breathing a silent prayer of thanks, Felicity sniffed back the tears of relief that flooded her eyes. "How did you get so smart, Dr. Strong?" she asked with a wavering smile.

He smiled back. "There was a doctor here in Philadelphia who did research on the subject. He's dead now, but I was lucky enough to have studied under him. He was convinced that you could actually talk patients into getting well. In fact, he used to tell a story about a female patient of his who refused to get up out of bed even after she was completely well. I guess she decided she liked being an invalid. The doctor warned her that if she didn't get out of that bed, he was going to get in there with her. She didn't believe him until he started to get undressed. By the time he removed his trousers, she was fully recovered and out of bed!"

Knowing she should have been shocked by such a story, Felicity still could not help the laughter that bubbled out of her.

Watching her appreciatively, Dr. Strong said, "You really are a lovely girl. Henry is lucky to have found you."

"I'm lucky to have found him, too," she replied. "And he's lucky to have such a good doctor for a friend."

"Well, remember, this is only a theory. I've told him to take it very easy at first. He'll be weak from having been in bed all these months. He's not to leave his room for at least a week. I'll watch him closely for signs of a relapse, and you'll have to make sure he doesn't overdo."

"I will," she promised.

"And he said something about having a party for you. I told him he could attend for a little while, but no dancing!"

"No dancing," Felicity repeated obediently, but her thoughts were already faraway, on the letter she would write to Joshua. She would tell him the good news about her grandfather, and about her pictures being displayed at the Centennial, and she would tell him about the party, too. Surely the news that a fully recovered Henry Maxwell was formally introducing his granddaughter to Philadelphia society would inspire him to action. If not, the news about her photographs would at least salvage her pride.

Josh opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, cursing softly at his inability to sleep. Here it was, the middle of the night, hours until dawn, and he was wide awake. As the weeks had passed with no sign of Ortega, Josh had found himself sleepless more nights than he cared to remember. And, of course, he was worried about Felicity, too.

Their separation had now lasted over six weeks, and he had not heard from her in the last two, not since the letter that had informed him of her grandfather's recovery. Although she and Josh had set no specific time for her return, Josh had always expected her to insist on staying as long as her grandfather stayed alive. Now it seemed he might live for a good long time.

Not only was Maxwell recovered, but he was having some sort of shindig for her, too, a party in her honor, to introduce her to all the right people. She made it sound like she had decided to settle in for life. When Maxwell's friends saw her pictures and realized how talented she was, they'd probably make her Queen of the May, too. She would certainly have no reason to even want to come home.

She hadn't mentioned anything about coming home, either, and to make matters worse, she had not written since. Letters sometimes got lost, never reaching their destinations, of course, but two weeks had passed without a word. For the first month of their separation, he had heard from her several times a week. The silence could mean only one thing: She had stopped writing.

Josh rolled over in disgust, punching his pillow into what he hoped would be a more comfortable shape, but nothing could ease his frustration. The fact that she had stopped writing was a danger sign, he knew, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn't leave the ranch, not with Ortega and Jeremiah lurking out there somewhere just waiting for the right opportunity to strike. And he couldn't summon her home for the very same reasons. All he could do was wait.

Out in her cabin, Candace, too, was having trouble sleeping. Lately, her nights had been plagued by nightmares that included Joshua and her son, nightmares that involved blood and death and left her gasping, drenched in a cold sweat.

Another of these nightmares had awakened her tonight, and as she lay shivering in the darkness, a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream that rose in her throat.

"Not a sound, old woman," her son's voice rasped in her ear. "Not one sound," he repeated, pressing the barrel of a pistol to her head. "Get up now, real slow," he said, removing his hand from her mouth and using it to urge her out of the bed and onto her feet.

He was using his bad hand to help her, she realized in some distant part of her brain. "What do you want this time?" she asked, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't anger him.

"Tonight's the night," he said grimly. "The night I pay the Logans back for what I owe them."

"What are you going to do?" she demanded, trembling in terror and thanking God that Felicity, at least, was out of danger.

"Don't worry, you'll see it all," he assured her, propelling her toward the cabin door. "I want you with me so you'll see everything."

Josh had been staring at the ceiling for a long time when he noticed the peculiar light. Could it be dawn already? he wondered, glancing toward the window. But it wasn't the steady light of dawn. It was the flickering glow of flames that brightened the room.

In an instant he was at the window, just in time to see the interior of the barn explode into flames. Instinct told him to call for help, and almost before the thought formed in his mind, his hands jerked up the partially opened sash. He was just about to holler to waken his cowboys when he saw the silhouette of a man moving furtively away from the burning barn.

Not toward the barn, as one of his own men would do, and not toward the bunkhouse to summon the rest of the men, but away and quickly, so as not to be seen. Someone had set the fire, and Josh had a pretty good idea who it was.

"Grady!" he called, his voice echoing across the empty ranch yard. "Grady! Wake up!" In a few seconds he heard men shouting as those awakened by his call noticed the light from the fire and aroused the others. The instant the first figure appeared at the bunkhouse door, however, Josh called out again.

"Don't come out! Stay where you are! It's a trap!" No sooner had his warning stopped the flow of men which had bottlenecked at the bunkhouse door than a shot rang out. Josh heard it thunk into the wood beside the window where he stood. He ducked instinctively and moved away from the window.

Snatching his pants and hastily pulling them on, he ran into the parlor and pulled a rifle off the gun rack. Checking the loads, he raced to the front window and hauled it open as the whine of more bullets echoed outside. He took a minute to survey the situation before taking aim.

From the flashes of gunpowder, he could tell that his men had heeded his advice and remained inside the bunkhouse. Thank God he had seen the arsonist. Under normal circumstances, the first person to notice the fire would have summoned every man on the place to fight it. Within a minute or two, all his men would have been standing in the yard, highlighted by the flames into perfect targets for Ortega's men to shoot down at will.

Now it was Ortega's men who made good targets as they moved around the eerily lit yard to positions of safety from which they could shoot into the bunkhouse. Josh took careful aim and fired at one stealthily moving figure. The figure cried out and dropped, but scrambled away before Josh had a second chance at him.

From his isolated position, Josh attracted very few shots himself, and he managed to get off several of his own before a noise behind him alerted him to a very present danger.

"Josh! Look out!" Candace cried, but as Josh jerked around to discover the source of the danger, all he saw was Candace flying toward him. He had just enough time to drop his rifle and raise his hands to catch her as she collided with him. In the next instant her weight had carried them both to the floor, but almost as soon as they hit, Candace was frantically fighting free of him so he could rise again. "He's here! He wants to kill you!" she was saying, her voice shrill with hysteria.

"Damn you, old woman!" Jeremiah shouted.

Josh struggled for a moment with Candace's clinging hands before he realized she did not want to let him go. She was shielding him with her own body. "Stop it, Candace," he ordered, using his superior strength to break her grip and set her aside. What he saw when he did made his blood run cold.

Jeremiah stood in the middle of the room, plainly visible in the brilliant light from the fire that now burned almost as brightly as day. He held a Colt.45 in his left hand, and it was pointed straight at Josh's heart. Josh glanced down to where his own rifle lay on the floor and calculated his chances of reaching it before Jeremiah's bullet stopped him.

"Don't try it, Logan," Jeremiah warned.

The tone of Jeremiah's voice pulled Josh's attention back to his half-brother. Something was not quite right, and when Josh had studied Jeremiah for another few seconds, he realized what it was. The man was trembling.

"Don't move, Logan!" he ordered again, and Josh heard the edge of panic in his voice.

But why should he be panicking? He had the gun and the upper hand. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and his revenge would be complete. Unless… unless he had suddenly realized he no longer wanted revenge.

Gambling with what he knew might very well be his own and Candace's lives, he decided to play his hunch. "Setting the barn on fire, that was a clever plan. Was that your idea, Jeremiah?" Josh asked, making his voice sound as normal as possible under the circumstances.

"Yeah, that's right, it was my idea," he replied warily. His Colt wavered slightly, but he righted it immediately.

"You're a smart fellow," Josh admitted, "but then, all us Logans are smart."

Jeremiah stiffened at that, but made no comment, so Josh went on.

"I guess everything worked out just the way you wanted it, too. I'm here, and your mother," Josh said, his voice still unnaturally calm. "I'm only sorry my wife is still in Philadelphia. I understand you had some special plans for her," he added in a faintly accusing tone.

Jeremiah's face twisted in rage. "The hell with her!" he snapped. "I wouldn't have any white woman, not on a bet!"

Josh started at the vehemence of his tone. "That's not what I heard," he pressed, compelled to explore the truth of this statement. "The sheriff told me that you'd had a white woman back East-"

"And you believed him," Jeremiah interrupted. This time when his gun wavered, pointing now toward the floor, he did not even notice. "Of course you did; they all believed her because why would a white woman lie about something like that? And do you know who she was, Logan?" he taunted. "She was your mother!"

Seeing Josh stiffen in shock, Jeremiah laughed bitterly. "That's right, your mother. She made her father buy me when she got back home, and she kept me right in the house to fetch and carry for her. And sometimes when I brought her something, she'd pet me, and other times, she'd slap me, but I never knew which it would be. She was a mean little bitch, your mother. You're lucky she left you when she did, Logan. And she'd tell me things, too, things about my mother and our father, things nobody should ever have to know about his parents. And then, when I got old enough, she told the lie. She said I sneaked into her room one night and raped her."

As if from a distance, Josh heard Candace's cry of anguish. "Dear God," he murmured, but Jeremiah did not even seem to hear either sound.

"God only knows what they would have done if they'd caught me, but somebody warned me and I got away. The war had just started and there was a lot of confusion. I hooked up with some Yankee troops and went North. I've been a lot of places since then."

In the silence that followed this speech, Josh could hear the sound of shots. Occasionally one would strike the house, but it seemed that the firing had slowed. What did that mean? He could take no time to decide, however, not with Jeremiah still to contend with. "What made you come here after all these years?" Josh asked.

Jeremiah shrugged one shoulder. "I found myself in Texas one day and decided to look up my kinfolks," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "When I found out how you'd prospered, I decided to get a little for my own. Figured it was due me."

"Why didn't you just ride in and tell us who you were?" Josh asked, meeting Jeremiah's gaze relentlessly. "We would have welcomed you."

Jeremiah's lip curled in contempt at what he obviously considered a bold-faced lie, but his contempt withered as Josh continued to stare him down as if daring him to challenge the statement. "You would have welcomed your father's black bastard?" he asked. He was trying to sound skeptical, but Josh thought he heard an undercurrent of hope there,«too.

"I would have welcomed Candace's son," he said, "and my brother."

For one instant, total shock registered on Jeremiah's shadowed features, but then the sound of running footsteps on the front porch distracted them all.

"Jeremiah?" an accented voice called.

"In here," Jeremiah replied, and the front door burst open, allowing a wiry Mexican brandishing a pistol in each hand to enter. The bandito took in the scene in one glance.

He asked a question in rapid-fire Spanish, waving one of his pistols to indicate Josh and Candace. Josh caught enough of the question to know the man was demanding why the two of them were still alive.

Jeremiah replied in equally rapid Spanish, but from the look on the little man's face, he was not satisfied with the explanation. He made a grunting noise and lifted a pistol to take careful aim at Josh.

Josh knew he could throw himself to the ground, perhaps dodge the bullet and even regain his rifle, but that would have left Candace directly in the line of fire. Instead, he took the extra second to shove her down before diving to the ground.

As he fell, the blast of a gun filled the room, but Josh kept moving on instinct, picking up the rifle and raising it to his shoulder, vaguely aware of Candace's scream. Only when he had the little Mexican in his sights did he realize what was wrong. The man's face had gone crimson, and just as Josh's finger tightened on the trigger, the man slumped to the floor.

Startled, Josh turned to Jeremiah, whose smoking gun told the story. He had killed the Mexican to save Josh and Candace.

"Josh! Josh, are you all right? What's going on in there?" Grady's voice called from somewhere outside.

Josh shook his head a bit to clear it, waiting to see what Jeremiah would do. Slowly, the black man turned back to where Josh crouched on the floor. After another moment, Jeremiah lowered his gun.

"Josh! Josh, answer me!" Grady called again, sounding frantic.

"I'm fine, Grady!" Josh hollered back. "And Candace is with me."

"We routed them, Josh! They're on the run!" Grady's voice called.

"Good! Go fight the fire. I'll be there in a minute," Josh shouted, and then he lowered his own gun. To Jeremiah he said, "Get out of here. If they see you, they'll kill you."

For a moment, Jeremiah did not move, almost as if he had not heard the order.

"Go on now. Hurry!" Josh urged.

Jeremiah nodded and slowly holstered his gun. "I…" he began, but then stopped, as if he could not find the right words. At last he said, "Goodby, Mama."

The words seemed to echo in the room long after he was gone.

By dawn the next morning the ranch was crowded with neighbors who had seen the flames and come to help put out the fire. Although the barn was now only a pile of charred embers, they had at least managed to keep the fire from spreading. The women had fixed breakfast for the men, and while they were eating, Blanche finally found a minute to take Candace aside and get the whole story from her.

"Who would have ever thought," Blanche murmured in wonder when Candace was finished. "I know Felicity will be glad to hear all this. She must have been worried sick all this time."

Candace shook her head. "She don't know anything about this. Mr. Josh didn't tell her a thing."

"What!" Blanche exclaimed. "What on earth did he tell her when he left her in Philadelphia, then?"

"That we needed him to help with the roundup," Candace reported in disgust. "And that ain't the worst of it, Mrs. Delano. He hasn't written her one letter, not one line, since he's been back, neither."

"Has she written to him?" Blanche asked in disbelief.

Candace nodded. "She'd send two or three letters every week, or at least she did. Lately there hasn't been any. Not for two or three weeks now."

Blanche made a rude noise. "Well, of course there hasn't been. She's probably furious with him, and who could blame her? I'm furious myself. She thinks he just up and left her for no good reason and… Oh, Lord, Candace! When he didn't write, she must have thought he'd left her for good!"

"I don't know what she thinks, but it can't be anything nice," Candace said. "I tried to talk some sense into him, but he won't talk about it, not at all. Mrs. Delano, we've got to do something about this."

"You're absolutely right," Blanche replied. "And I think I know just what that something is. I'll write to her myself."

"Do you think that will help?" Candace asked.

"It got Josh home, didn't it?" Blanche replied with a conspiratorial smile.