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distract him—and herself—she went on. “We covered every inch of this place even before we moved the outfit up here permanent. Why, we found places I don't think even the Indians knew. For as long as I could remember, he used to say we didn't so much own the land, as the land owned us. He taught me what that meant on those trips. How the land could own us."
    She slanted a look at him, fearing she'd grown too sentimental. His shadowed face held no judgment, and grateful for that, she hurried on.
    "Up-country, nearly into the mountains, we found a spring. And I remember telling him it was like something from one of Mama's stories about those gods. You practically expected a swan to appear out of nowhere to turn into a lovely maiden. It was a spring coming right out of a hole in a wall of solid rock. It's clear and cold and fresh. And it drops down into this pool that's just as clear. You can see the fish in it, you can see every rock. Right to the bottom. Why, if you'd been in that pool instead of Jasper Pond, I'd have seen from the start that you were—Oh!"
    She gasped, robbed of air by her own words. By her memories of this man and the reactions they stirred.
    "I didn't—I don't..."
    She stepped back, too horrified to look at him. Intent only on escaping her embarrassment. After worrying what he might say, she'd been the one to betray the implicit silence—not once, but twice in one day. This afternoon she'd had cause, but now, with the night breeze whispering on their skin and clouds fading the night sky into velvet, she had no excuse for letting her words recall what she'd promised herself she'd forget.
    She was an instant away from breaking and running. His hand shot out and grasped her wrist.
    "Don't."
    His voice rasped in the quiet. His hand was warm and rough and hard around her wrist. They stood, face-to-face, not a foot apart.
    Embarrassment was gone. Rachel wasn't sure what she felt in its place.
    She stared at him, feeling some of the same fascinated pull as in those moments by Jasper Pond. After a heartbeat, she realized that this near, her other senses joined in. She could feel the heat of his body, as if it had stored up the day's sun. She could smell the horse and smoke and less pleasant odors on him, but also something deeper, more stirring, that she couldn't identify. And she could see the details of his face. The harsh line of his jaw. The tic of a muscle beneath the skin of his bristled cheek. The glitter of his dark eyes.
    He took a step toward her, the space between them a mere breath now.
    And she waited.
    Not sure what she waited for, certain she wouldn't move, wouldn't breathe until it happened. His grip on her wrist was bruisingly tight, but she didn't try to escape it. Just when she thought her lungs couldn't stand the burning another second, he released her wrist abruptly. A hiss of words came from his lips that she didn't understand. She thought they were in another language but she couldn't have sworn her understanding wasn't at fault.
    "Go."
    She understood that. His order was low, harsh, as he added:
    "Run like you did that day at the pond."
    She stood still, returning his glittering stare. Was she defying him or her own good sense? It didn't matter. She wasn't moving.
    For an instant, something came into his eyes, and she thought...
    Then it was gone, and instead, he spoke again in that harsh voice. “No? Then I will go, Mrs. Terhune."
    He brushed past, not quite touching, striding into the dark in the opposite direction from camp. The night quickly absorbed the sound of his departure.
    And still Rachel stood there, unable to make sense of him. Or of herself.

Chapter Four
    Nick rode for all the night watches, then worked through the day. By the time supper rolled around he was tired enough to begin understanding how a man could resort to the trail-drive trick of putting tobacco juice in his eyes—the sting was so fierce there was no closing your eyes, much less drifting off to