RING OF FEAR

Anne McCaffrey

1

I don’t know whether it was the June sun’s heat or sheer blinding fury that made me sweat so. Sweat, not the “glow” that ladies are said to show. Like that heavy-handed, brass-haired, buck-toothed society lady on her flashy, hammer headed black horse in the line in front of me, cool in her crisp yellow linen jacket and clinging pipe-stem hopsacking pants. (She must be either bowlegged or calfless.) Could the Sunbury County Fair judges see that the black gelding’s gaits jarred every bone in her body? (How did she keep that smile on her face?) My mare, Phi Bete, had floated so easily through her paces in this Ladies’ Hack Class, and simply hadn’t been noticed. Not with the black pulling stunt after stunt, being “expertly” controlled! (He hadn’t half the wits Phi Bete had.)

It wasn’t fair, I thought bitterly, the sweat dripping down my nose now, my hands swimming in the heavy leather gloves. The white shirt was plastered to my back, because the wool jacket, suitable for winter riding, was the only one I had. (I’d seen Mrs. Flashy-Black in three other outfits so far, and the show was only two days old.) She didn’t need the prize money, and she was taking hay from my horses and peanut butter from me.

Hay bills and Skippy notwithstanding, I had to admit that she was a good rider . . . even if Phi Bete was the better horse. Certainly as far as confirmation went. Would the judges consider that in the final totaling of points? And Phi Bete’s gaits were as smooth as glass.

The judges signaled all contestants into the center now, and the black cavorted, snorting. Oh, the judges wandered about,  appropriately  frowning  in  deep  thought.  They nodded sagely to each other. I wondered which was the local banker . . . there always is one asked to officiate if he knows which end of a horse wears the bridle. The thin man with the sad eyes looked like a coroner, but it was the character in the puttees (and he wasn’t ancient enough to have worn them in the First World War, so where did he find them?) who was to be reckoned with. The thin man made a show of considering his verdict, but he finally nodded, and then, of course, the third one—his silvery hair denoted senility, not sense—made the decision unanimous.

Couldn’t they see that the red ribbon of second was going to clash with the sorrel coat of Phi Bete? Not that she cared. But I did. The blue ribbon looked well against the black’s cheek, but the $150 prize money would have looked better in my bank account than second’s $75. Ho-hum, pull the girths in again, Nialla Dunn. You’ve been done in. I grimaced, unappreciative of my own feeble attempts to improve my humor. I managed to turn the grimace into a grin, for the thin judge was congratulating me. It’s very difficult to give the proper picture of good sportsmanship when you’re biting, your lower lip to keep from crying. The rangy gray got the yellow, and the bay had the green fluttering from his bridle.

We winners trotted smartly around, and there was great applause for Mrs. Flashy-Black. I couldn’t help myself. I kept trying to see Dad’s face somewhere in the crowd as I circled. It was silly. But sometimes, I’d see someone whose shoulders also tilted to the right, or the set of a head of curly gray hair, or his way of standing, hip-shot, or a chin jutting in the same belligerent way. But Dad was dead . . . horribly dead . . . would I always see the pitchfork swaying, its tines soaked red?

Suddenly a face did stand out from that anonymous mass of mouths and bodiless heads. A short man, in a brilliant blue-ribbon blue body shirt, standing up on the empty end of the bleachers, his legs spread slightly, hands in the slot pockets of his tight black breeches. I’d an impression of delighted amazement, blue eyes, black wavy hair under the white-grass Stetson . . . and his delight was for my mare! Then we had trotted past.

I was wondering why that one face should catch my attention . . . probably the color of his shirt . . . when Phi Bete snorted, tossed her head back at me, and slid to an abrupt halt. I shook my head and realized that the single file had slowed to go out the gate. Phi Bete had her mind on her work, at least. Mrs. Flashy-Black’s friends were complimenting her in droves, crowding around her as she held her horse’s bridle, smiling toothily for her picture. Someone, as Phi Bete and I trotted smartly past her, was stupid enough to approach the black’s rear. Naturally he lashed out, and there were shrieks and oaths and scurryings.

I had to rein in, but I didn’t dismount. It was eminently satisfying to look down on the lesser breeds, gawking and ahing at the exhibits and us Olympian creatures. I could feel safe and superior on Phi Bete’s back.

It was disconcerting enough to have to go back to the stifling reality of G-Barn. I should have expected inferior quarters, of course. An unknown with a two-horse string, a battered trailer and station wagon, no money to grease the fairground steward’s favor for better accommodations. And yet I’d been given D-Barn at first. Did D really sound that much like G?

G-Barn faced south, its T-shape backed against an old granary’s concrete shell. It caught the sun all day long, with nary a tree to shade the sprawling roof. In the back stalls where I’d placed Phi Bete and Orfeo—we had the barn to ourselves—the darkness deceived you into thinking cool.

There were still empty stalls in D-Barn. But once Budnell, the steward, had seen Orfeo, and worse, remembered him . . . Orfeo couldn’t help that. For one thing, I’d made such a point of unloading him so that his docility would be noted. Noted, yes, but not trusted. I’d even heard the mutter of astonishment when the noble beast followed me, lead-less, his long full tail switching placidly at the June flies, toward the reassigned G-Barn. I’d heard all the tales of Orfeo’s viciousness from the Poiriers, and from astounded hostlers all the way from Florida. The jaws that bit, the claws that snatched—that description applied to the old abused Juggernaut, not to my mild, loving Orfeo.

Well, we were alone, and the small practice ring was right handy to G-Barn. I off-saddled Phi Bete. She was barely damp, though she’d worked hard in that ring for her lousy red. Gratefully I removed my jacket and hard top hat; both were soaked. I pulled my shirt from my pants to let the wind loosen the wet hold on my back. I slipped the bit from Phi Bete’s mouth but left the bridle on, the measly red rayon flapping at her cheek. The bit tinkled pleasantly as I walked her. By the time she was dry, I was somewhat drier myself. Phi Bete drank deeply at the trough, slobbering affectionately down my breeches. Oh, well, I’d have to sponge them anyway before this afternoon, and she was a sweet-tempered dear.

All our horses were good-tempered, because Dad didn’t ... I stopped that line of thinking, but it was hard. Hard not to be able to remember him, even after a full year, without bitter, bitter hurt. One day I’d find his murderer. One day I’d make him pay for that death . . . and the little death in me. Marchmount’s smug face . . . No, not that memory, too!

“C’mon, useless nuisance,” I said to Phi Bete, and her ears wigwagged at the sound of her name. I jammed the red ribbon in my pocket and gathered up the tack. It was a hot walk in the full sun all the way to the front of the barn, so I led the sorrel to the rear door. As I passed my ancient station wagon, Eurydice sprang alert,, all twenty-pounds of raccoon-marked Maine cat, subsiding with mock incivility. He’d known who was approaching all along.

“Catch any good meeces?” I asked him.

He told me all about his morning’s labors with well-chosen phrases and flirts of his eloquent tail. Then he jumped out of the back of the car on some errand of his own. Nialla Dunn was back in charge. Dice was off duty.

I was looking over my shoulder, amused by the undulating curve of his insolent tail, so that I didn’t even see the man until I crashed into him. Phi Bete’s hooves clattered on the cobbled floor, because she was startled, too. Orfeo’s head came up, ears forward, and he farruped softly before resuming his private meditation.

“I beg your pardon, miss. I was just admiring the transformation in old Juggernaut.”

“His name is Orfeo!” I said with more annoyance than was necessary, and then I saw who it was. The short, dapper man from the stands. And he stood head-even with mine.

“And you were his Eurydice?” he asked with a grin of such charisma that I stared at him a moment.

“Nnnnooo.” I slipped past him as fast as I could. He looked the type who pinches. Short men do take odd ways of manifesting masculinity, most of them offensive.

By leading Phi Bete past, I forced him up against the box stall. I saw his apprehensive backward glance at Orfeo.

“He certainly has changed, ma’am,” Shorty said with commendable aplomb. “Last time I saw him, he was trying to sample a hostler’s hand for breakfast.”

“There’s nothing hungry about him now.” I slipped the bridle from Phi Bete and held sugar to her lips, reassured by the velvet caress as she daintily nibbled her reward. She had plenty of good timothy hay. At least I got my money’s worth on that. You had to be careful about hay. Dad used to bring his with him whenever he did the track circuit.

“Seeing’s believing, but I had to see it once I’d heard he was here,” the man admitted, lifting his hat to scratch his wavy hair, the picture of bucolic incredulity.

He grinned again, his blue eyes twinkling in the friendliest way. “Can I spot you a cup of coffee and learn the secret of your success?”

I was suddenly very conscious of my sticky clothes, of my bra showing through the damp shirt, my sweat-dried hair, although he wasn’t looking at me that way. He was looking me square in the eye, and we were eye-level, though the stall separated us. I wondered if he found such parity as unusual as I did.

“You should have taken the blue, you know,” he went on, “but Bess Tomlinson has to win her quota to hold her head up at the country club. And with her string, if she doesn’t get ‘em early in the season, she’s out of luck!” 

“Which of the judges is she married to?” He laughed at my cynicism, and it was a real laugh, not one of those social whinnies. He laughed with his head back, his mouth wide open, so I could see he had very few fillings in his even white teeth. If I’d been buying a pony stud, he’d ‘ve been a bargain.

“I don’t think she sleeps with the Colonel,” he said, his eyes gleaming with pure malice for a moment, “but ...”

I couldn’t go on standing there in Phi Bete’s stall, but I really didn’t know what to do. I certainly didn’t want to get chummy with any circuit riders. Dad had warned me against that long, long ago. You made your appearances in the show ring, not the bars and the fancy night spots near the shows. And you took care of your stock, not your libido, or you became fair game for everyone. I couldn’t suppress my involuntary shudder, and Eager Blue-eyes caught it.

“You haven’t had any trouble with the Colonel, have you?”

“No. No.” But I would glance toward Orfeo, for I knew that the Colonel had been in the steward’s office when I checked in. And it was apparent that the Colonel had been judging shows long enough on the East Coast to recognize that “fence-swallowing, man-eating” black gelding Juggernaut.

“Give you any trouble with Jug—Orfeo? Sorry, habit.”

I’m not the kind to jump to conclusions and point fingers, but I was so sure that the steward had originally told me D-Barn. Then he’d come out of his office in an awful hurry to correct me, and the Colonel had been in there.

“Yes,” Shorty said sourly, “he did.” Then he jerked his head toward Orfeo’s cocked hip. “He is reformed?”

I took my opportunity, left Phi Bete’s stall, and slipped into Orfeo’s, crooning to him as I always did, though, Lord knows, he was smart enough to know that I was the only person who ever entered his stall.

Orfeo arched his neck and ducked his head around, his deep eyes warm and loving, his scarred lips pouting out with old lesions nothing would heal. My hand, running up the gleaming black hide, slid across old spur and whip scars, up the curved muscular neck that gelding hadn’t thinned. I always felt smaller—and bigger—next to Orfeo. Small because he was a giant of a beast, like those in medieval days who could carry a knight in full armor all day; and big because I, Nialla Donnel . . . Dunn (one day I’d stumbled over that name aloud) had tamed the volcanic fury of the poor benighted creature.

Then Shorty was in the stall beside me, and his voice seemed to have dropped two full notes, to a deep affectionate murmur. He ran his hand fearlessly along Orfeo’s rump. It was a short-fingered, wide-palmed hand, a strong hand; the fingers were well-shaped, the tips sensitive, the nails pared neatly; an odd hand for a man like him, somehow, a contradiction. A man like him? I scarcely knew him. But I wanted to.

He talked to horses the right way. I stood at Orfeo’s head now, and he nudged me out of the way to look back, with idle curiosity, at this brave mortal. Orfeo farruped softly . . . acknowledgment? welcome? approval? And then, displaying massive equine indifference, Orfeo bent his head to lip up hay. As he began to munch, his eyelids drooped contemplatively.

“Yes, ma’am, I never would have believed it,” Shorty said, the grin on his lips echoed by his eyes.

Dad always said to trust a man whose eyes smile when he does. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen any smiling men for a long time. Shorty backed respectfully out of the stall and looked at me expectantly through the upper bars.

“Coffee? Or, in this weather, iced coffee? Coke? Right out in public, too!” The grin was crooked, and the smile didn’t light up his eyes as much. In fact, Shorty suddenly looked as wary as I felt. “God in heaven, what’s this?” he cried, jumping back and glancing down.

Dice announced his presence with a loud satisfied “brrow” and leaped effortlessly to Orfeo’s rump.

“Don’t tell me,” the visitor begged. “That. . . that mountain lion ... is Eurydice, which, I might add, is a misnomer,” for he glared at me, aware of the cat’s maleness.

I giggled. I couldn’t help it. He was funny. He was even . . . cute. Though that’s a word I hate, and highly inappropriate for this short blue-eyed man who could not be described by a single convenient adjective.

Now he cocked his head to one side as if he, in turn, found me cute . . . and funny. Then I realized something else. He spoke in various twists of accent, but he knew what good speech was, and he had pronounced “Eurydice” correctly. Not “Ur-dis” or “Err-you-dice,” but “You-ri-di-che” in the proper Italianate fashion. The man was a contradiction. An intelligent, educated circuit rider?

“Who led whom out of hell? And which hell?” he asked then in a complete change of tone. He had jammed his fists against the elegant hand-stitched belt that held up those body-clinging peg-legged breeches on his no-hipped frame. I noticed something else about him at that level and quickly looked up, anywhere but at the telltale and extraordinary bulge.

A sudden flood of curses, horse squealings and thudding hooves, the slap of a crop against flesh, and a chorus of suggestions distracted us both. Someone was using the practice ring outside G-Barn. Phi Bete snorted a soft question, her ears working back and forth, but old Orfeo took no notice of the ruckus.

“Hey,” exclaimed Shorty, his eyes glinting oddly, “can anyone manage him now? I mean, I know I could step inside the stall, but you were at his head. . . .”

“He’s perfectly manageable and trustworthy.”

That grin again, disarming me of my caustic mood.

“Even with me?”

“Yes!”

Without seeming to move with any speed, he was in the stall, telling Dice to get down, untying the halter rope, pressing against Orfeo’s chest to angle him into the far corner of the box so he could lead him out head first.

“No, you watch,” he told me, pointing to the window at the end of the cross-aisle. “It’ll be more fun to solo.” There was no answering twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He was dead serious and strangely grim.

Stepping jauntily, he led my gelding up the deserted corridor between the hot and empty stalls. As soon as he turned to the main door, I hurried to a dust-fogged window and rubbed a clear space. He must have recognized the voices, or the brand of curses, for the anger made the voices anonymous. But there was the putteed Colonel and Mrs. Flashy-Black up on an equally raw-boned hunter who was clearly dissatisfied with the exercise. Two other men leaned over the railings of the small ring, and an assorted number of fringe observers lounged in the shade of the oaks by F-Barn. Then, even the hunter seemed to freeze.

The Colonel, sensing that he’d a rival for everyone’s attention, cut off his directions and turned. The shock on his face quickly turned to tight-lipped anger. With puttees, how else would he reflect anger manfully? Mrs. Flashy-Black’s mouth dropped open, and she let up the savage hold on the hunter’s mouth. He took the opportunity to pull her half down his neck as he got the bit between his teeth. Of course, he wasn’t upset by Orfeo’s leisurely stroll to the watering trough, but every other witness was.

No one said a word as Shorty stood while Orfeo snuffed over the water. The horse wasn’t thirsty, but he stood, politely, switching at importunate flies with his beautiful full tail. You always knew what Orfeo was thinking by his tail movements. They were as good a gauge of his temper as Dice’s. Shorty looked nonchalantly around and then shrugged a “you-can-lead-a-horse-to-water-but...” and led Orfeo back in.

I could hear him suppressing his laughter all the way down the aisle. In fact, I wonder he didn’t choke on it, for his eyes were tearing when he slapped Orfeo’s rump affectionately as the gelding plodded back into his stall and resumed his chewing.

“Could you see their faces?” He was doubled up with an excess of mirth. “I’ll stand you a drink . . . Scotch, whiskey, champagne. Worth it. Worth it! Shut Colonel Melvin T. Kingsley up in the middle of Lecture Number Forty-two. And you did it. . . .” Then he stopped, stared at me. “I don’t know your name. I haven’t picked up a program yet.”

“Nialla . . . Nialla Dunn.” I’d almost goofed.

“Nialla? A good tinker name for a horse-handling witch! C’mon.”

He clipped one warm, strong-fingered hand under my elbow, and I have never been more conscious of a square inch of my own flesh than that moment. As if he sensed my reaction, he removed his hand and gave me a quick searching look.

“It’s a cup of coffee, Miss Dunn, not an invitation to rape!” And though he spoke flippantly, there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “The name’s Rafe Clery . . . a fellow mick and horse-coper.” Evidently he could turn on the charisma—as he did now—instantly, and the flicker of deeper emotions was gone.

“I am thirsty,” I admitted, covering my embarrassment by nodding toward the gelding. Then I walked quickly up the aisle so he wouldn’t have an excuse to touch me again.

The main refreshment tent was scarcely conducive to any refreshment, for the canvas trapped the heat, and the heat trapped the people there in a sort of trance as they waited for watery franks, dry sandwiches, lukewarm beer, tepid soft drinks, and limp potato chips., Two cubes of ice withered in my container of coffee as I looked at them. The cardboard was hot in my hand. Before I could get it to my lips, Rafe had it out of my hand and was grinning at a harried counter girl. In moments it was back, crammed to the brim with ice. A turkey sandwich appeared before me, too, and because I was starving for something besides peanut butter, I didn’t mention that he’d suggested only a beverage.

“You’re brave, you know.”

“Hmmm?” The dry bread threatened to go down the wrong way.

“Brave to go the circuit alone. I assume you’ve just the two horses,” He looked somewhere over my head, concentrating. ‘That means, to make ends meet,” and suddenly that impish grin lurked in his eyes as he glanced at the turkey hanging out the end of the sandwich. He meant to pun “meet” for “meat.” “. . . You’ve got to place in all the competitions here, in every show, including the Jump Trophy at the Garden.”

I nearly choked. He reached across the table and casually thudded me between the shoulder blades with such expertise that the bread descended.

“I left the crystal ball at home, but you’d be a fool not to try, with a leaper like Jug—Ooops, sorry—Orfeo. If I had one who could clear anything in sight, and I’ve seen him go over pickup trucks, I’d try for the big prize, too. Only I haven’t got an Orfeo, and I’d be three kinds of a fool to pit any horse in my stable against him. He does still jump like he used to, doesn’t he? Or did that go?”

My eyes were watering from coughing and choking, and I still couldn’t speak.

“Take a couple of deep breaths,” he suggested amiably.

I did. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Well?”

“He’ll jump anything.” And my voice was patchy. He handed me the coffee, and obediently I took a big swallow. The icy stuff was soothing. “You know, he’s awful fast, too.”

Rafe grinned sardonically. “I don’t think anyone ever bothered to find out. It was usually a question of staying up and holding back rather than urging him on.” He paused, his eyes unfocusing. “Though there’s a look of speed about him, for all that bulk.” Then he looked at me, blinked, and seemed to be measuring me against some unknown gauge. “No! You haven’t breezed him, have you?” And his eyes dropped to my hands. He covered his face with mock dismay. “Goddamn, you know,” and he was suddenly eager, “with his speed and stamina, he’d make one helluva steeplechaser.” He caught my look and began to shake his head emphatically. “Miss Dunn, you’d never get a man up on him, not with his reputation.”

“He’s changed!”

Rafe Clery gave a derisive guffaw. “I have to admit to witnessing a minor modern miracle, but his angelic disposition is going to take a lot of publicity before anyone else believes it. How did you do it?”

“I didn’t. Dice did.”

“That mountain lion?” He gave me a sideways look of pure skepticism. “Ah, c’mon. No feline could mesmerize that black piece of unadulterated—sorry—could make him as gentle as a kitten. Even one sired by that lion of yours.”

“Dice helped, but it was a case of winning his trust.”

Rafe snorted. “What’d you do? Hold his hoof to keep the ghosties away?”

That was far too close, but the ghosties had been mine, not Orfeo’s. “You should have seen his mouth. And his poor tongue. I don’t know what they crammed into his jaw, but it must have been something from an inquisition. And his head ...” I shuddered.

“I don’t need the details. I’ve got a vivid imagination, and remember, I knew him ‘when.’ Oh, don’t glare at me, Miss Dunn. And don’t demand why I didn’t try to stop it. I did. But you ought to know that the ASPCA has only just started slapping wrists for ‘blistering’ walking horses. Some of these small-town judges don’t know when a horse has been ‘treated.’“ His face was grim and bleak. He had altered again. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of this small man. As abruptly, he was grinning again. “It restores my faith in humanity to see a good horse in good hands. Where’d you acquire the mare? She’s well bred.”

“Phi Bete’s been mine since she was foaled.”

“Yes, I thought she looked misused.”

“Fer chrissake, boss, I been looking all over . . .” said a voice behind me. Rafe Clery looked up, his face assuming the mask of another role.

“And now you’ve found me.”

“Hells’ bells ... ah, excuse me, ma’am,” and a look from his employer made the lanky rawboned hostler touch his hat in the almost lost gesture of courtesy.

“Miss Dunn, my head stableman, Jerry MacCrate.”

“How do, miss. Bartells is at the steward’s office, boss. I know you wanted to see him. I’ve been combing the barns for you. And you know who I saw in G-Barn?”

“Yes, a black jumper named Orfeo.”

“Huh? That wasn’t . . .” The man was so astonished that I almost laughed outright.

“That was Orfeo, Jerry, no matter whom he resembles.” Rafe Clery’s voice was not raised one decibel, but his order was received, loud and clear. He rose, shoving silver under his sandwich plate. “You’re jumping the mare in Ladies’ Hunter Hack?”

I nodded.

“And Orfeo tomorrow?” He grinned a little absently. “See you.”

Then he strode away, the lanky groom following, obscuring his employer’s slighter figure. I watched as the two went across the paper-carton-littered grass toward the steward’s field office. No, Rafe Clery didn’t swagger or strut. He walked in quick strides, and Jerry MacCrate matched his step to his boss’s.

“You finished, miss?”

I was startled from my observations by a party of five hot and tired people, hopefully glancing at my table. Hastily I rose. If they hadn’t come, I’d’ve scooped up the unfinished sandwich from my host’s plate. Dice could have had turkey for dinner. He must be tired of mice. But I couldn’t with ten eyes watching me, so I regretfully departed. If you’re hungry, you shouldn’t be so proud, I told myself. But I was. And that’s all there is to it.

2

I didn’t mean to, but I kept thinking about Mr. Rafe (Ralph? Surely not Rafael?) Clery for the rest of the morning, even while I was grooming and saddling Phi Bete for the afternoon class. I didn’t see him in the stands when I went to observe some of the other classes. My jaundice toward the judges changed, for I had to admit that they weren’t all that wrong in their other decisions. In fact, they chose my candidates with the one exception of the Roman-nosed bay in the Five-Gaited Class. It was obvious, to me, that the horse had been treated. He was sweating heavily as he lifted his legs with pain-driven height, and his nostrils flared redly. The other mounts were sweating, too, and they were working for those precise artificial gaits, but if you know the signs, you can tell the difference. And his rider? I don’t trust people who can keep a smile plastered on their faces round after round, but then, I don’t trust people who doctor horses.

I remember Dad the day Mrs. du Maurier (no relation to the writers) acquired the five-gaited bay gelding who had won out over her own entry in the Garden back in the early fifties. I was too young then to realize that people would deliberately mistreat an animal to win anything as paltry as a blue ribbon. (I was very young, for I didn’t know that money and prestige accompanied the blue ribbons and: silver trophies. I honestly thought the horses wanted to win. The ones Daddy trained always looked so pleased with themselves in the winner’s circles.)

Mrs. du Maurier had had a house full of guests, but Dad had marched up to the house and insisted that she come down to the paddock where he’d put the “pore 
crayture.” I was weeping, I remember, for the salt of my tears is indelibly linked with that memory. Children see past sham, and I knew she was as shocked as Daddy by the bay’s condition.

“My God,” she’d said in her funny rough voice, so distracting to issue from a soft feminine face. “I’d no idea when I bought him, Russell. I’ve known Charlie Hackett for years.”

“May be, ma’am, but what’ll I do with this poor wreck, for I’m telling you flat out, I’ll not show him for you, fire me if you wish, but I’ll ride no crippled, blistered crayture.”

Regardless of her elegant dress, Mrs. du Maurier bent to lift the trembling, scarred fetlocks, traced the black calluses of recent lacerations plainly visible.

“Jesus God!” she muttered, her face grim. “Ease the poor brute if you can, Russell. Turn him out to pasture. I’ll take this up with Hackett. Don’t you just know I will. And I’ll get my price back, too.”

“You’ll not be giving the bay back to him, ma’am?”

Mrs. du Maurier gave father one of her famous stares.

“I should think you’d know me well enough not to have to ask, Russell.” And she’d gone back to her party.

I used to ride the bay later on, but never in a show. By then he no longer snapped his feet high because they hurt but because he felt good.

Mrs. du Maurier had been no such enigma as Rafe Clery, and yet there was some subtle resemblance of manners between them. A certain assurance, knowledgeability, an almost detached confidence of bearing and charm. And Mrs. du Maurier had smiled a lot with her eyes, too. She’d been a good, kind woman who had her share of troubles (even I knew about Mr. du Maurier’s drinking and wenching, although I don’t think he’d ever have forced an employee’s daughter ... I mustn’t think about that), and Agnes du Maurier had kept her humor and her perspective despite all the sordid incidents, and come out on top. Yes, she and Rafe Clery were curiously alike ... and there was no reason to it. Because he certainly wasn’t a Kentuckian, though there was a hint of the softened vowels, the occasionally slurred consonant.

I wondered what accounted for those odd touches of

bitterness, the shadow of defensiveness about that young man. Only ... he wasn’t all that young. Now that I thought back, I realized there’d been lines around his eyes. His face was so mobile, they didn’t show often. Korea? No, that would make him almost forty. Somehow I didn’t want Rafe Clery to be forty. Then I chided myself sternly. He looked boyish, but that was partly due to his size ... or lack of it. I’m wrong there, too. He didn’t give the slightest impression of a lack of anything.

I heard the PA system calling the Ladies’ Hunter Hack, and hastily led Phi Bete out of the sweltering stable. My other shirt was soaked already, and I didn’t have the jacket on yet. Oh, Lord, what a way to make a living.

I could mount Phi Bete without a block, though she’s a good sixteen hands in the shoulder. The saddle seemed a little loose as I settled myself and flicked out the off-side stirrup iron. Everything was stretching in this heat. Well, I’d let the saddle “sit” on our way to the ring, and then tighten the girth just before the class filed in. . There was almost a full brigade of entries for this class. It’s always popular, because the jumps are nominal, and anyone with any pretension to the title of equestrienne must have one hunter hack. There were, however, some damned improbable beasts, all shined up and mounted by all types, from teen-agers to beefy matrons. Under the regulation hard-top hat, they were indistinguishable except for body size.

Some of the horses were fidgeting, backing, filling, tails switching, ears back as the entries crowded the gate. I kept Phi Bete back. I couldn’t risk her being kicked. Nevertheless, even though I was wary, the sudden fracas boiled over on us before I could react. Phi Bete reared to avoid the flashing hooves of a short-coupled chestnut who bucked and kicked out of the melee, rider hanging gamely about its neck. Phi Bete reared again, somehow backing up on her hind legs and swerving to the right. I could feel the saddle go, and on reflex action, got my feet free of the stirrups. As the mare came down, I let her momentum throw me onto her neck as the saddle slid to one side, to be trampled by the other horses surging around.

I sat there on Phi Bete’s bare back, looking numbly at the saddle. I could see that the girth had parted. And heavy-duty girth webbing doesn’t snap like that. It can’t. Not when you don’t have a spare. The class was moving in now. And all I could do was stare at the useless saddle in the dust.

A gnarled old man, someone’s hostler, picked the saddle up and shuffled over to where I sat, motionless, on the mare’s warm back.

“Someone cut the girth, looks like to me,” the old man said, squinting up at me. He hadn’t a tooth in his head, and his lips were stained by tobacco juice. His eyes had the milky quality of the incipient cataract, although his gaze was steady and concerned. “Got a spare? Won’t take a minute to fix.”

I swallowed and shook my head.

“Here, buckle this one on, Pete.” And Rafe Clery had appeared out of nowhere, a girth dangling from his hand. He grinned up at me. “I told them to hold the class a few minutes until you’re ready,” he said, taking Phi Bete’s bridle and holding up a hand to me to dismount.

Obediently I slid down her velvet shoulder, and found myself holding her reins. Rafe was busy unbuckling the one side of the girth as Pete’s stubby fingers moved deliberately on the other.

“Someone’s real scared of the competition you provide, Miss Dunn,” Rafe said in a sociable voice as he fitted the two parts of the girth together. The cut was obvious. Only a few threads had held the saddle on. “One, maybe two fences, and the first two are both stone, and you’d’ve bit the dust, badly.”

I swallowed, unable to meet his eyes, and I was scared. Who in this small New York State Fair could possibly know who I was? I hadn’t seen a familiar name on the list of exhibitors. Who had followed me from the West Coast? I’d hidden for almost a whole year since Dad’s murder.

“C’mon. I’ll give you a leg up. Mustn’t keep the class waiting in that hot sun. Hard on the horses.” He grinned, but his eyes didn’t. He looked worried. He’d shoved the deliberately severed girth under one arm as he laced his fingers for my knee.

I started to protest, but his effortless assist nearly sent me over Phi Bete’s back. He shoved my leg forward, checking the girth buckles carefully.

“Borrowed this from Bess Tomlinson. Wear it to victory.” Then he stepped back, and I didn’t even have time to thank either him or old Pete. I turned to wave, but Rafe was walking away, and Pete had turned his head to expectorate in the dust.

Such a close shave with disaster is no way to start a class. I managed to smile at the judges, who nodded solemnly as the gates swung shut behind me.

We were to jump the course in order of registration number. That put me at the end of a long, long line, but Phi Bete would stand quietly for hours. She would, but the others wouldn’t, for the nervousness of the riders was being communicated to their mounts, and there was much nonsense. The officials ought to have put a limit on this class. Or made a novice classification or something. The judges didn’t like the prospect of a long dusty session either. And issued additional instructions. Referees were summoned for each of the ten jumps. Eight faults disqualified. Refusal disqualified.

Well, that would pare the field down, I thought, and it did, although many of the riders as well as spectators muttered over the decision. By the time Phi Bete had faultlessly completed the round, there were only seven contenders, and much disgruntled argumentation beyond the gate, where the disqualified assembled to protest judicial prejudice.

The jumps were raised, and it was announced that this second round would finish the class. “Since we are running behind schedule, ladies and gentlemen, and it’s unseasonably warm for June, I’m sure you understand.”

Not very professional, certainly, but I was in sympathy with the decision. The wool of my jacket was steaming me, and it smelled. I longed to wipe the hatband. The damn hard-top would swim off my head at the next jump. As I looked at the altered obstacles, I could see that the added second layer of the artificial brush was a bilious show-window green, guaranteed to frighten a nervous jumper. Had they done that on purpose? And the second course of bricks were now a poisonous fluorescent red. My competition consisted of two old tried and true hunters, totally bored with the affair; two obvious novices, riders and horses, kids all; and two high-strung beauties, including the horse Mrs. Tomlinson had been schooling and cursing. Only she wasn’t up. Presumably it was her daughter. Maybe even her granddaughter, said I uncharitably to myself, but I had to consider every angle of my competition. And if she, the older Mrs. Tomlinson, did sleep with the Colonel, did his favor extend to the second and third generations? Somehow the detachment I could achieve on the bleachers failed me in the ring. I could not be objective.

I was now next to last to jump. Three faults disqualified one entry; a complete refusal to go over that horrid brush struck out another. One good round to Mrs. Tomlinson’s offspring, who did tend to rush her fences, making both horse and rider appear more awkward than necessary. One fault; a fault and a refusal. Then my turn. Phi Bete was contemptuous of the course, flicking her tail in that annoying way of hers, as if brushing off her passage. There was a murmur of amusement for this trait by the end of our round, but no faults against her nimble feet. And a good public image.

The last contestant was one of the old tried-and-trues, but a slow round, as if the horse considered every step before taking it. In fact, I was unconsciously tense, helping the old dear over every jump.

So that left four in the running. The damned judges made us show gaits. Tomlinson’s entry proved fractious, and the rider a poor horsewoman, so unless local sentiment prevailed, Phi Bete had taken the blue.

She had. The Colonel attached the ribbon with a wary eye toward her heels, as if he expected her to have acquired bad habits from her stable mate. It was the other way around, but why explain?

“What’s this about your girth being deliberately sabotaged, Miss ... ah ... ?”

“Dunn,” I supplied my name. “Sorry to delay the class.”

He harrumphed, frowning, as if my answer were the wrong one. I smiled sweetly and kneed Phi Bete out of line to take my duty circuit. The announcer, hard up for material to fill in pauses, came out with some garble about my having overcome a bad start due to a faulty girth and triumphed in the good ol’ Amurrican fashion. “Give the little lady a big hand, folks!” Irritating man, with a nasal twang that would get on your nerves even if you didn’t have to listen to it amplified, whine, wow, and all.

Well, .the applause didn’t mean anything. It got heavier when old tried-and-true took his circuit with the red fluttering from his headstall. I took no satisfaction that Mrs. Tomlinson’s progeny was third. Especially when she appeared out of the crowd, a wide grin on her freckled face, just as I dismounted. (Somehow I hadn’t put freckles in my unkind mental image of her.)

“Damned good ride, Miss Dunn. Sorry about that girth business. Rafe showed it to me, and it was deliberately cut. No question of it.” She held out a thin, sinewy hand with many charm bracelets jangling on her wrist. She was Mrs. Tailored-Lady and elegant-in-silk, but her smile was genuine, and so was her concern. “We’ve all been suffering from vandalism this year. I hope none of them think of glue in the saddles.”

“It was kind of you to be generous with your tack. . . .”

“Nonsense. Sportsmanship and all that best-man crap. Hate to see your mare scratched for lack of a girth. You made me ride up to the mark, I can tell you.”

She meant it, too. And drifted away before I could repeat my expression of gratitude. Her offspring—and it was a girl her very image, freckles, and braced teeth showing in a rather sullen pout—came on the scene.

Mrs. Tomlinson stepped right up to her, her thin fingers spreading to pat the curved neck of the hunter. Whatever she said was soft enough to reach only the girl’s ears, but the pout was erased instantly, and the eyes reflected the reprimand.

“Good riding, Susan,” her mother said in a medium-loud voice. “Majority will crowd his fences when he’s excited. And that god-awful brush jump. However, a third for your first adult competition is ver-ree good. Very good.”

Damnation. It was awful to be under any obligation, but she was so damned likable, teeth, bangles, freckles, and all. And whatever was I going to do about another girth, I wondered as I led Phi Bete away. The money for the blue ribbon would just about buy grain and grazing privileges until the next show ... if I could find a bargain on peanut butter and learned to fish better.

“Could only have been ‘vandalism.’“ Hmmm. Orfeo had to win, because that meant entrance money for the Taunton Do. And I ought not really to count on it until he’d won, only I was so sure he had to win. ...

“Hi there, Miss Dunn.” And when I turned, who was catching up with me but Rafe Clery, a whole girth dangling from his arm. “Sorry to miss the class, but it was a cinch you’d win. Ooops, sorry about that.”

I couldn’t help but giggle, which seemed to delight him for some reason. I thought men hated girls who giggled.

“Sorry about the word choice. Happens all the time to me. Anyway, here’s the damned girth. Pete ran it up on the machine at the harness shop. He’s buddies with the owner.”

“But I don’t have any mon—”

“Pete chaws Red Devil. He did the work.” And Rafe Clery dared me to protest as he handed me the mended girth. “A piece of chamois or sheepskin, and that’ll prevent rubbing until you can get the kind of replacement you prefer.”

First Mrs. Flashy-Black Tomlinson, and now him. I turned away, ostensibly to remove the blue ribbon for his approval.

“That calls for celebration. I’ll pick you up at seven. I know a place that serves the best steaks this side of the Hudson.” And he was off, calling to some acquaintance in the crowd before I could open my mouth.

I couldn’t stand there gawping, girth in my hand, my horse in need of walking. And he had said “steak.”

I reached the barn before I realized that he wouldn’t know where to pick me up, unless he automatically assumed the motel where most of the exhibitors from out of town stayed.

“No,” I told Phi Bete, “that one will know to meet me at G-Barn. Just as he knew I didn’t have a spare girth, or money enough for a replacement or anything. How does it happen he knows so much about me, and I don’t know a damn thing about him?” Phi Bete butted me sympathetically, and we walked on.

When we reached the cross-aisle, there was a tiny breeze feeling its way in the back door. Dice spoke from Orfeo’s stall, jumping neatly to the black’s rump to continue his report. He yawned halfway through, but his tone was casual, so nothing had happened.

The heat of the stable was suddenly oppressive. I let myself out of the box, stripping off the heavy jacket as I did. My toes felt baked in the boots, and I reeked of horse and human sweat. And he asked me to dinner! For a steak! Maybe there’d be enough for a doggy bag, and Dice could join the feast? I’d go for Dice’s sake.

I couldn’t stand my clothes, but I took time to gather up all the gear. Maybe it had been vandalism. I’d been out of the barn. There’d been opportunity for malicious mischief. God knows, the papers reported enough bizarre incidents. So, I’d lock the small tack box in the trailer, and at least prevent the saddle and bridles from being sabotaged.

It was while I was bathing from a horse bucket in the cramped quarters of a John stall in the ladies’ that I realized I’d have to forgo that steak. Whoever had slit the girth had done it too expertly—just enough to hold through mounting, but not enough to endure the strain of jumping. My horses might be next. I couldn’t leave them with just Dice on guard.

A woman came stomping into the “comfort” station. There were only the two booths, and the other’ toilet was overflowing.

“Can you hurry up in there?”

“I’m not feeling well,” I said in a week voice, and dunked my face cloth suggestively in the pail.

“Oh, dear.” And the woman started out, then hesitated. “D’you want me to call the first-aid people?”

“No.” I felt awfully guilty. People are always being nice when you don’t need it. “The sun, I think. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” was the polite rejoinder, and the outer door banged to.

I hurried through my sponging then, and although the atmosphere in the ladies’ was only slightly cooler than G-Barn, I knew I was clean. My one luxury was the remnants of a bottle of good cologne, and I used it, for its morale-building value, so that, clean, sweet-smelling, in a cool shift and sandals, I could even face the loss of that evening’s steak. I’d do my errands and then have my own “dinner.”

This being a farm community, chewing tobacco was obtainable, though I got a quick stare when I asked for it at the cigarette counter. I could also afford it. Then I had to find Pete. I looked first among the groups of handlers awaiting the end of the class that had followed the jumpers. Great Percherons and Clydesdales were cavorting, causing the earth to vibrate with their thunder-hoofed maneuvers. I paused to watch respectfully, for their magnificence is part of the passing scene.

“That’s what I said,” repeated a man to my right, a little in front of me. “Juggernaut’s here, and the girl who took the blue in Hunter Hacks is going to ride him for the trophy.”

His companion cursed. “Thought he went to the knackers when he savaged a man a year or so back.”

“Go down to G-Barn. He’s there, large, as life.”

“No use spending entrance money in the Trophy Class, then.” The second man was plainly disgruntled.

“He’s changed. Colonel Kingsley said Clery walked him to water like he was leading a lamb.”

“Clery? That bastard here? Looking for stock?”

“Going to sell him that tendon-sprung gray of yours?”

“Hah!”

The gray was evidently a source of much amusement to the first man and some irritation to the second.

“If he’s looking, he’s usually selling. And he trains a good jumper. He inherited his old man’s eyes for horseflesh, even if he didn’t get much else.”

“Got a good eye for mares, too.” There was a poke in the ribs and a leer.

“Oh?” The other man perked up. “Who’s he after now? Thought he’d covered about anything that’d stand still for it.”

“That sorrel hunter’s rider. Saw him feeding her in the snack tent. He’s after a two-legged ride, if I know Clery.”

“She looked like a nice kid, too. Heard her girth was cut clean through.”

I ducked away for fear they might turn. I refused to credit the conversation.

I finally had to ask in the barns for Pete.

“Look in D-Barn, miss,” I was told by the spokesmen for the loungers in A.

“Does he work for one of the showers?”

“Only long enough to get a chow stake. But he’s good with horses. Reliable, too, miss. Doesn’t drink. Just chews.”

Hat brims were fingered, a courtesy that gave me a needed lift. But did they think I was looking for a handler? Or a guard?

“Gossip doesn’t fly among circuit riders, Nialla,” Dad had told me four years ago when I first started riding shows in California. “It oozes through the ground like electricity, and suddenly everyone at a show knows what’s happened. Watch your step and you’ll be all right. Don’t slight anyone. The guy in the patched pants may own the whole string. Pay your debts on time, and don’t ever neglect your horses. Gives you a bad name that you’ll never shake.”

The two men hadn’t implied that Clery’s name was bad. On the contrary, they’d said he knew horses so well they were willing to buy his rejects. A two-legged ride, huh? And I looked like a nice girl? If they but knew!

D-Barn was cool, shaded as it was by the Exhibition Hall from the worst of the afternoon sun, and surrounded by big oaks. What is there about New York that cherishes enormous, long-lived oaks?

“Is Pete about?”

“Try the loft,” one man said over his shoulder.

“Wait a minute, miss. I’ll call him,” said another, pushing himself off the red-and-black-striped tack box. “Nice ride in Hunter Hack, miss. Too bad about that girth.”

He climbed the ladder, craning his neck, which corded when he yelled for Pete. I could see the old man’s head fill the opening.

“Lady to see you.”

Well, I had acquired that distinction, at least.

“Me?” Old Pete scurried down the ladder so fast he nearly trod on the other man’s hands.

“I wanted to thank you for sewing the girth, Pete.”

He wasn’t much taller than I, and he seemed reluctant to take the tobacco. He kept not looking directly at me.

“Don’t want nothing, miss. Shame to put you off just before a class. Heard you won anyway. Fine mare, that sorrel.”

“Please, Pete,” I whispered, and shoved the tobacco at him. I ended up stuffing it in his torn shirt pocket. “Haying’s dusty work,” I said in a louder voice.

He snorted, and turned his head a fraction to one side, spitting neatly and accurately into a coffee-can spittoon, scratching at his ribs with a stained hand.

“Finished haying.”

“Ah, would you know where Mrs. Tomlinson is stabling?” I asked him, holding up the girth I’d been lent.

“Here,” Pete replied, taking the girth from me and tossing it to the man on the tack box. He seized it neatly out of the air and touched his cap at me, grinning.

“Is Mrs. Tomlinson around? I’d like to tell her . ..”

“No need, miss. I’ll tell her.”

I suppose it was naive of me to think that she’d be back in the barn in that silk dress when she had all these men on tap.

“I’m ready now, ma’am,” Pete said abruptly.

“Ready?”

“Yep. Said I’d keep an eye on your stock tonight. I can sleep one place’s good as another.”

I stared at him, puzzled. He jerked his head at me to go out and gestured with one hand. He was so emphatic that I nodded again at the other men and went out with him.

“Mr. Clery asked could I keep an eye on G-Barn,” he said in a low voice as soon as we were in the yard. “Said he was taking you to feed. You need it. Don’t know as I want to fool with that black bastard . . . begging your pardon. . . .” And he reached for the brim of a nonexistent hat. “Girths cut’n all that. Don’t like it. Said I could sleep there same as anywhere else. G-Barn’s warm.” He gave me a toothless grin. “Old bones like warmth.”

“Pete, I can’t . . .”

Pete had been someone once, for a trace of an old dignity returned with the offended stare he gave me.

“A little girl like you can turn old Jug into a lamb like I seen him this afternoon, and ride like she was hide of her horse—I can sleep in G-Barn same’s anywhere else. And I got something to chaw, too.”

And that was to be the end of the matter, according to the Word of Pete. We continued in silence to G-Barn.

“Known Mr. Clery long?” I heard myself asking.

“Yep.”

A man of few words. But he had called him “Mr. Clery.” Horsemen are as quick as any other subsociety to attach disrespectful nicknames to people they don’t like or respect.

The afternoon’s crowd was noticeably thinning, though the grounds officially stayed open until nine, when the exhibits in the hall closed. It was slightly cooler, I thought, as we turned into the barn. Pete’s broken-seamed army-surplus boots made a shuffling sound on the cobbles. My sandals slip-slopped. A hoof stamped. The flies were bad, but I didn’t like aerosol bombs around hay that horses would eat or wood that they might gnaw.

“Don’t believe half what you hear about Mr. Clery,” Pete said unexpectedly, and frowned at me a moment before he looked away.

Much as I’d’ve like to have him qualify that commendation, I knew I would lower myself in Pete’s estimation if I did.

We’d reached the lone occupants of G-Barn now. Pete peered rheumily at Orfeo as if to satisfy some doubt.

“He’s watered and grained, and the straw’s down for both,” I told Pete. “The mare may need watering later, but I left a pail for Orfeo.”

“No sweat,” Pete said on the end of a grunt, and swung open the box stall directly opposite my horses. “Be comfortable here.” He took the pitchfork and had a cube of straw on the end of it before I could blink. “Be just fine.” He separated the straw with neat, quick strokes.

“Here’s a blanket.” I handed him the clean one.

“Why, that’s right thoughtful, ma’am, but I can see it’s been washed recent, and I ain’t. Won’t need ...”

As we heard the click of leather heels on the cobbles, we both stood still. But the quick steps were easily identified by Pete, who grunted and went on making his straw bed.

Just as Rafe Clery reached us, Dice appeared. The cat startled Pete so much that he had hefted the pitchfork defensively.

“That’s only Dice, your associate guardian, Pete,” Rafe said, so amused by Pete’s reaction to the cat that he, mercifully, did not see mine to the pitchfork’s menacing angle. (I had thought I’d got over that reflex.) “Has that cat caught any foreign cars lately?”

“That’s no cat,” Pete said in a liquid growl. “That’s a cougar. Ain’t seen one of them since I crossed the Rockies.”

“Back in fifty-two, wasn’t that, Pete?” Rafe suggested, all too helpfully. “Eighteen-fifty-two, I mean.” And winked broadly at me.

As Pete wheezed appreciatively, I gathered this must be an old joke between them. Then the old man noticed that Dice was eyeing him warily. He leaned forward on the pitchfork.

“Well, puss? Do I pass?”

Dice “spoke” in his throat and wandered over to me, to strop my legs and weave over to Rafe Clery, stepping on the high shine of the man’s polished Weejuns with the utter disregard only a cat of high degree can assume.

“No scratching, cat, or it’s back to the nether regions on the tip of my toe,” Rafe abjured him sternly.

“Gawd!” Pete cried out in surprise, as Dice was suddenly on top of the bars surrounding Orfeo’s stall. “You don’t need me here.” He sounded disgusted as he fussed with his straw.

Rafe took my arm, bidding him a cheerful good night, and led me out.

“That was very kind of you—”

“Horseshit, I’m never kind,” he interrupted me. “Knew damned well you’d probably chicken out if you got to thinking about that slit girth. Besides”—and he grinned at me—”Pete can sleep in G-Barn same’s anywhere else.” His mimicry of the old man was perfect. I giggled. “You’ve got the goddamnedest giggle I ever heard.”

I covered my mouth, but he dragged my hand down, his eyes looking directly into mine.

“I like it. Say, any idea who did slice that cinch?”

I shook my head. He favored me with another long look, somewhat quizzical.

“I could understand if it’d been Orfeo. But the mare?”

“A mistake?” I suggested.

He made a derisive noise. “The only two horses in that barn? The only saddle in the barn?” He stared out over the grounds, where some people were still wandering around. “Hoods? Out to make trouble for funsies?” He shrugged. “Bess Tomlinson doesn’t play that kind of game. Well, here’s the chariot.”

He gestured toward the gun-metal-gray Austin-Healey of old but good vintage, and striding forward, opened the door with a flourish of his free hand. I giggled, because he didn’t seem the type to make courtly motions.

“God, I like that silly chuckle of yours.”

“So I giggle for my goodies, do I?”

I meant to be facetious, but he straightened, a cold austere light in his eyes. He turned his chin slightly, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he were a boxer, guarding a glass jaw.

“You’ve been warned about Rafael Clery?”

His sudden change startled me almost as much as his pronunciation of his first name. Then I coped with the fact that he knew there was something I shouldn’t hear, or something he didn’t want me to hear.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said as gaily as I could, giving him my best grin. No matter what I’d overheard about “two-legged rides,” I wanted to erase that awful wariness about Rafe Clery. I stepped into the car, and he closed the door.

He got in on his side and had his hand on the key when he paused. From the depths of the glove compartment he flicked out a gauzy yellow scarf. It harmonized with the background of my shift.

“Keep your hair in place. This is a breezy riding car.”

He laid it across my hand, when I realized that there had been a nest of scarves in that compartment, all colors, as well as the round ends of lipstick cases and the edge of a compact. The leather seat whispered as he suddenly turned, while I sat stiffly, the filmy scarf dangling from my hand.

“Look, Nialla Dunn,” he said in a very hard voice, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not out for a fast lay. I can get willing cooperation anytime I need it without having to spend time and effort broaching the Iron Maiden. Believe it or not, occasionally I can look at a woman without wondering how she strips. My invitation to dinner comes from what there is left of camaraderie in my evil heart, and was prompted solely by admiration for a horsewoman. Now, accept me on those terms, such as they are, as I have accepted you, or just get out and we’ll part friendly.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be . . .”

“Hostile?”

I started to protest, although how I’d explain myself, I didn’t know.

“Yes, hostile.” His voice was neutral.

“I didn’t know who you were when you came into G-Barn.”

“There’re half a dozen people who would enjoy giving you all the vital statistics on Rafael Clery.”

“But ...”

He was wound up and wouldn’t stop. “I have been in jail. I have gambled heavily. I have a violent temper, and I’m a dirty infighter. Small guys have to be. No reach. And I confess to having done any number of wild, unpredictable, irresponsible stunts. However, most of those incidents, colorful though they were, took place in my misspent youth.” And he gave me a terribly bitter smile. “I’m thirty-eight. I’ve been married and divorced two times. Did they remember that? But I’m a horseman. I’m sure I was allowed one virtue. I’m a good capable trainer and a decent rider. And this invitation to dinner is just that, and no more, between two horsemen.”

“A two-legged ride”—that phrase was determined to haunt me. I always thought it was tunes you couldn’t forget.

“Now,” he was saying, “shall we enjoy a good dinner and some professional rapping, or will you return to a solitary peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich in the sanctum of your trailer?”

Had he looked in my trailer, too?

“I’ve run out of peanut butter,” I said as contritely as I could, and spoiled the apology by giggling.

Only it was the smartest thing I could have done, because all the tension disappeared from his face, and his eyes began to thaw. He flicked the scarf from my hand, twitched it over my head, and tied it deftly under my chin. I caught his hand, a little astonished at myself even as I did it. His fingers closed lightly on mine. “And,” I

went on truthfully, “the only person who said anything to me about you was Pete. He said I wasn’t to believe the half I heard about Mr. Clery.”

The smile reached the blue eyes first. The expressive lips curved up.

“Of course,” I added flippantly, “he didn’t say which half.”

He chuckled and eased the car into first to pass the pedestrians also using the exhibitors’ gate. A rather seedy man leaned against the fencepost on my side, the golf cap shading eyes that flicked over everyone. It was the golf cap that did it, and I suddenly felt everything falling in on me, as if the bottom of the Austin had dropped out onto the cattle grating.

Caps Galvano! There couldn’t be two men in the world with the same S-shaped posture, chicken-breasted, adenoidal, raven-nosed, with wisps of stringy black hair, like a bird’s crest, darting out all ways under the cap edge. It couldn’t be Caps Galvano! That man wore nothing but houndstooth checks—pants, jacket, socks, tie, and always the same filthy spotted snagged-thread cap.

This man had on a gray cap. It couldn’t be Galvano. How could he know where I was? How could he have followed me? And why? During my cross-country flight, I’d figured out what an absolute fool I’d been to listen to his whining assurances that he could help me clear my father’s name. Yet it had seemed logical at the time: Caps Galvano knew everyone at the racetracks. He also knew just how straight Dad was, because Dad had shown him the door when he’d come around the house with a deal. Hindsight had shown me how very foolish I’d been, but at the time, Caps Galvano had been the only person to show an active interest in helping me prove to the police that Dad couldn’t’ve been involved in anything shady. And if Caps had had to have money to gather that evidence, well, after what the police had been suggesting, I’d’ve hired the Devil himself to vindicate my father’s reputation. So another sucker was born, and I had given Caps every cent I had in my checking account. Dad’s assets were frozen (as they say), pending probate and the investigation. So when Caps had come to me for more money, hinting that he was on to something very hot, 
it hadn’t seemed the least bit wrong for me to approach Louis Marchmount. He had plenty of money. He was Dad’s employer. He should be just as interested in clearing his employee’s name as I was.

Louis Marchmount—racehorse owner, bon vivant, yacht captain, dressed by Cardin, received by society, fleeced by a series of voluptuous blondes who seemed to spring from the same mold. Louis Marchmount, whose lavish promises to my father had never materialized; Louis Marchmount, who had been perfectly willing to lend me any amount of money my heart desired, if ... if I “submitted” to Louis Marchmount, rapist.

With an effort, I controlled myself. I couldn’t have seen Caps Galvano. And the man had looked directly at me as we passed and hadn’t registered any sign of recognition. Ergo, he couldn’t be Caps Galvano. Besides which, Galvano was undoubtedly still on the West Coast, running despicable errands for Louis Marchmount. And Louis Marchmount had all he’d wanted of me, and from me. He’d done the worst. That hideous old man, his artificially tanned skin mocking the healthy young bodies that had wanted mine, so staunchly virgin. But it was Marchmount’s bony frame that had covered mine, once he had punished himself enough to raise the man in him. I’d never forget his awful imprecations and the curses he’d used, blaming me for his impotency, screaming directions as he forced me to assist at my own rape.

“Too cool?” another voice inquired in the here and now.

I must have shuddered.

“No. Just one of those convulsive shakes you get.”

He had to keep his eyes on the road, but he was so unusually sensitive . . . had he somehow been aware of my painful reflections? Oh, I hoped not. Surely I’d be allowed to enjoy his company for one evening. Because he was good company. Four-legged friends have limited conversational topics.

He took me to a quiet steak house, not, as I’d first feared, to the posh place across from the big motel complex on the highway. The restaurant was back from the county road, set among pines, where detached tourist cabins were unobtrusively, if unimaginatively, settled. The food turned out to be good, even if the decor was modern mother-in-law, down to the heavy crockery and the checkered plastic tablecloths.

Local high-school students, hired for this show weekend, served with enthusiasm, if not efficiency. Rafe ignored the waiter’s suggestion of a cocktail, though I’d somehow thought he was a drinker. Maybe he still had trouble getting service? No, besides the lines on his face, he had much too much easy assurance to be mistaken for a callow youth, of any age.

“Rare, medium, or destroyed?” Rafe asked. “Remember, I did promise steak.”

“Medium, please.”

“The minestrone here is first-rate.”

That suited me. I could go without lunch with such a full dinner in me.

“Tell Brown that Mr. Clery is here and doesn’t want the tough steaks he’s been saving for his wayward cousin.”

The boy looked startled but grinned as he hurried off.

We got such astonishingly good service, judging by what the other tables didn’t get, that Mr. Brown must know Mr. Clery very well. The fillets were definitely well aged, and tender enough to be cut with a fork. I was used to Daddy’s silence at meals, but Rafe Clery liked to talk anytime. Which was fine by me. I could concentrate on the first meat I’d had in several weeks. He had a thousand and one anecdotes about circuit shows. He must know everyone. He certainly could sketch out characters, raising images in my mind that would let me identify everyone I’d be likely to meet.

By the time coffee and a very good rum cake had arrived, I realized that Rafe Clery had adroitly handed me years of experience in capsulated form. He had given me pointers about every fairground and show meet I’d be likely to enter this summer. I only hoped that I could remember the half of what he’d said when I needed it.

“I’m talking too much,” he said abruptly, with a self-deprecating smile.

“I’ve listened to every word. So help me! You promised we’d rap professionally . . .”

“Rap, not bludgeon.” And he grinned. “You need some fresh air.”

The night was sweet and rich with the summer and the sun-baked woods beyond the restaurant. He took a deep, appreciative lungful, and I did too. The restaurant had been smoky.

“Did you ever have the feeling that you were smelling the same scent on the air as you did somewhere else . . . totally different?” I asked him.

“Indeed.”

“Memory isn’t supposed to be smell-oriented.”

“Who says?”

“Well, colors are hard to remember, and smells are infinitely variable.”

He held the door for me, and again I was intensely curious about him. Hold it, Nialla. He’s not for you, girl.

“What does the air tonight remind you of?” he asked as he settled himself, checking the car’s many dials by the dashboard light. I could see there was plenty of gas in the tank. He grinned as if he’d seen the line of my glance.

“Oh, a May night, as warm as this,” I replied with as much poise as I could muster. “The night Phi Bete was born.”

“Don’t tell me you named a wee tiny wobble-legged filly Phi Bete? How in hell did you know she’d have brain one in her skull?”

“I’d picked the name, whatever the foal. Her dam was Smart Set, and her sire Professor D.”

“Professor D? He’s a West Coast stud. Doesn’t Lou Marchmount still own him?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes,’“ he mimicked me. “Cold flat ‘yes,’ just like that, huh?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” And that was said in as flat and cold a voice as he used in my company. “You apologized, and I’ll clue you,” he went on in a kinder tone; “I don’t get them very often.” He flashed me that grin. “I don’t often deserve them, come to think of it.”

When we approached the fairgrounds, I found myself in still another quandary. He probably would insist on escorting me to my “room”—only I didn’t have one.

“Could you turn in at the barns?”

“Tuck your babies in bed, huh? I’ll tag along, in that case.”

Well, you can’t win ‘em all.

He pulled into the main exhibitors’ parking lot and guided me over the cattle grate.

“Some enterprising locals were charging ten cents a shoe to fish ‘em out of the stream or prize the heels out of the gratings,” he said as we crossed it, his heels ringing. I was glad of my sandals, flat and safe. “Shouldn’t wonder. Worse than subway grates.” Pete was snoring magnificently when we reached the horses. He rolled over the next moment, looked at us, hawked, and spat deftly in the gutter. Then he turned over and fell right back to snoring again. In the cool dark barn I could barely make out the horses’ bulks, but Dice, ensconced on Orfeo’s rump, turned his white-accented face to us, and his eyes gleamed, blinked, and were obscured.

“Except that he doesn’t chaw, do you notice a slight resemblance between watchmen?”

I giggled, but muffled it, because Pete’s snoring rhythm halted and then resumed. I moved away from the sleepers, into the center of the barn’s aisles, and extended my hand to Rafe.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound ungracious as well as stilted. “That steak was heavenly.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied automatically, taking my hand. Then he brought it to his lips, clicking his heels in stalwart Prussian style. “All mine, modom,” he added in a guttural voice.

He did a precise about-face and goose-stepped down the aisle.

I stood for a long time, reviewing that departing figure, half-wishing many impossibilities, all of them involving Mr. Rafael Clery. The bubble of illusion was shattered by a raucous snore from Pete.

Well, I couldn’t bed in the barn tonight. I’d never get to sleep with that cacophony. And I did have an air mattress to cushion me against the load bed of the station wagon.

3

Some people don’t realize that show exhibitors have usually been up six or seven hours before the fairgrounds open or the first class has been announced. At five-thirty I was wide-eyed and dressed. Old Pete had left his straw and gone about whatever duties earned him bread and coffee. Dice had successfully concluded a hunt, for he was cleaning his paws fastidiously, an operation that always fascinates me. (I’d save the doggie bag of steak remnants for later.) I often wondered how he kept from snagging his tongue on his claws when he laved so carefully between them.

I curried Phi Bete and grained both animals, because I planned to work Orfeo out on the development roads beyond the fairgrounds. The roads were all laid out; the level dirt surfaces were perfect for breezing a horse. There were even some oddments of old foundations for jumping. I’d inspected carefully when exercising Phi Bete the previous morning. There’d be few to observe us, and none to spook at the sight of Orfeo.

Somewhere someone had brewed coffee, and my belly rumbled hungrily at the smell. The steak dinner had primed the pump, so to speak, and I was far too hungry to be sated by another mouthful of peanut butter. Woman-fully I ignored my inner rumblings and vain cravings; there couldn’t be a stand open at this hour, could there?

By the time Orfeo had munched down all his grain, I had to find that coffee source. The aroma was too pervasive to have issued from a cup of instant or a fireside pot. Looping the hackamore reins over my arm, I led Orfeo and followed my nose.

One of those snack trucks you see everywhere nowadays had drawn into the main barn parking lot. Exercise boys were taking advantage of it, their mounts tied to the hitching rails, heads down, hips cocked under their summer sheeting.

As always, Orfeo’s massive black bulk attracted attention. This time, at least, it proved to my advantage, for when it was apparent I wasn’t tying him anywhere, way cleared magically right up to the surprised vendor. I got coffee, a Danish fresh and still warm from its bakery oven, and a banana. A gentle sufficiency, as Mrs. du Maurier’s cook would have said. , I moved away, and the mob surged back. Orfeo, you extract certain perquisites I could never obtain without you.”

And to show that I loved him for his own sake, I let him have a segment of the Danish.

When I’d finished and felt three times more alert, I checked his girth, side to side. Examined the stirrup leathers and the hackamore. Then I was faced with the problem of mounting my mountain without a leg up nor a block in sight.

“Alley-oop,” said a cheerful voice, and my left knee was grabbed. Up I went, to stare down at Rafe Clery’s impish grin. Behind him loomed a rangy, deep-breasted mare; her headstall’s red and black stripes marked her as belonging to the Tomlinson stables, or I missed my bet.

“Thought you’d be warming him up about now,” Rafe said, and was suddenly atop the tall mare, gathering in the reins. Then he gawked at Orfeo’s hackamore and pointed to it in dumb show.

“You cannot,” he said with measured incredulity, “be serious. You do not ride that behemoth with a hackamore? On an open road? When anything might happen?”

I didn’t dignify the inane question with an answer. I pressed my right knee, and Orfeo moved forward, his wither twitching as it always did, some unconscious reflexive action against years of crop and spur.

I didn’t look back, and I knew the mare followed. I led the way past G-Barn, through the narrow break in the old cyclone fencing, clip-clopping over the cracked concrete loading apron, let Orfeo pick his way over the old

railroad track until we reached the hard-packed dirt road. At my signal, he lifted into a dignified rocking canter, as slow and steady as any circus horse. We had a little stretch to go before the road ended in a mound of bulldozed raw, stony dirt. Beyond were the hard-packed but leveled streets of the embryo development.

Orfeo saw the impediment. His ears cocked forward, head lifted.

“You jump to level ground,” I told him, and his ears twitched. I could feel the increase in his canter, could feel power surging through his frame. Sometimes I think that Orfeo is really alive only under a rider on a jump course. He’s a born leaper, and it’s my private notion that Orfeo was nothing worse than a jump-school dropout, a training-ring delinquent. He was born knowing more than any human trainer could impart to him, and because they were forcing him against his natural inclinations and talent, he contended their right to direct him. I’d never admit it to anyone but Orfeo, but I was in the saddle only to lend countenance to his presence in a competition.

Jumping Orfeo—or rather, sitting on, when Orfeo jumped—is an experience. He doesn’t seem to leap. He just gets beyond the perpendicular obstacle in front of him smoothly, effortlessly. I could hear the rasping snort of the mare behind me, the plunging beat of her hooves, and then Rafe Clery was pulling her in beside the placidly cantering Orfeo. Before us stretched the inviting flat, curving roadbeds. The mare was excited, rolling her snaffle, trying to get her head away from Rafe Clery’s strong, steady hands.

The mare was the same height in the shoulder as Orfeo, but she looked less substantial. Rafe grinned over at me with pure creature delight for the morning, the exercise, the prospect in sight.

He gave me a mischievous nod, which I returned, and we were off at a fast canter. The mare worked for her speed, but Orfeo seemed merely to sink and glide forward, just fast enough. I kneed Orfeo toward the slope that would lead to an old stone fence, decoratively left to separate two lots. Orfeo stepped over it—all four feet at once. Beyond was a stream bed, wide, sandy, good footing on either bank, and no harm done if you took a tumble.

Down a ridge, over the wide storm gutters, up a long slope, across another ex-pasture to a gaggle of flat-topped stones, requiring neat, short hops. For someone supposedly running an unknown course, Rafe Clery was handling the fractious mare superbly. Then I remembered that he’d been touring the circuit for many years and perhaps the natural barriers I was taking were well-known landmarks to him. No matter, he rode superbly.

There was a high stone wall at the edge of the tract, a wide but empty meadow on the other side. We could go back and forth over that obstacle for height, and in one place, for breadth.

We jumped, until I noticed that the mare’s approaches and landings were smoother, as if she’d decided that she could trust this rider and was letting him decide. When we finally eased up, even Orfeo had worked up a sweat. We walked them back to the little stream. Here the bulldozer had missed a few young willows and bushes. The sweat on Orfeo’s neck had dried, and his breathing was easy. He pulled at the reins for water, and the mare was snorting for a taste of it.

“Oh, it’s not polluted yet,” Rafe said. “Runs through farmland back to forever.” He released the reins, and the mare buried her nose in the clear water, slurping happily.

Orfeo drank with the dignity of an old veteran, his eyes marking his surroundings, and he quietly sucked in water. The mare finished, a long stream of saliva drooling from her muzzle. Alert, eyes up, neck arched, she gazed at some distant object, snorted, pawed, and pulled to get to the enticing grass on the far slope.

“Well, I’ll tell Bess not to waste her entry money, but she will. ‘Isn’t sporting to withdraw,’“ he drawled in a Westchester boarding-school accent. That wasn’t how Mrs. Tomlinson sounded; she wasn’t that artificial.

“She was jumping well for you.”

“Yes, but I won’t be riding her this afternoon. I’m just a lick and a promise.”

“A promise in return for the loan of that girth?”

“Lord love you, no.” And his blue eyes twinkled. I took that.”

I discarded every rejoinder that occurred to me, because they would be provocative or saucy or bawdy and all wrong. Instead I gave Orfeo a signal, and he moved forward obediently.

“By the way,” he said in an all too casual tone of voice, “I had a few nightcaps with some of the other exhibitors and Budnell. They are upset about that girth-slitting. A case of honor. I told them you hadn’t for a moment believed it was anyone connected with the fair.” 

“Of course not.”

“But Budnell says that there’ve been some funny incidents around here—oh, a missing blanket, a wallet or two stolen, bales of hay broken open for no reason, tack boxes ransacked, glue poured on a new saddle, a sheepskin cut up, and things have been lifted from the exhibitors’ hall. In short, evidence of malicious mischief not directed at you or Orfeo.”

I murmured politely. But Caps Galvano was here. He may not have recognized me, but he could have recognized Phi Bete. “You being alone in G-Barn would make it easier for a vandal to work,” Rafe was saying.

“I never did think it could be another rider,” I said. I wished he hadn’t brought the subject up, because it had been such a lovely ride. He gave me a friendly wave as he turned the mare toward D-Barn. It had been such a nice morning.

By the time I had curried Orfeo to within a feather of his skin, wiping him till he shone, and was standing back to admire my handiwork, Rafe Clery was looking in on us with approval.

“It is now eight of the clock. You got a swimsuit?” I was so surprised that I nodded. “Get it.”

“That stream is scarcely—”

“Stream?” Utter contempt for my outrageous notion. “There’s that beautiful Olympic-style pool at my motel, complete with high dive for idiots, low board for cowards like me, even a water shoot, and it’s all pining for some bodies to break its crystal chlorine clarity and justify its existence. Get your suit.”

He grabbed my hand, outstretched in protest, and pulled me out of the stall, secured the door, whistled a call he evidently thought would bring Dice . . . and it did. He rolled a greasy bag from his pocket, and brushing hay dust from a patch of cobblestone, emptied meat scraps. “Your salary, sir.”

I was marched to the trailer, passing Pete on his way into G-Barn, and Rafe stood, glaring at me, until I found my bathing suit. We were off in the waiting Austin-Healey with a hearty “hiyo, Silver.”

But he was right. There weren’t any bodies in the pool, which was magnificent. He pointed officiously to a bank of louvered doors at one end of the pool. “Change!”

Unfortunately there was a full-length mirror in the bathhouse, and the reflection of me in its crystal-clear surface was disheartening. My old suit was really old. In fact, it was two-piece because I’d had to cut it in half when the middle of me elongated. I’d seamed the rough edges around elastic. It had been a good suit eight years ago when Mrs. du Maurier had handed me a whole stack of clothes her younger daughter had briefly worn and discarded. The suit was mended and darned, and it covered as much as most suits these days, but candidly speaking, all it covered was bones. I didn’t have much bust—a flat horsewoman’s figure, boyish, with too much muscle in the arms and shoulders, hard thighs, and not too much calf. I had small ankles, yes, and my toes were well shaped from the roominess of riding boots and the exercise of sandals, but who rhapsodizes over toes?

I checked my hairline. The dye had been guaranteed insoluble in water, and the hair didn’t seem to have grown much since the last coloring. Whom did I think I was fooling if Caps were here, and my saddle had been cut? The idea of teen-age hoods having funsies didn’t quite answer my circumstances. “Hey!” Rafe Clery was back.

I peered around the door, and then, disgusted with myself, flung it wide. I guess I stood there a longer time than was polite, but if I’d been a sculptor, I’d’ve wanted him to model for me. He was a man with a perfectly beautiful, superbly conformed body, in miniature, the most elegant example of “after” of a Body Beautiful ad, Steve Reeves with no coarse knots of muscle. Blow Rafe Clery up to six feet, and, well ... I could sort of see why he’d attracted two wives. Why he’d detracted them could only print out “insufficient data.”

Then he grinned as if he were aware of his effect on womankind and I hadn’t disappointed him. At least, with my reaction to him. He padded across the green concrete skirting of the pool, and taking both my hands, held them out from my sides.

“You’re neat, you know. Neat. Not gaudy.” His expression was almost . . . proprietary? His hands slid up my arms to my shoulders.

I was close enough now to see the light dusting of black hair on his tanned arms and across the muscular plane of his chest, making a thin line down the ridge of the diaphragm muscles, disappearing into the excuse for a bikini he was wearing, which barely covered nature’s compensation for his lack of stature.

There was a satisfied expression in his eyes when I jerked mine back from where propriety decreed a well-bred miss ought not to look. He looked suddenly so knowing, so smug, that he was no longer an objet d’art, but man, male, masculine. ...

“Neat, not gaudy, compact and . . .” His expression became avid. I’d seen that peculiar look once before. It revolted me. “. . . and sexy!”

I tried to wrench free, but his hands tightened, and our bare bodies touched. I struggled, remembering another bare hard body. Then I was free, staggering backward. He caught my elbow, steadying me, his eyes concerned, startled at my reaction.

“Hey, hey, gently,” he murmured, his voice deepening to the tone he’d used with Orfeo. “Easy, girl.”

“I’m not a mare.” I thought, “Two-legged ride.”

“Indeed you aren’t. Last one in is a rotten egg.” And he had swiveled around, launching his body flat out over the water in a long shallow dive. “Hey, it’s great!” he called to me, surfacing, shaking wet hair out of his face.

I saw the scar then. With a hat on, with wavy black hair worn long, the hairless scar that went from the back of his neck up the side of his head to one temple wasn’t noticeable.

I dived in, landing badly, and the contact with the water surface made my side smart as I came up.

“Tsk, tsk.” He trod water, shaking his head.

I splashed him and ducked before he could retaliate.

He hadn’t done anything, and certainly he had released me quickly enough when he saw his attentions bothered me. And I liked him. I liked him. I liked looking at him. We began to swim about, the easy companionship of the morning’s ride infecting us again.

“Hey, miss. Miss!” A stern summons floated to us. A mahogany lifeguard in trunks the same bright blue used as a decorative motif by the motel was gesturing to me. “You have to have a cap. Hair clogs the filter.”

“I don’t have one,” Obediently I swam to the edge of the pool. Rafe’s short fingers closed around my forearm and pulled me back into the water. “Find the lady a cap, please, George.” “Sure, Mr. Clery.”

Holding onto the gutter, I turned. “ ‘Sure, Mr. Clery.’ Do you always get that response from people?”

The pleasure was wiped from his face as if he’d been douched in cold water. He regarded me with no expression at all. The water dripped from his hair, and some strands leaped up at odd angles but did not cover the heavy white keloid of that scar. The lines in his face were unrelieved by any touch of humor, and he looked weary as well as much, much older.

“Who turned you off, Nialla Dunn?” I tried to pull myself away from him, but his arms caged me against the side of the pool. His chest pressed water against me, his legs dangled against mine, and the weightlessness of water brought our hips together. “Here you are, Mr. Clery. It’ll fit any size head, miss.” A disembodied hand thrust a white cap between us. Rafe took it, his eyes never leaving mine. Treading water, he stretched it and fitted it deftly over my head, tucking my hair up under the edges.

“Silly, actually. Your hair’s sopping.” “It’ll keep long hair out of the filter,” George said above us, and then I could hear, above my roaring desolation, the slap of his feet moving away from us. Rafe’s body drifted against mine again. “Who turned you off sex, Nialla Dunn?” I wanted very much to cry. My head felt tight, my eyes smarted, and I desired more than anything else to put my head down on his shoulder. Which was a ridiculous notion.

“I’ll rephrase that,” he said in the deep gentle voice that was unnerving me. “Did someone turn you off sex, Nialla Dunn?”

I managed a short nod.

“Rape?”

It was almost a relief to admit it.

He began to curse softly, our bodies drifting apart from intimate contact. Only then did I realize how impersonal that contact had been. For him, at any rate. I shivered. The water was a good temperature when you were swimming, but cold, cold, when you stayed in one place.

With a rush of water, he had erupted from the pool.

“Hands up!” And his voice was light again.

I looked up, and he had extended his arms to me, crossed at the wrists. Puzzled, I obediently lifted mine, and the next thing, he had neatly extracted me from the water, twisted me around-so that I was sitting on the edge. I was getting to my feet when a huge towel enveloped me and strong fingers massaged the back of my neck.

“George, would you ask Renzo to bring out two of those hearty executive breakfasts he’s been touting?”.

“Sure, Mr. Clery.”

Only I heard an odd echo of that cheerful affirmative in my ear and realized, when I saw Rafe Clery’s mischievous grin, that he’d chimed in. He gestured toward one of the double lounges at the pool terrace, scooped up a second towel, and began drying himself briskly, scattering his hair every which way, oblivious to the scar that showed so horribly. He smoothed his hair back, without even checking to be sure the scar was covered. He’d know it was, Rafe Clery would.

“Sure, Mr. Clery”—and yet I couldn’t resent him. Couldn’t even resent the admission that he had forced out of me. Water torture. New variety. “Who turned you off?” That was what Marchmount had done, wasn’t it? He’d turned me off sex. Well?

Rafe pushed his arms into a thick toweling pullover, which, to my unsurprised notice, bore an intricate RC on the breast pocket in red embroidery floss.

“You warm enough, Nialla?” he asked courteously as he sat down on the glider.

I guess I’d been tense with anticipation of that beautiful body near mine, but he had evidently turned off that considerable sensuality of his. I might have been seated next to my father. The man was centaur, sybarite, roué . . . a chameleon. I gave up then, but he didn’t know it. Nor did I.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied with the same degree of courtesy. The sun was slanting in over the top of the motel now and warming me.

“ ‘Yes, thank you,’ “ he mimicked. “Take off that bloody stupid cap.” Only he reached over and flipped it off. 

“ ‘Sure, Mr. Clery.’ “ And I giggled. 

“That’s right. Giggle for your breakfast.” Oh, Mr. Clery, could the impossible be remotely probable? Even passing-fancy probable?

I assumed that no one else was awake and eating in that motel complex, to judge by the speed with which breakfast appeared for us by the pool. I was wagging my head from side to side with silent facetious “Sure, Mr. Clery” and “Thank you, Mr. Clery,” while the waiter, Renzo, duck-toed around the pool and out of sight.

Then I tucked into that hearty executive breakfast with an appetite not a bit curbed by my six-o’clock snack. Before the first pool-monopolizing family of kids could invade the area, we had eaten, dressed, and were on our way back to the grounds.

Pete emerged from the dark shadows of G-Barn, nodded to Rafe Clery and me, and ambled off, marking his passage with neat squirts of tobacco juice. Did or did not Rafe Clery believe that glib tale of kid vandals?

“I’ll be cheering in the bleachers at one, Nialla. Thanks for the company.” 

“Sure, Mr. Clery.”

When I was safely in the barn, I let out an exasperated sigh, part tears, part frustration, but mostly anger, with myself.

By eleven I’d washed and ironed both shirts, sponged my breeches, shined my boots, brushed my hard-top, groomed both horses again, straightened my trailer and the wagon, saddle-soaped the saddle and Orfeo’s bridle, locked away all unused tack, and developed a bad case of jitters. So much depended on winning the jump prize money. I knew that Rafe Clery had been honest about the Tomlinson entry. But was there other strong competition that he didn’t know about? And why, if not for nefarious purposes, was he making such an effort to be kindly, but scarcely avuncular, to Nialla Donnelly—Dunn.

I’d gone over every word we’d exchanged, conjured back every expression in his repertoire, felt his body against mine and absorbed the shock again, the delight that I had then suppressed. His beautiful, beautiful body—so unlike that bony hard filth that had stolen from me what I could never give again and wished so much I could still bestow. Oh, impossibility!  

Marchmount punishing himself! The revulsion of his flabby thin flesh pressing against me. The pain; the sound of his hoarse, piteous exhortations, the slaps, the curses and promises, the demands for compliance. For me, to help him! Those ghastly sobs when he fell to one side of me, mouth agape, eyes closed, sunken into his head. I’d escaped him then. Gathered my clothes up, dressed hastily in the dark hallway, wanting to kill him! Wanting to die so I could forget the shame, the degradation.

And I was the girl who’d always been thrilled to see a stallion mount a mare, thrilled and stirred by his bugling, amused by the mare’s coquetry and surrender. There’d been a dignity about such couplings that had been totally absent in my experience.

If that was what it was for humans, I didn’t want any part of it. I’d crept away from Marchmount’s so deceivingly elegant house. I’d packed as much of my belongings as I could cram into two bags. I’d’ve had to vacate the cottage anyway as soon as the new trainer came. The horse trailer and the sedan were Dad’s. The tack was his and mine, and so was Phi Bete. And the price of my virginity? Now both Donnellys had sullied reputations!

I’d considered going to some of Dad’s friends south of the border. But Marchmount could find me too easily there, and so could Galvano. So I turned north, crossed the Rockies at the Donner Pass, and headed east.

The sedan died in Kansas, and I picked up the battered station wagon. I’d stayed at a farm long enough to get a Kansas driver’s license and let Phi Bete rest her legs after the constant swaying of the small trailer. The farmer offered to buy her from me.

By the time I’d crossed the Mississippi, I knew I couldn’t go back to the Lexington area either. Marchmount would be likely to turn up there, looking for yearlings. About then I remembered that one of Mrs. du Maurier’s stockmen, whom Dad had always liked, had taken a position in Pennsylvania for a DuPont stable. The Poiriers took me in, no questions asked. I paid my own way, helping exercise and train the stock, helping Jean Poirier in the house. Jack had been very helpful in suggesting which shows would be best for me, and in February I’d turned myself, Dice, Phi Bete, and Orfeo south toward Florida and the first of the horse shows, and here I was. And where was I?

The PA system blared out the call for the Jumpers’ Class. Pete appeared in the yard to give me a leg up. He made the victory sign, a toothy grin, then shuffled off, spitting.

Twelve horses were competing, most of them veterans of show rings, judging by their manner. A little fidgeting, bridle-shaking, anticipatory bad temper. They were in this for the money; $350 was a good prize for such a small fair. There were some riders I hadn’t seen before, so I guessed that they had come in for this class alone. I saw the Tomlinson mare, too, Mrs. T. up, and she smiled at me. Funny how her freckles didn’t show when she wore a hard-top.

The bleachers were nearly full. Well, one o’clock of a fine June Sunday. With church over, there were no guilty consciences, and people were still pouring in.

As we filed into the ring, the announcer was twanging out all the vital statistics about horses, riders, owners, and trainers; and finally he got around to the rules of the jump course. Twelve jumps, one for each of us, I thought to myself, eyeing the angle of the nasty water gate, the course laid out in a rough figure eight. We could inspect the jumps, on foot; then we were to retire from the field, return on call, position decided by our competition number. There was a time limit for the run, with one fault for every two seconds over the limit. Lowest score determined the winner. In case of ties, there would be a shorter course run with a stricter time limit. We were dismissed to wait our turn.

I’d had a look at the jumps as they were setting them up, because I jolly well had no one to hold Orfeo. We sat in the hot sun and waited while the others had their look-see.

Just before the first contestant was called, the announcer abjured the audience to remain silent until the rider had completed the round. Anyone disobeying would be removed from the bleachers by the stewards. He meant it. There were a lot of kids in the audience, and hoody types. A sudden noise during a jump could put a nervous horse off his stride.

From where I waited with Orfeo, I couldn’t see too well. But three horses racked up enough faults to be disqualified completely. Orfeo jumped as if he were on a Sunday amble in a park, completing the circuit exactly within the time limit.

As I waited for the others to go, sometimes a gasp of dismay or appreciation would indicate success or failure. I could also hear the rider of the leggy gray cursing his mount over the jumps. Mrs. Tomlinson employed a vocabulary of assorted monosyllables in praise, silence for under-performance.

The PA announced the winners of the first round and the time limit of the jump-off, over jumps 3, 5, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12. I wondered if they’d decreased the time limit so drastically to eliminate the “slow” horse, me. But then I decided that was foolish. I was being unnecessarily paranoid.

We were down to seven contestants now, three clear rounds, and the others two faults apiece. Best score should win in this round.

I could see better this time. The rangy gray went first and fought for his head between seven and nine, which slowed him badly. He knocked the top bar of the third in the triple-barred fence, which gave him two faults, and he picked up a time fault. Mrs. T. on her mare slid at the water gate, but it was the penultimate fence. The mare managed the final one, but knocked off the top row of bricks, and by the time she wheeled out of the ring, she was favoring her off-front leg.

Then it was my turn. The suspense was palpable as we came onto the course as the time clock began to turn. Those things make me nervous anyhow. I had him well in hand (or vice versa), and he took the first three jumps neatly. From nine on, the jumps were trickier, and his ears came forward as we swung toward the broad gate. He aimed himself squarely, flew over, and then was in position from the triple gate, which you can’t rush. Just as he gathered himself for the third of that trio, a car horn blasted right beside the ring. The audience reacted with an indrawn gasp of horror, but old Orfeo soared effortlessly over, his hooves tucked up. Over the double sixes, away to the water jump, and out. Right on time. There was a spontaneous cheer for us, and as we came cantering out of the ring, people in the end seats leaned toward me to shout their congratulations and heap fury on the inconsiderate lout who had leaned on the car horn. I? I was trembling with reaction, and I wanted very badly to get to a John. Who had touched that horn? At just that precise moment? That close to a horse at a difficult takeoff. That couldn’t have been an accident. No hood, unless he was very, very knowledgeable about horses, could have timed that blast. But someone who knew Orfeo’s reputation, knew how tense the second round could be, how dangerous that turn and jump could be, might try to spook my mount. I’d’ve lost the competition at the least, more likely been hurt.

But Orfeo was impervious to such distractions. There were no faults against him, and he won the blue.

Respectful admirers crowded around us, extolling my intrepid horsemanship. Someone took a photo with a big flash, but I ducked my head and, I hoped, spoiled the picture. Finally, pleading Orfeo’s needs, I got away. As we passed D-Barn, Mrs. Tomlinson was deep in conversation with her trainer as he inspected the mare’s off-front leg.

“Strain or pull?” I asked.

“Not to worry, Miss Dunn,” Mrs. T. shouted, straightening and waving at me. “Beautiful ride. Beautiful ride. Absolutely faultless!”

That horn blowing had come from the south side of the field. She couldn’t possibly have touched it off. Nor would she. She’d already had two faults before the mare went into the second round.

I was suddenly very tired. The fairground clock registered two-fifty, and while it seemed incredible that two hours had passed, I felt their passage in every muscle. Now was when I could have used that swim. And the heartening of Rafe Clery’s cheerful presence. I’d looked for him again when we exited triumphant, but no short man had barged through the mob to congratulate me.

I’d fouled up that relationship, if there’d been a chance of one. He’d only wanted company for dinner last night, a companion to jump against this morning, and a little funsies with a neat not gaudy girl at breakfast.

Oh, gawd, would George think I’d spent the night with Rafe Clery? How many guests went swimming at eight o’clock in a motel, if they hadn’t been badgered to it by their kids?

I dragged the saddle from Orfeo’s high back and stuck it on the top rail of the little practice ring. I shrugged out of my hot coat. I would really have to get it cleaned before the next show. It was like being incased in an unaired gym locker. The hard-top had left a rim around my head, and I pulled off the ribbon, shaking out my damp hair, wishing I could also shake the elephant parade of Marchmount-Clery-Marchmount-Clery out of my mind.

Orfeo butted me with his head, and I realized he wanted a rub where the headband had sweated his forehead. I’d have to wash the shirt anyway.

Could I pick up my prize money this afternoon? Or would I have to wait until evening, when the steward tallied his accounts? The stalls were mine until tomorrow morning. I could pack up and get out this afternoon and disappear into the . . .

“Grand ride, gal.” There he was, propping up the gate post, hat back on his head, figured silk scarf at the throat of the strawberry-pink body shirt. How could I have missed him in the stands? “Gave the crowd some real exhibition jumping. They loved you!” He fell in step by me.

“They loved me . . . indeed! Blew their horns to tell me so.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “Well, now . . .”

“The south side of the field. If I knew ...”

“Black Chevy country wagon, with simulated-oak panels, late model.” He rattled off the description. “License number DN-1352, New York.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll report it to the steward.”

“Already did, and the owner was in the stands at the time. He was a bit put out that someone had used his car for such shenanigans.”

Orfeo butted me with his head. I ignored him, staring at Rafe.

“That wasn’t hoods or troublemakers, Rafe. I’m going to ...”

“...Pack up your tent like an A-rab and silently steal away? Fair doesn’t close until eight,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to eat. And you ought to celebrate. So we will. Taking all sensible precautions for your stock. Pick you up at six. The lousy restaurants close early on Sundays in this burg.”

He ducked under the rails and left. I wasn’t alone the rest of the afternoon, though the “sensible precautions” were subtle—a man soaping a saddle draped on the practice-ring bar, someone airing blankets, another fellow washing a car. Two breeders came in, offering a good price for Phi Bete, talking horse with me unaffectedly for almost half an hour. Some kids, impressed by Orfeo’s size, came wandering in (they were genuine, I think); they asked all kinds of things that self-conscious horse-struck kids ask. Pete wandered over to congratulate me in an inarticulate manner, muttering imprecations about the horn-blowing. But he also inspected the barn, peering into every stall and up in the loft. I fretted about not being able to leave. That was silly, when I thought on it later, because at least at the fair there were many people close by—protection. On the road, by myself, in an old car with a slightly shaky trailer, I’d be so vulnerable. But I had to collect the prize money first. So I might as well have one last good dinner in the pleasurable company of Shorty Clery.

I passed time by inspecting the station wagon and trailer, and moving them from the rear of G-Barn to the shade by the ring. They’d be in clear view of people at F- and E-barns. I washed out my shirt and did eenie-meenie over my three dresses. The black linen looked more sophisticated, so there wasn’t any real choice.

Then all of a sudden it was six. The moment I heard the crisp staccato sound of heels on the cobbles, my pulses began to hammer and my cheeks flushed with more than heat. Rafe was talking to someone, his words clear, the answers muffled. But it could only be Pete with him, and it was. He had a white Chicken Delight sack in his hand, and he was grinning. But how could he manage fried chicken without teeth? Then I saw Rafe.

He was a stranger. The white silk turtleneck emphasized his tan, the elegant dark red pongee jacket had been built for him, and the gray pants flared in swinging bells over the darker gray leather boots. I’d seen him in a different outfit every time we’d met this weekend. I wanted to hide, so I held my head up.

“Evening, Nialla. Heard you won’t sell the mare for any price,” he said, eyes dancing.

Dice smelled the chicken and began to make up to Pete, who’d settled himself on an upturned pail.

“When I’ve finished, cat, when I’ve finished,” Pete said, and as Rafe guided me out, I saw Dice obediently sitting down to wait.

Rafe chuckled. “Between that damned lion and Orfeo’s reputation, Pete’s redundant. No, now, don’t start hedging.” He handed me into the car. “It wasn’t a kid who blew that horn. A couple of people saw a seedy guy in a golf cap hanging around cars in that area.”

Caps Galvano!

“Rafe, really. I don’t think I’d better . . .”

I stopped talking because Rafe Clery leaned toward me, his face blank, his eyes . . . not angry . . . clouded.

“That’s why Pete is not redundant, Nialla. You have to eat, and Budnell isn’t on hand till around eight. That’s two hours to stew yourself into a real swivet when you could be packing in a steak. I promise to have you back here. Scout’s honor!”

I nodded, unconvinced. He shrugged and got in.

The Charcoal Grill across from the motel was like many others of the same name all across the country. This one was determinedly picturesque, with wagon wheels and ox yokes, but the management had had the sense to branch out with a bar wing that looked onto an agreeable patio, complete, of course, with the omnipresent charcoal fireplace, white-gowned, mushroom-hatted chef making appropriate passes with a long-handled fork over the broiling beef.

The maitre d’ ushered us immediately, and with deferential cordiality to a corner-window table, although there were a good number of people waiting for seats. That’s the first time thats happened to me. Chalk up another one for Shorty.

It was obvious to me that this place was many cuts above last night’s—real linen, good silver, and the glassware was not restaurant-standard. Judging by the prices of appetizers, the originality was going to be amortized there for many years. A dollar and a quarter for a baked potato?

“Very good potato, grown for this place special. The cows who make the sour cream are bullied night and day. The chives are grown by itty-bitty green men . . .”

I stared at Rafe before I realized I must have muttered out loud. I giggled, and he gave his head a little shake. “You have the goddamnedest nice giggle.” 

“I thought men didn’t like giggling girls.” 

“Yours is an uncommon one, dear heart.” 

“Hi there, Clery, thought I saw you buzzing around the fair,” said an overhearty voice. I looked up at a man whom I immediately recognized as one of the two I’d heard gossiping.

“Miss Dunn, may I present Jim Field.” Jim Field rested his hands on the back of Rafe’s captain’s chair. Now he stared at me with slightly narrowed eyes, his glance flicking over my dress, my bosom, my left hand.

“Damn fine ride, Miss Dunn. And I want you to know that I don’t believe for an instant that the gelding had been tranquilized. Just your fine riding.”

“Tranquilized?” I was overwhelmed with a white-hot fury.

“Nialla . . .”

“Oh, no.” And I pushed at the table to make Rafe let me out.

“Nialla!” His voice was still low, but the reprimand was cutting. I was forced to remain seated, seething. “You’re a ring-tailed bastard, Field,” he said very pleasantly, turning his head toward the man but not bothering to look the man in the face.

“What’s this all about?” I demanded, and although I tried to keep my voice down, my rage was being communicated to the people at the next table. “Don’t I have a right to know? He’s my horse!”

“Sorry, Miss Dunn. Thought you’d . . .”

“You never have thought, Field,” Rafe cut in a flat voice. “Why start now? It’s nice to have seen you.” And he turned away from the man with complete dismissal of his presence.

When Field had drifted off, I leaned across the table. “Tell me, Rafael Clery, who had the—”

“Goddamned bastard,” Rafe muttered, but he looked only mildly annoyed, which inflamed me further. “Sure there was some babble. Too many people remember Orfeo, but it was only idle speculation. Because you damned well can’t tranquilize a horse and have him jump a stiff course so flawlessly.” He put his hand on mine, his eyes dark with sincerity. “Don’t let anger obscure logic, Nialla. Tranquilizers put a horse off his stride, slow his reflexes. By the time Orfeo had completed the first round—you should have seen him in the old bad days charging his fences, wild-eyed, frothing—there was no question in anyone’s mind that he could be drugged. Goddamn Jim Field. Sheer sour grapes. That rangy gray was his. What really shook the audience was your riding Orfeo with a hackamore!” And his grin was malicious, and proud.

The waiter was suddenly at Rafe’s elbow.

“You like shellfish? Two appetizers with the house sauce. Two fillets, one medium, one rare, and I mean rare. Baked potatoes, plenty of butter on the side, green salads. And ask Jack if he put aside that Chateau Mouton Rothschild fifty-nine for me? Cork it now, please. It’ll need to breathe. Don’t rush the steaks.”

“Sure, Mr. Clery.” And the waiter went off, hurriedly scribbling.

“ ‘Sure, Mr. Clery,’“ muttered Mr. Clery, grinning impishly at me, and began to talk of other things with an unforced cheerfulness that was impossible for me to resist.

While he talked, I had to concede that it was ridiculous to fret over snide assumptions. However, I fumed all through the shrimp cocktail, which I really didn’t taste until I was nearly finished.

The wine was presented to Rafe, and he really checked it, label and cork. When the waiter drew the cork and placed it on the table, Rafe picked it up and sniffed it, then nodded to the waiter, who placed the accepted bottle on the table.

“Why does wine need to breathe?” I asked, then wondered if I should display such naiveté. Rafe launched into a gentle lecture with such pleasure in his subject that 1 forgot to be self-conscious.

He knew so much about too many things. It was just as well I would be leaving that night. In two weeks, between this show and the next one I planned to make, I’d get back my perspective on the impossibilities of horses casually passing midstream in the night.

The waiter didn’t rush the steaks, and I forgot the time. The wine was marvelous to sip, and it was so wonderful to be with Rafe. Dessert and coffee were naturally followed by an after-dinner liqueur. So it was long past eight o’clock when we finally rose from the table.

“What does the air remind you of tonight?” Rafe Clery asked as we stepped out into full dark of a cooling summer eve.

I took a deep breath. “Smells like fall. Burning leaves-’’ We both heard the fire sirens, wailing down the road’ the road toward the fairgrounds.

“Goddamnit,” Rafe cried, pointing to the baleful yellow glow above the trees.

It was too bright to be the lights of the town. He and I made for I made for the Austin with single-minded haste, scrambling over the doors. The roadster zoomed out of the parking lot and onto the main road with only inches to spare from the honking Mustang. When Rafe saw stack-up of traffic ahead, he ducked down a side lane that paralleled the wide parking field on the south side of the show grounds. Risking more than he ought with such a low-slung car, he turned the Austin-Healey into the pasture, gunning it up the slope regardless of rocks we both knew littered the field.

It was a barn burning! And I knew it was G-Barn. When Rafe had come as far as he could, he jammed on the brakes. I was out of the car and running toward the deserted ring. I’d forgotten the snow fencing that separated the parking lot from the grounds, and I bounced off the paling. Rafe landed with both feet on the fence, and it splintered and flopped free of its stanchions and onto the grass. I skipped over and toward the bleachers.

“Oh, please, Pete,” I heard myself gasping as I ran. “Please get Orfeo out. Please get Orfeo out.”

The barn yards were crowded with screaming horses being led away, heads blanketed, with people rushing back for others from F- and E-barns, carrying tack, impeding the firemen, who struggled to position their hoses.

I was trying to get past a knot of wardens when Rafe grabbed me.

“Pete was there, Nialla. He’ll have got the horses out.” 

“Not Orfeo. Not Orfeo!”

The stillness of his face, illuminated by the roaring fire that was consuming the loft of G-Barn, reflected the truth. And his moment’s hesitation allowed me to break free and squeeze past the fire wardens.

“Hey, miss! Miss! Come back here, you damn fool!” The firemen were not trying to put out the conflagration in G-Barn. They were doing everything they could to keep the fire from jumping to F- and E-barns. I could hear the screaming horse. One horse. Orfeo! Then I spotted my station wagon, where I’d left it, up against the ring fence. I dashed, fumbling for the keys in my bag. The motor started right away, bless it. Before anyone realized what I intended, I backed it around, pointed it toward the flaming barn door, and jackrabbited right down the main aisle. Burning timbers fell around me, into the stalls, over the corridor. The tires bumped over one huge rafter. At the cross of the T, I looked right. Orfeo was rearing in his stall, striking futilely at the bars, his gallant head and neck outlined against the fiery debris crashing down around him. I drove through the back door.

“The blanket, the blanket,” I told myself, fumbling for it, grasping it, falling out of the car, slipping on the muddy ground. Someone came tearing around the barn, shouting at me. I ran for the door, jumping somehow over the burning timbers and bales. “Orfeo! Orfeo!”

He couldn’t hear me over his shrieks of terror. But when I flung the stall door wide, I had just time to flip the blanket at his head as he lunged through. He pushed me back against the metal post of the next stall. Something seared my side, and the pain thrust me forward against Orfeo. I grabbed the blanket ends. His hooves skidded on the cobbles and gave me just enough time to secure my grip as Orfeo’s hysterical lunge pulled us both free of the box stall.

Then someone threw himself bodily at Orfeo’s head, and hung on to the frayed halter rope. Between us we got Orfeo aimed at the back door.

I tripped and got pulled over the threshold, but the man was practically riding the horse’s head. Orfeo was so fire-crazed that he plunged on in spite of the double impediments.

We got him clear of the barn. He crashed blindly into the practice-ring fence, snapping off the rails like sticks, pulling me, pushing the man at his head, on his head.

Men came to our aid now. Someone threw another blanket at Orfeo, someone else flipped a rope around his neck. Another man sloshed a bucket of water across his rump to put out the cinders. Sheer weight of numbers and lack of sight slowed the poor mad beast. He reared, shrieking, though, at the noise when G-Barn collapsed, showering us all with more sparks and debris.

“Take him to A-Barn,” someone bellowed right in my ear.

“He’ll respond to your weight, Nialla. Up you go!” It was Rafe, and then I was on Orfeo’s trembling wet back. I circled his neck with my arms, calling encouragements to him. A rough halter was fastened over the blankets. The horse was breathing in gasps, half-suffocated, exhausted with terror and pain. Two men were at his head, holding it down; three more paced alongside, ready to assist. Thus he was led through the firemen, the troopers, the noise, the fire heat, and up to the relative calm of A-Barn. Into the blessed confines of a stall.

By the time the cocoon of blankets was unwound from his head, all the fight and fear had left him a quivering, heaving wreck. I went to his head, holding it down, talking to him, comforting him. His forelock was singed, bloody burn marks pocked his face, his eyes were rolling and wild, and all I could do was talk, talk, talk.

“Where’s that vet? This horse is singed meat, and he’s favoring the left rear,” Rafe was bellowing nearby.

“Vet’s coming, Mr. Clery,” someone hollered, and then I saw a gray-haired man fumbling with the stall fastening.

“Then lemme in. Lemme in. Gawd, he’s a mess!” The vet had his bag open, sorting through for a jar. “Here, you take the off-side,” he ordered Rafe, shoving the jar at him. “This is what he needs. God in heaven, why’d they wait so long to pull him out?”

“That’s Juggernaut, Doc,” a spectator said.

The doctor jerked away from Orfeo, glanced at the whole horse.

“Can’t be!” He went back to his medicating while Orfeo gave gasping snorts of pain, dancing halfheartedly when the longer, bleeding wounds were treated.

“Take a look at that off-rear, doctor,” Rafe said.

“In a minute. In a minute. I can see he’s favoring it. I can smell scorched hoof.”

He got the brown goo on all the wounds before he tipped back the hoof. “Yeah, must have stepped on a hot coal. Burned the frog slightly. Not too bad. Oops, easy now, fella.” Orfeo squealed in pain, trying to pull his foot free. “Get this piece out . . . there!”

He jumped back from Orfeo as the horse instinctively lashed out with the sore hoof, put it down, lifted it quickly, trying to pull his head up. The next time the hoof went down, it stayed down, but it bore no weight.

“Did they get the mare out?” Rafe asked of the watchers.

“Yeah, she’s down the aisle. Pete Sankey got her and turned in the alarm. The damned barn was going up so fast—”

“Thanks!” Rafe replied with acid ingratitude.

“He’ll be all right?” I asked the doctor as he started a second go-round with the burn salve.

As if only then aware of my presence, the vet looked at me curiously.

“God in heaven, the horse doesn’t need a doctor as much as you do.”

He held out his hand to me, and I remember reaching for it, but the man seemed to be moving away from me rapidly, down a darkening tunnel.

4

I came partially out of the faint when the very cool air hit the burns on my arm.

“You’re hurting, me,” someone whimpered. My side, where Orfeo had shoved me against the metal post, was on fire. Whoever carried me had his hot, hard hand over the sorest place.

“We’re almost there, dear heart.”

Mercifully I was laid on a soft bed, but my own body’s pressure on a burn made me pass out briefly again.

“Shock is the most of it, Mr. Clery,” a baritone voice was saying. ‘The dress saved her from a more severe burn. These cinder blisters look worse than they are, but this anesthetic salve will make her comfortable. They’ll soon heal. It’ll take longer for her hair to grow back, but I’m told singeing is good for hair. That was a brave and foolish stunt, but she should be all right in a few days. Looks a little rundown. You show people don’t take care of yourselves in the summer.” 

“Rafe? Rafe?”

The room was so bright, and I was sore, stiff, and sticky. My toes hurt. The sheet was too tight.

“Yes, Nialla?” His face was a blur above me. “My feet. The covers . . .”

The pressure was abruptly eased, with the fringe benefit of a cool draft of air over the burns. I thought cool was bad for burns, but it felt so good.

“Call me if you need me.” That must be the people doctor. “Make an appointment with my secretary for tomorrow. Office opens at nine.” A door slammed, so the doctor must have left.

I felt awfully sleepy, and limp too, and I wanted to stay awake. I had to tell Rafe. I had to get my money from Budnell tonight. I had to get my horses away from here.

“You’re staying where you are, young lady, and that’s that!”

Then I remembered. “Dice? Did anyone see Dice?” I couldn’t get my eyes to focus.

“The doctor gave you a shot, Nialla. Don’t fight it.” A hand stroked my cheek gently, and I rubbed against it, the way Dice rubs against legs. ‘ “Where’s Dice?”

“Pete said he left before the fire, growling, prowling.” “I’ve got to find ...”

As I woke up, I was almost instantly conscious of being stiff. What on earth could I have been doing? My side felt as if it were puckered from armpit to waist. My shoulders smarted in a dozen places. And when I yawned, my face hurt with stiff painful patches. I opened my eyes on a darkened room. Then my fingers touched the singed stubbly hair around my face, and I couldn’t help crying out. 

“Nialla?”

“My hair, oh, dear”—and that was because I couldn’t even sit up.

Rafe was there, on the edge of an obscenely huge double bed.

“Do you really want to sit up? Dice came back in the night. Mac phoned to say he was curled up on Orfeo’s rump. The gelding’s groggy with shock, but the vet looked in again this morning and said he’s doing fine. Fair steward says you’re not to think of moving him.”

“Is it night?” I kept my hands around my hair, somehow not wanting him to see me in such a state. “God, no. It’s nearly ten.”

“Ohhhh.” The tears sprang to my eyes, and I turned my head away.

“Has the salve worn off? I’ve got more to put on. Where does it hurt worst?”

I batted at his hands in a feeble, half-witted fashion, the tears spilling down my cheeks, the salt stinging in the burns.

“Nialla! Dear heart, don’t cry,” said Rafe in such an inexpressibly moving, deep voice that I cried all the harder.

Very gentle hands lifted me, limp and useless as I was. Then my face was pressed against a soft silk shirt. With exceeding care an arm encircled my shoulders, missing the sores. My singed hair was smoothed back, and I tried to shake his hand off, but I could only cry helplessly.

“That’s good, just cry, honey. It’s reaction. You need to get it out of your system. And stop worrying about your goddamn hair. It can get trimmed in one of those feathery cuts as soon as you can sit up . . . hey! Why, Nialla Dunn, you lousy fink. You are a redhead!”

That made me weep harder and struggle to get free. His other arm wrapped over my thighs, securing me to his lap as if I were a child. So I cried myself out. He gave me tissues to blot my eyes and blow my nose, until I finally just lay against his chest, mildly fascinated by the slubs of the silk shirt, the comforting bulge of the biceps in his left arm, the low table with the ghastly china bird-bath monstrosity the motel thought a bedside lamp, the brilliant blue rug that went up to the floor-to-ceiling thermo-pane window, curtained in a rather attractive splashy floral. Moving my head slightly, I could see the opposite wall and the partially open closet where his clothes hung neatly on hangers. I counted five pairs of boots, heels out. A jacket had been dropped on the green velvet boudoir chair, the sleeve dangling to the rug. “This is your room.”

“I slept in the adjoining one,” he said. Then added in a meek voice, “I told them we’d just got engaged.”

I pushed myself away from him as if he’d been on fire, lost my balance, and slid off his knees to the bed, stinging all over as my exertion opened barely scabbed burns.

His hand connected with my bare buttock, one of the few portions of me unscathed. It was a disciplinary slap, and stung, as he meant it to, for he grabbed me around the waist and shook me. Then, not releasing me, he bent, his face right above mine, stern and angry.

“Behave yourself, Nialla. You’re hurt, you’re vulnerable. I want to be able to protect you.” 

Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. 

“What’s impossible, dear heart?” His voice was kind, but his face was so very stern. “Saving that black behemoth of yours? God, I was so proud of you, you goddamn fool. You scared me shitless. I thought we’d never be able to hold him. Do you realize I was riding his head?” He chuckled, awed.

Two-legged ride? Two-legged ride? Oh, God, I didn’t say that out loud, too, did I?

“You did tell me Orfeo would be all right?” And I mustn’t have babbled the other, because now I could hear my voice asking about Orfeo.

“Yes, and I told the truth. I wouldn’t lie about your horses.”

He had straightened, and looked awfully tall from where I lay in the bed. When he leaned down and twitched the sheet over me, I realized that I had been lying there half-naked; the nightgown (sizes too large anyhow) was wrapped around my waist.

As if there were absolutely nothing wrong or awkward, Rafe Clery sat down on the bed, a tube in his hand, and began to spread salve over the pinpoint burns on my arms and shoulder. He might have been back in the stall tending Orfeo, he was so impersonal. He worked in silence for a few moments, his face blank. Then he let out a long sigh and looked me in the eyes. He was about to say something, something very important, from his expression, when the phone rang.

He swore under his breath as he reached for it. He went very taut as he listened, his eyes still. I could hear the mumble of a man’s voice on the other end, but not what was said.

“Orfeo?” I asked, grabbing Rafe’s arm.

He gave a curt shake of his head and then covered the receiver.

“The police are here, and Haworth of the State Fire Insurance Company. They handle the fair indemnity.” He just kept looking at me, waiting with a sort of odd patience for my answer. I knew I’d have to talk about the accident sooner or later. Sooner suited me, because he was here. And this motel room was costing money, money I didn’t have to spare. I nodded.

Rafe gave them my consent, hung up, and strode to the bureau at the far end of the large room. There was evidently a kitchen and dinette behind the lowered paneling. The door to the adjoining room, his, was in the wall against which the bed stood.

He came back, unbuttoning a clean white shirt, which he then put around my shoulders, helping me get my arms through.

“Don’t struggle. That nightgown is not only up to your waist, it’s down to it.”

A startled glance at myself confirmed this, and I buttoned the shirt right up to my throat. It was soft against the burns and exuded that comforting clean, ironed laundry smell.

“Oh, my hair. My face.”

“Vanity, vanity.” He extracted a comb from a hip pocket and ran it carefully through my tangled hair, gentle with the snags. Distressingly huge clumps came free. He studied the result of his handiwork with a smile that unnerved me more than he knew.

“Dear heart, your face could be covered with mud, and you’d still be worth a second glance.” There was a knock on the door.

The policeman was identifiable because he wasn’t carrying an attaché case. He was a rough-hewn type in his mid-thirties, and he looked tired. His suit looked tired, and he walked with that beyond-tired, odd, broken-kneed gait that infantrymen develop. Korea? The insurance man, Haworth, looked more the picture of the hayseed county cop, except that policemen rarely look so worried. Stern, disgusted, annoyed, impervious, tired, but not anxious-worried.

“Jim Michaels, County, Fourth District. Sorry to trouble you, Miss Dunn.” He flipped open an identity wallet and let Rafe get a long look.

“Nigel Haworth, representative of State Fire Insurance Company, Miss Dunn. We handle the fair.” Haworth had a habit of hesitating between phrases, until you could almost hear the silent “ah” between them.

“We’ve about the same questions right now,” Michaels said, glancing at Haworth, who nodded nervously. “Get it over with and leave you alone.”

Haworth drew up a chair so he could open his case and bring out the necessary forms. He closed the case prissily and used the lid as a writing surface.

The questions were routine. Pete could have answered them, and probably had. Yes, my horses were the only ones stabled in G-Barn. I’d gone with Mr. Clery for dinner at six, leaving Pete Sankey in the stable. We had become aware of the fire only when we left the restaurant. No, I didn’t remember the time.

“Full dark. I’d say nine,” Rafe replied. . No, I didn’t smoke, and Pete chewed. An expression of annoyance crossed Haworth’s face, as if he were sorry he couldn’t find us negligent.

Yes, the barn had been very hot all weekend. No, I had not gone into the loft for any reason. I’d kept my hay and straw in an unused box stall across the aisle for convenience. Yes, I’d’ve seen anyone who’d entered the barn, but I’d been in and out all afternoon.

Haworth cleared his throat. “Now, about your equipment. What was in the barn at the time of the fire?”

“Not much. Most of my tack, saddle, bridles, sheets were in the trailer.”

Haworth grimaced, and I knew that the trailer and all my tack were gone. But, with insurance, I could even get a new girth for Phi Bete.

“I suppose the car is a complete wreck. You can’t . . .” Rafe’s hand came down on my shoulder warningly. 

“Barn wall collapsed on it, honey. It’s a total wreck. Even the peanut butter.”

How could he? I giggled weakly. “Miss Dunn’s tired, gentlemen. ...” “About that automobile? Do you have your registration?”

“Oh, Lord, I don’t know if I do.” My mind spun, for that car registration was in my real name.

“Do you happen to remember the license number?” asked Mr. Haworth with that patient forbearance prissy men often exhibit for the frailties of the opposite sex.

I rattled that off. No use to hide it, because they’d find out soon enough. “The car is registered under the name Irene Nialla Donnelly.” I had to say it.

Haworth looked up from his writing, puzzled. I could feel Michaels’ alert attention.

“Nialla’s father was Russell Donnelly,” Rafe said unexpectedly. From the calmness of his voice, he sounded as if he’d known all along. But how could he? “A well-known racehorse trainer. ‘Dunn’ is her nom de cheval, you might say.”

He was mean. A wicked, mean, dirty infighter. “Know any reason why someone might have deliberately started that fire, Miss Dunn?”

I closed my eyes and felt Rafe’s fingers press lightly into my arm.

“I have to ask that,” Michaels went on, “since your father’s murder is still open.”

Rafe’s fingers tightened unbearably, but I couldn’t move. “I’m a horse fancier myself, Miss Dunn,” Michaels continued. “I was sorry to hear of his death, but I know it’s still an open case.”

“That’s enough for now,” Rafe said smoothly. 

“Sorry, Mr. Clery, I need an answer.” 

“No reason, Mr. Michaels,” I said. Anything to get them out of the room. “I’ve nothing anyone wants.”

Rafe made them leave somehow. He told Haworth he’d find out what I’d had in the car and the trailer later, when I’d rested. We’d want replacements as soon as possible, of course. Haworth nodded glumly. Rafe told Michaels that G-Barn should have been condemned and torn down years ago, that they’d probably find the fire had been caused by spontaneous combustion. Nothing sinister. No need to harass Miss Dunn anymore today.

“Harass” is a marvelous word. Only it wasn’t the policeman and the insurance agent who were harassing me. It was Rafe Clery.

I felt like crying again, and didn’t have any tears left. I just lay in the bed, unable to open my eyes, unwilling to look Rafe Clery in the face. Not now.

The bed sagged. I could feel his body just beyond my hips.

“Shall I get the doctor over?” 

“No.”

“If anyone tells Haworth that you drove the car through , the barn,” he said in a very noncommittal voice, “he may hedge a total claim.”

I couldn’t say a thing. A hard splat made me open my eyes. He was driving one fist into the other palm, his expression ferocious.

“Aw, for God’s sake, Nialla. I want to help you. And I can’t if I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.” My voice was high and shrill.

“Nothing? Hell, you’re scared. Your saddle girth is cut. There’s a deliberate attempt to spook your horse, the barn is burned around your stock, and now I learn Russ Donnelly’s murder was never cleared up. No reason? Why have you changed your name? Dyed your hair? Why are you on the East Coast? Russ went to California five years ago after Agnes du Maurier died.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know something. Someone’s out to get you. Dear heart, you’re in trouble. And right now, you’re in no condition to run, hide, or dodge. Let me protect you?” Then, because he was a rough infighter, he added, “ ‘Sure, Mr. Clery!’“

“Oh, Rafe!”

My hand went out to him, and I was folded in his arms, gently but so securely. His heart was pounding under my cheek, and that surprised me, because he seemed too cool, so confident. I looked up at him. With a groan I could hear reverberating in his chest, he bent his head and covered my lips with his. His hands lifted me against him, somehow getting under the shirt so that his wrists lay along my bare breasts. His lips weren’t gentle. His lips were hard, forcing my mouth open. His tongue flicked mine as if he had to invade me.

I’d been kissed before. I’d petted. I’d enjoyed it. But I’d held out, wanting to be virgin for the man I married. His kisses, his hands on my nipples, seemed to touch invisible strings that sent hot fires to my loins, to that part of me I’d been trying to deny ever since Marchmount . . 

Somehow I broke free and scrambled away from him, crouching against the headboard.

“You liked that, Nialla!” He spoke in a rough voice, and his breathing was fast. “Who ever raped you didn’t ruin you completely. But I won’t force you. Although”— and his voice steadied with a funny laugh—”you’d better get under the covers. Fast.”

I grabbed the sheet to my chin and huddled under it.

“Don’t look so scared, sweetheart. See? I’m staying put. But—” and he paused for emphasis—”I’m not leaving until I get a few answers. You know”—now he grinned at me—”I’d wondered why you seemed familiar. I used to jockey for Agnes du Maurier. And I remember you as a redheaded tomboy, riding a show horse bareback in the pasture. I admired your father, and I was damned sorry when I read his obit. Wasn’t he training for Louis Marchmount? Any idea why your father would be murdered?” I shook my head.

“But how was he killed? Gun, car, what?” 

“A pitchfork in his chest.” 

“Oh, God, Nialla.”

“He’d been at Caliente. I was at college. He phoned me to meet him at home right away. He was furious about something. When I got home, he wasn’t at the house, so I went to the barn and found him . . . the pitchfork was still going up and down. The cops said the murderer had wiped his fingerprints off. But Rafe, Dad didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

“I know, Nialla. I know. He was a decent guy.” 

“The police weren’t. They were . . . like something in a bad movie. They kept suggesting the most horrible things. That Dad doctored horses to make them win because the Marchmount colors had been losing steadily. That he’d lost money betting and couldn’t pay up. Awful things.” 

“About Russ Donnelly they were lies.” 

“Then ... a man I knew called to say he thought he could help me clear Dad’s name.”

Rate’s expression altered, as I knew it would when he heard this part of my stupidities.

“And he needed some money to carry on the investigations?” he asked. I nodded. “A predictable confidence approach.”

“I’m really not that stupid,” I protested, irritated. “I knew the man. And he did know everything there was to know about racetracks and the people connected with them. It was also entirely likely that he could get people to talk who’d clam up in front of the police.” 

“Who?”

“Caps Galvano.” Rafe closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, shaking his head slowly, a kind of tired wisdom in his eyes when he looked at me again.

“You must have been hard up to trust that slimy excuse for a human.”

“He said he knew!”

“All right, all right. So you paid him, and it wasn’t enough, right? And he was back for more. So what did you do?”

I didn’t want to go on, but there was an expression on Rafe’s face that told me he’d find out if he had to sit there all day. He was worse than the police, this one.

“Galvano thought Louis Marchmount might help me.”

Rafe’s hand came down on his knee with a resounding crack.

“That figures. Galvano’s been running Lou’s errands for him for years. So it was Marchmount who raped you.” And Rafe began to swear with coarser words and phrases than I’d heard from the foulest-mouthed hostlers. Coarse but inventive, displaying such a knowledge of Louis Marchmount’s erotic habits that I was appalled. How could Rafe Clery possibly know such things? Then he cut off the invective and looked at me pityingly, shaking his head slowly.

“You poor silly chinch of a kid. What a shitty thing to happen. And that bastard knew just how to put the squeeze on you. If you’d been one of his usual blonde broads, he couldn’t have worked it. You’d’ve told him off and got the money anyhow. The nice girls, the good girls, they get screwed every time. Oh, Jesus!” And he threw up his hands and rolled his eyes in apology at his choice of words.

But the idiom was so appropriate, and I was so tired, that I began to giggle, and then kind of folded up again. He must think me such a despicable, stupid ...

“No, dear heart, I don’t. From where I stand, you were foolish, yes. But mighty inexperienced and innocent, and in a damned rough bind. How do I know what I’d’ve done if I’d been you?”

He stroked my head. Then his fingers rubbed my jaw gently, where I wasn’t burned. It had the effect of a benediction. His weight shifted, and I felt his fingers on my back, lightly applying the salve. He began to talk in that deep wonderful voice of his, so comforting, so soothing.

“You aren’t the first girl to be subjected to that old routine. ‘Your virtue for my money, fair beauty.’ You won’t be the last.”

“I can’t ever get married,” I heard myself murmuring wistfully. “I’m not a virgin.”

He chuckled, tipped up my chin, daubing my right cheek with salve.

“How many wives d’you think are nowadays,” he asked with a soft laughing tenderness. 

“None of mine were.” “But you divorced them.”

“Not because they weren’t virgins. Lie flat.” When I had, he slipped the shoulder strap down to anoint my chest. “You shouldn’t’ve said we were engaged just to get a room next to me.”

He paused, giving me a very level look. “That wasn’t exactly why. I’m well known in this town and in the business. I thought”—and his unsaid comment chided me for his lack of knowledge—”that some sour character was just giving you a hard time. If he knew I was interested in you, he’d bug oft. A pretty girl with two fine horses, a championship rider, but with no obvious sponsor, is fair game. Now ...”

“Because Mr. Clery is interested, I’m safe?” “Don’t get snotty. How’n’ell was I to know murder was involved?” He lowered the other strap and dabbed at a cluster of blisters. “I suppose the police cleared Marchmount?”

“He was in Caliente when ... it happened.” “And Galvano? Though I don’t fashion that little worm as a murderer.”

“He was in Caliente, too.”

“Hrrrmmmm. Over you go.” He deftly flipped me to my stomach, and I buried my face wearily into the pillow. It was so nice to be taken care of. And I did feel safe with this crazy little man.

“Come to think of it, Marchmount’s colors haven’t been winning much lately. Was he bearing down on your father at all?”

“Not that I knew of. He’ always told Dad he had implicit confidence in him.”

“He’d have to say that. Your father’s reputation was high. Lift up. This gown’s a mess.” He was working on my legs now. “But to use you like that. Christ. Move your left leg a little. I can get most the burns this way. No. Over you go again.”

I turned, carefully and languidly, but the stiff pains were easing off now that the salve was taking effect. He flipped the sheet over me, and it settled down with a cool sigh around my body.

“God, you look like a freaked-out case of measles. Lie still a minute.”

Enjoying the respite from the myriad discomforts of the flesh, I heard him rustling around.

“Let’s see, it’s your right side that’s got the bad burn, isn’t it?”

I nodded dreamily, unconcerned even when I felt the sheet lift again, with a rush of cool air over my body. When I felt his bare foot touch mine, it was too late.

He had me pinned against the length of his warm strong body and had placed his hands just so, avoiding the worst of the burns. My head was caught in the crook of his right arm, and I couldn’t move.

“This won’t be rape, Nialla, because you’ll want me as much as I want you. There won’t be any nonsense about helping me. You ought to realize that right now.”

He was pressed against my hip, firm and hard.

“Please, Rafe. Please don’t.” I was scared.

“Oh, no, Nialla,” he said with gentle firmness, his eyes a brilliant blue. “You’ve built that incident all out of proportion. Happened over a year ago, didn’t it? Yet when I touched you at the pool, you went rigid. It’s ruining you for any normal relationship with men. And you’re too damned fine a girl to be crippled like that. So I’m going to make love to you. And you’re not going to resist me, because, dear heart, you can’t.”

He threw one leg across my thighs. Inched his body slightly to pin my left arm down. He already had my right hand captured at the elbow. Bending his head, he began to kiss my breast, teasing it with his tongue, stroking it with his free hand. Then his fingers lightly drifted down to my belly, to the soft part of my inner thighs. Between kisses, he kept talking to me, ignoring my pleas, my protests, my curses. He switched his attentions to my other breast, gently at first, then suddenly rough. And the pressure on my nipple hurt; it hurt in a different way, too, in my belly, and deep, deep inside me.

“I like a strong body. You’re not soft, Nialla, or gaudy. You’re neat and smooth,” he told me. I’d stopped ranting and was whimpering softly because I couldn’t resist him. And I hated him, more than I’d hated Marchmount, because Rafe knew exactly what he was doing, and that sick old man hadn’t been able to help himself. Rafe didn’t need to blackmail women into sleeping with him. . . .

His lips were traveling around my body now, teasing, nibbling, arousing me, robbing me of my hatred with sensations that left me no room for anything but the touch of his fingers, his lips. I began to shiver, wondering where he would caress me next. Closer those prowling fingers came to the ultimate goal, and suddenly his hand gripped me there. Released me. And began to trace a delicate random pattern, until I was almost wild.

Surprisingly, he stopped, shifting back to my breasts and beginning the incredible sequence all over again, until I was trembling. Until I wanted more of him. By the time his fingers had returned to that throbbing portion of me, my legs separated of their own volition. My body arched, seeking his, reacting with a knowledge beyond my consciousness.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured encouragingly. My arm was free now, free to encircle his smooth muscled back, to pull him closer to me.

His hands were gentle again. Why was he waiting? I knew what was coming next; why was he putting it off? His lips moved back to my breast, and I cried out with disappointment. He fastened fiercely on my nipple, and I strained toward him, my back arching.

“Nialla? May I, Nialla? May I show you what it’s like?” 

“Oh, Rafe, please. Please!”

A pillow was thrust under my hips, and his smooth silky body was no longer warm against me. His hands gently held my legs apart. I became aware of a gentle pressure against me, a slow, gradual filling of that aching emptiness. A filling that was a pain-pleasure so intense I cried out for the joy of it.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Oh, no. No!” I grabbed at his legs to hold him within me, trying to impale myself more deeply. He filled all of me, it seemed, with a throbbing warmth.

He shifted again, and I tightened my legs. When he chuckled, I opened my eyes and saw that he was stretching out above me, his legs carefully placed to the sides of mine, where I’d not been burn-marked. His weight lay lightly, warmly along me, and he kissed my lips softly, almost gaily, all that time that glorious strength filled me.

He began to move so gently I wasn’t first aware of the rhythmic sliding. And I began to move, imitating him, sensing approval in the way his kiss deepened. The pulse of his rhythm began to increase. Like Orfeo, the thought occurred to me, when he is facing a jump. His body began to tremble, too, as I clung to him, heedless of sores now, aware only of that thrusting, pulsing rhythm, again and again. Unbearably increasing to a tempo that threatened to split me. And it did, into a bursting, shivering height, totally unconnected with anything but Rafael Clery within me. Somewhere in the blaze, I heard his triumphant, “Oh, my God. My God!”

I came languidly out of nowhere into a reality where sensation was again possible, and he had not left my body. I was glad. He had bent his head to my breast so that his hair fell across my shoulder. I kissed his head, my lips falling against that awful scar. “Thank you, Rafe.”

“Nialla, don’t.” But his “don’t” was gratitude. Slowly he raised his head and looked at me, his eyes dark with emotion and a plea.

“I don’t want to be engaged to you anymore, Nialla Donnelly.”

“I’d no intention of holding you . . .” He consigned my intentions elsewhere with an expletive and put a hand over my mouth. “I want to be married to you. Then I can really make love to you; I want to teach you how to make love. I want to get you well so I’m not inhibited by burns and scrapes and scars. Because you were made to be loved, often and well, and I want exclusive rights. God!” And he threw his head back, grinning with a sort of savagery. “I could almost thank Marchmount. Don’t you dare tense up, Nialla Donnelly. He’s past history. I’m your present and your future.”

“Sure, Mr. Clery.”

He looked at me with a gladness in his eyes and face that made my heart leap. Then he kissed me, a kiss as different from any I’d been given as ... as my two horses. His mouth was tender on mine, almost reverent. Which is ridiculous, because you can’t combine passion with reverence . . . no, not passion . . . sensuality . . . no! Neither. The kiss was a total commitment, the spectrum of the shades of loving, exacting an unreserved response from me. Later, I’d look back on that moment and remember that I became Nialla Clery then, signed, sealed, and delivered by that kiss.

It was such an incredible luxury to be cosseted and comforted that I protested volubly when Rafe left me. He was so beautiful as he stood by the side of the bed, so unselfconsciously male, grinning possessively down at me.

“Dear heart, there’re things to do ... a doctor’s appointment”—he ticked them off on his short, sensitive fingers—”so we can get Wassermanns”—this said with a comically lascivious smirk—”I want to call the vet about Orfeo . . . and feed us.” He bent over, one hand gently cupping my breast. “You may not be aware of it, but it’s nearly one of the clock, and you haven’t had anything since that steak last night.” He gave me a squeeze. “I want to feed you up a little. You look positively transparent, love.”

He picked up the phone and ordered, mentioning items and glancing at me for confirmation. I was too quiescent to argue. I felt so light, lazy, and languid.

“Start thinking about what was in the car, Nialla,” he said as he walked with quick steps to the bathroom. “I’m ready to eat insurance men who displease me. However, in the interest of the devious underwriter mind, itemized lists, down to the peanut-butter jars”—and he swung around the door to grin at me—”always impress. Looks good when they run up statistics. I wonder what the death rate on peanut-butter jars will print out next year.”

The shower came on hard, depriving me of his conversation. I squinched down under the sheet and saw the bloody spots. Looked at my arms where the cinder burns were enlarged with smears of drying blood. I sat up, but there was no sign of my clothes. Surely my bra and pants had survived. I couldn’t...

“I’ve got to get you some clothes, too. My bride comes to me as she is . . . stark naked. And”—he paused in his toweling to point a stern finger at me—”no nonsense.”

“I can’t be nonsensical, Rafe,” I said meekly, covered to my chin with sheet. “All my clothes were in the station wagon.”

“I thought as much.” He scrubbed at his hair as he walked to the bureau, opening drawers to pull out various items. He threw me another shirt, then pulled on shorts. I hated to see him covered when I was just getting used to him. “You take a size eight? Thirty-two bra? Padded? About six-and-a-half shoe?”

I stared. He’d only seduced me, not measured me. Or did those sensitive hands have inbuilt calibrators? Probably.

“No big thing. I’ve been married twice, love, and bedded many more—” He broke off. “Does that worry you?” 

“I haven’t had time to worry about it,” I replied truthfully. “Should I?”

He gave me one of those charismatic grins. “No, love. You shouldn’t. But you will, because it’s in the same category as remembering not to think about the camel’s left knee.”

“You read Isak Dinesen?”

“Worry about that, then. It’s more constructive!” He was shaving when room service knocked on the door. He stepped into his pants on the way to the door, grinning at me. Although I was decently covered, he kept the man out of the room, wheeling in the cart himself.

The moment I caught a whiff of the coffee and grilled ham, I realized that I was famished. To think I might never have to open another jar of peanut butter! Rafe finished shaving before he joined me—in three minutes—and quickly consumed the omelet he’d ordered for himself.

“I hate to leave you, Nialla,” he said as he shrugged on an elegant white linen jacket, checking his pockets for wallet, keys, and such miscellany. “You’re not to answer the phone or the door while I’m gone. Promise?”

All the uglinesses that had been dispersed by Rafe’s lovemaking and his presence crowded in on me. It undoubtedly showed in my expression, for he came striding across the floor and held me in his arms.

“Promise?”

I’d’ve promised anything with Rafe Clery’s arms around me, his smooth lemony-expensive-smelling cheek against mine.

“Sure, Mr. Clery.”

Warmth and security left the room when the door closed on him. I heard him try the knob.

“It’s locked, all right, Nialla. Keep it that way!”

The phone didn’t ring, and no one knocked. The chambermaid didn’t even scratch to enter either room. I ate slowly to make time pass, and when I couldn’t swallow another sip of coffee, I had to find something else to occupy me.

When I got up to go to the bathroom, however, I was awfully wobbly. My legs were a sight, my arms, my chest, and when I angled the medicine-cabinet mirror, so were my shoulders. Sitting on the toilet, I managed to sponge off the worst. I finger-brushed my teeth with his toothpaste. (For a bride, I was a bust as far as dowry, but my teeth were good.) There was a small bottle of shampoo in his kit, so I could get rid of the singe-stink in my hair. How could Rafe have stood it? Clean, my hair also showed the various lengths more. I groaned. Over my ears I could see the red roots showing. I was a mess!

And Rafe Clery had made love to me. Said he was going to marry me. Dispassionately I surveyed myself in the full-length door mirror. From knee to breast I was unmarred, unless I made a quarter-turn and you saw the vertical red streak. Though my body looked the same, boyish, I looked at it differently. A man had loved it, caressed it, possessed it.

I sighed for that man’s absence, as I put on his shirt. And then my weakness betrayed me. I kind of crept back to bed, bloodstained sheets and all.

I must have dozed off, because suddenly the sound of the key in the lock had me bolt upright, scared stiff. Rafe entered, package-laden, grin-wreathed.

“Orfeo’s okay. I got the check from the State Fire right here, but you’re not to sign a release yet. This is for the car and the trailer, top prices, too. Haworth didn’t give me any jazz. Dice’s been stuffed with lamb kidneys, and Jerry—you remember him?—is bringing up our trailer because the vet says we can move Orfeo. That hoof’s sore, but he can stand a trip. You’ve a hairdresser’s appointment in twenty minutes, a doctor’s in an hour, and I’ve lined up a minister—”

He broke off his monologue to look at me questioningly. 

“Sure, Mr. Clery.” What else could I say? So I dressed in the clothes he’d bought and took pleasure in the way the green silk molded itself to my hips. He put other pretties away in the drawers and closet, allowing me a passing glimpse at pants, dresses, a lightweight coat, sandals, Weejuns that matched his, pale green Capezio slippers that were the same shade as the dress.

“There’s a good saddle-and-boot man in East Norwich,” he was saying, and stopped. “You’ll be living on a horse farm in Syosset, did you realize that? Gawd, girl, you don’t know much about me, do you?”

“Yes, I do. You’ve been married twice, divorced twice, in jail, been a jockey, in a war, you fight dirty, have a bad temper, did crazy irresponsible things in your misspent youth—and you’re doing them still—but you’ve a good reputation on the show circuit, and you’re a fine rider, besides which I find you to be kind, sensitive, intelligent, well educated, well bred ...”

“Hey, you’ll ruin my carefully built public image!” He put his hands lightly around my waist, squeezing as he grinned at me, a little sheepishly.

“I know more about you than you do about me,” I went on, worried.

He gave me a little pull, tilting his head to one side so that our mouths met and my body rested against his. I could feel the pulsing of him and kind of sagged, wanting him urgently. He set me back on my feet quickly, his eyes wide and kind of surprised.

“Enough of that now. We’ve got other things to do . . . first.”

Then he took my left hand and slipped a ring on the third finger. I gasped in astonishment, for the stone was an emerald.

“You wouldn’t expect a small-town jeweler to have such good taste,” he said in a sort of deprecating way. “However, if you prefer diamonds . . .”

“I hate diamonds. They’re so cold. Oh, Rafe, this ring is just perfect.” The setting was old-fashioned, and the stone, that deep rich green that only a good emerald has, was bracketed by two smaller chips. “We could have the stones reset.”

“No!” And I clutched my hand and ring away from him. He grinned, sure he had pleased me, slipping his fingers under my chin to kiss me lightly.

“Come on,” he said then with mock impatience. “I want you clipped around the edges, my proud beauty.”

He supervised. The poor beautician was both nervous and amused. The net result was a hair style that looked deliberate. Pixie feathers about my face, the back layered, fire damage completely erased.

The doctor checked me over far too thoroughly, prescribed therapeutic vitamins, tranquilizers, the pill, told me my hemoglobin was too damned low, and promised to rush the Wassermanns. His final advice, which he delivered caustically, looking squarely at Rafe, was for me to get rest, undisturbed rest. I liked him.

The clerk at the license bureau had ridden in the Ladies’ Hunter Hack Class, or so she told me as she filled out the forms, alternating between beams and clucks of sympathy over my losses. When Rafe left me in the Austin-Healey to take the prescriptions” into the drugstore, weariness began to overwhelm me again.

“That junk’ll be sent to the motel, dear heart. Now,” Rafe said as he returned, “for a very brief look at the beasts, and then back to bed with you. For some of that undisturbed rest.”

Orfeo looked about the way I felt, limp. But he brought his head up and wickered as I stepped in beside him. Dice uncurled himself from his nest in the straw, talking quietly in his throat, respecting the sick-stall atmosphere.

I heard Phi Bete’s demand for attention. She’d been moved to the stall opposite. She pawed, tossing her head. The moment I spoke her name, she stopped her noise, blowing softly through her nostrils, as if reassured.

Someone came charging down the loft ladder. “Who’s there? What’s going on? Oh, Mr. Clery. I was just getting down some hay, Mr. Clery.”

It was one of the men I’d seen with the Tomlinson stock. He looked at me, nodding embarrassedly as he continued more slowly down the ladder. His glance took in my scabby burns, my hair, dress, shoes, and lingered on the ring. His hand went to the hat brim.

“Hope you’re better, ma’am? Scared us, passing out like that last night.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine.

“The black’s better. Took some mash this morning, but he wasn’t interested in the hay. He’s drunk plenty, and I keep his pail full and cool. Mare’s been shedding, and she’s a mite off her feed, too. And I ain’t left them alone a minute.” He pointed to the loft. “I heard you right away.” I looked at Rafe, feeling all the more apprehension at such vigilance. Then it was all too much.

“Jerry’ll be here in about an hour, Mac. He’ll spell you. Feed the cat?”

“He’s been eating all day, Mr. Clery.” Mac was disgusted.

“Seen Pete?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t. He’ll turn up soon. Always does.”

“Ask him to call me at the motel, would you please?” 

“Sure thing.”

Rafe guided me out, settled me in the car, companionably silent all the way back to the motel. He didn’t talk all the time, after all. As we entered the lobby, the desk clerk beckoned. He handed over to Rafe a white drugstore sack, which clanked.

“You haven’t seen us,” Rafe said sternly, one hand passing over the clerk’s. Judging by the motion of the man’s fingers, our privacy premium had been paid.

The bed had been made up, the room-service table was gone, and there were flowers around—white flowers and a bouquet of sweetheart roses with silver-dyed spikes of something or other accenting the pink.

Rafe grunted when he saw the offerings and gave me a gentle shove toward the bed.

“Sack time, Nialla.” He took a negligee set from the drawer. Evidently he preferred me in green? He gestured at my dress, and I obediently took it off. He’d said “sack-time,” and he meant it, for his hands were impersonal as he helped me into the soft silk gown. Gown? It barely reached my thighs. He threw back the bed covers and yanked out the tuck at the bottom so the sheet wouldn’t drag against my sore feet. When he had covered me, he drew the blinds.

“I’ll be right next door, Nialla.”

I was almost disappointed that he left me so, but a weariness overcame me that I couldn’t fight.

5

By rights I should have had nightmares of fires and things. I didn’t. But suddenly a dream pivoted around someone shaking me, and I did wake, scared and trembling.

“It’s Rafe, Nialla.”

And the touch of hands was familiar. He was dressed, tonight in a gray turtleneck silk jersey, white jacket, and dark pants.

“You need to eat as much as you need to rest. It’s past eight now, so eating is in order.”

I didn’t have to decide what I’d wear; he had it laid out on the end of the bed. I ought to have resented such management, but after months and months of decisions (right, wrong, and painful), I didn’t demur. I only hoped that it didn’t presage the tone of our relationship. I don’t like clinging, dependent females at all.

“Dark green?” was what I said out loud.

“Dark green,” he said with a laugh. “Size eights didn’t go for green this year. Which is just as well. It’s a good color for you . . . now and when your hair grows back.”

The fact that I’d dyed my hair apparently rankled him. It bothered me, too, but it had seemed a sensible measure. Red hair is so damned conspicuous. No automatic second looks are cast at mouse-brown-haired girls.

“You’ll have a wider selection when we get home. There are some good specialty shops in Locust Valley, and branches of the big New York City stores,” he went on, sitting down to watch me dress, that slightly proprietary grin on his face.

He’d probably watched hundreds of women dressing, so he wasn’t self-conscious. The strange thing was, I wasn’t either. Good thing I didn’t have to fool with stockings, though. Gartering isn’t a graceful operation.

Lipstick, a bottle of Replique cologne, and a silver-backed brush and comb had appeared on the cabinet shelf, along with the prescription bottles. I looked at the pill and wondered if I’d got them too late.

“Thank you, Mr. Clery, for”—something in his face stopped me—”for the cologne. I like it.”

“Suits you,” he said, and tucking my hand under his arm, headed us out the door.

I suppose that the other restaurant wasn’t open on Mondays, but going to the Charcoal Grill was a mistake. I tried not to react when the maitre d’ approached. A fleeting smirk crossed his face as his too-knowing glance swept over the quality of the dress I now wore, the saucy cut of my hair, the ring on my finger. Had it been only last night? Then I hoped that Rafe hadn’t seen that look. But the man’s face was absolutely correct when he smiled warmly at Mr. Clery and ushered us—to make matters worse—to the same table we’d had last night. If only I’d not gone to dinner here last night. ... What kind of an idiot was I? “Goddammit,” Rafe swore, throwing down the napkin he’d been about to spread. “I should’ve thought twice, Nialla. We don’t have to stay here.”

“It’s all right, Rafe. Even if potatoes at one-twenty-five outrage my Irish sense of fitness . . . after all, the restaurant’s not to blame for the fire. . . .” Unaccountably I shuddered. His hand covered mine. And he didn’t remove it when the waiter appeared for our order, the same fellow as last night, of course.

To vary at least the diet, Rafe ordered roast beef au jus with Yorkshire pudding, and champagne, with the house pate (which he said was very good) as an appetizer.

He didn’t try to jolly me, just talked about news items he’d heard that afternoon, told me who the flowers were from, and that he’d called to thank Bess Tomlinson and the fair committee.

We were companionably silent when the roast beef arrived, and because it was excellent, we ate in silent appreciation. A noisy party sweeping in from the cocktail lounge made me glance up. I saw the back of his head first, and stared, my fork halfway to my mouth, willing him to turn and be someone else. But the sudden whinny of a laugh only confirmed that there was Louis Marchmount.

“A hasty retreat, Nialla, would be conspicuous,” said Rafe in a low voice, as he kept carving his meat with neat strokes. “For that matter, would he be looking for Irene Donnelly in the Charcoal Grill?”

Of course not, I told myself, releasing my breath. “Show people are clannish,” he said. “He wasn’t in town last night, or someone would have mentioned it.”

Almost incuriously Rafe turned his head toward the loud cluster of people.

“He’s with the Colonel and the Hammond group, and ...”

Louis Marchmount swayed to one side just then, revealing the blonde bubble hairdo and classic profile of a handsome older woman. She was laughing too, and the sound, slightly malicious, drifted to us.

“. . . and Wendy Madison.” Rafe’s voice was cold and hard. His attention was riveted to the party as the maitre d’ waltzed up to them, all bright smiles, bowing, nodding, gesturing them . . . away from us. Only when they had disappeared beyond the room divider did Rafe turn back to his meal.

Neither of us finished’ the beef, but Rafe, apparently able to forget the unfortunate coincidence, made me join him in a rich pastry (you need the calories, Nialla) and coffee. Made me wait for a doggie bag (Dice would object, I know, to the terminology, but not the beef).

Rafe refused, too, to let me hurry out. At that moment, however, I didn’t want to go to the stables. That would be pushing my luck. Caps Galvano might be about—he was always somewhere in Marchmount’s vicinity. I should have left the area the moment I saw that cap and that fox face. At the latest, when Caps had been identified as the man who blew the horn. He’d obviously remembered the mare and informed Marchmount. So they knew that I was “Nialla Dunn” here, because Caps would have told him. Rafe escorted me back to the motel without comment. “So he’s here. So what?” he demanded when we were back in our room.

I fumbled with the ring.

“What does that gesture signify?” He wouldn’t take the ring I held out. 

“I can’t marry you now.” 

“Why not?” And Rafe was angry with me. “Because . . . because ...”

“Because you saw Marchmount? I thought I’d exorcised that. If I didn’t . . .” And he had whirled me around, unzipped the dress, and pulled it over my head before I could try to explain that I was afraid for him, if he married me.

“Rafe, it isn’t . . .”

He had unhooked my bra and spun me around again, his mouth fastening on one breast, his hand roughly flicking the other nipple.

“Rafe, please. Listen . . .”

He jammed his mouth over mine then, his lips hard, hurtful. He was pushing me backward, and the bed came up under me, with Rafe’s body pressing me down. Somehow I twisted my mouth free. “Not like this. Please, Rafe ...”

He got my head in the crook of his elbow again, covered my lips while his free hand tore my pants off and loosened his pants’ zipper. Then his fingers were making sharp invasion of my body, to which I felt myself responding. Responding even as I tried to deny the deft seeking of those fingers, the searching of his tongue. He had somehow caught one nipple between his arm and body, and that was another fiery summons. He knew, too, when I was caught up by those responses, for he suddenly left me, gasping and writhing at the interruption. My legs were held up and spread, and he was as hard and firm and wonderful as before. He seemed to test himself against me, and when I moaned, he went in, all the way, like the invader he was. Then he withdrew while I cried out. The tentative insertion, the sharp intrusion and withdrawal. I clutched wildly for his arms, his legs, anything to keep him from leaving me.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

“You mean that?” His voice was almost a snarl.

“Oh, yes, yes. Don’t leave me, Rafe. Come to me!”

“No. You come to me!”

My legs were lowered as he went in again, his body covering mine. His hands made a frame around my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks gently as if apologizing for his cavalier treatment. But tenderness was not what I wanted now. I wanted the surging rhythm, and my hips began to move as if I could move him. His muted laugh was one of sheer triumph as he slowed the tempo. I trembled and twisted under him, trying to get him to increase the pace. He was adamant. I felt I could not endure his leisurely method. I felt I would burst. And then, suddenly, when I was all but certain I should explode, he began to thrust with unbelievable force, lifting me, higher and higher, until I did explode—within, without, all over. But he didn’t stop, and before the first fantastic sensation had quite died from my loins, there was another, and then a third before he arched his back with an inarticulate cry.

How long we lay locked together, I don’t know. His body was a beloved weight against mine, his hands warm on my shoulder and hip, his head beside mine on the pillow, his breathing quiet.

“Marchmount doesn’t count, Nialla. I had you first, because you have given yourself to me, haven’t you?”

His eyes were clear. I could see the fine lines at his eyes, the deep grooves from nose to mouth, the damp, black lock falling to his forehead.

“Sure, Mr. Clery.”

We were married the next morning. Rafe tried to find Pete Sankey to be one of the witnesses. I thought Pete’d like that, and I felt that he was the nearest thing to family I could present. In his absence, Jerry MacCrate obliged, embarrassed and nervous, turning apoplectic when Bess Tomlinson put in an unexpected appearance.

“You’ve no kin, m’dear,” she said as she walked in, two white boxes under her arm. “And you are young enough to be my daughter, Gawd knows I hate to admit it. Of course, if you’d rather . . .”

“How’d you hear, Bess?” Rafe asked when I’d reassured her.

She grinned. “Mac, of course. Can’t keep a thing to himself. Nor can Jerry, for that matter. Good men with horses, though. Actually, I called A-Barn to find out how your gelding was doing, Miss Dunn. Frankly, Rafe, I didn’t think you had this much sense left. Or is it her horses you’re after?”

That hadn’t occurred to me. Rafe threw back his head and howled. “Nialla’s Russ Donnelly’s daughter, Bess. I’ve been waiting for her to grow up.”

Bess eyed me closely, then chuckled. “You obviously resemble your mother’s side of the family, child. However, since she’s obviously grown up . . .” And she put down the boxes, opening the longer, flatter one first. From it she lifted a beautiful white lace veil, attached to a white velvet bandeau. Her eyes met mine, saw my hands lift and reach for the lovely thing, and suddenly her face lit with a warm, happy smile. “A bride must have something bridal. And borrowed. I may be a trial to him, but Gus Tomlinson and I have been married twenty-seven years, my parents fifty-five, and I’m told my grandparents lasted forty-two. We brides all wore this veil. I sincerely trust it’ll work its charm for you two!” Though she spoke in a light voice, she deeply felt what she said.

She clipped the veil to my head and fluffed the fragile white lace over my shoulders, then drew the front veil over my face. She turned away abruptly and fumbled with the second box.

“These help, too, I fancy.” And she presented me with a white orchid, its stem wrapped with streamers of white ribbon, to which were attached the blossoming twigs of a curious white flower. “It’s stephanotis, dear, which the Greeks insist must be part of a wedding bouquet. I’ve a Greek gardener. Their marriages tend to last, too.”

“Going to make sure this time, huh, Bess?” Rafe asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Ha!” She started to make a sharp remark, her eyes darted to me, and she said instead, “You’ve a suitably accoutered bride, witnesses, and I’ve got a meeting at twelve. Let’s ask Reverend Norse to proceed.”

I don’t think that the minister approved of her gruff levity, but he was evidently too well acquainted with Mrs. Tomlinson to give any sign of dismay. He cleared his throat and began the marriage service in a sonorous voice.

And so Irene Nialla Donnelly married Rafael Stephen Timothy Rodriguez Clery, with Greek flowers and a Venetian heirloom veil lent by her matron of honor.

“I ought to stand you to a champagne lunch, but I can’t,” Bess said, hugging me and kissing Rafe. “You always take fences fast, you . . .” She ended her sentence in a sudden cough, nicking a glance at Mr. Norse’s disapproving face.

“I’ll . . . Well”—Rafe squeezed my arm—”accept the thought for the deed, Bess. I want to be back on the Island by evening, and we’ll have to drive slowly for the gelding’s sake.”

“Then the hoof is healing, isn’t it?” 

“Looks to be.”

“Well, then, good-bye, good luck. He’s a good man, m’dear. And such an experienced rider,” she added with the kind of twinkle in her eye that left no doubt of her allusion. Then she was off, veil box tucked under her arm. Fortunately the minister was busy with the marriage certificate and didn’t hear her parting quip. He still looked slightly troubled, despite the appearance of such a well-known personage to give countenance to a rushed wedding. Rafe never did tell me how he’d persuaded him to officiate in the first place.

Rafe grinned impishly as he placed my marriage “lines” in my hand. Jerry had driven over a custom ranch wagon with “Clery Stable” in gold leaf on the green paint of the driver’s door.

“Meet you back at the stable, boss?” 

“Follow us.”

We’d packed after breakfast, and our luggage was in the Austin-Healey. Including the new suitcase that held my new clothes. My trousseau. We left the heavy station wagon behind as the Austin zipped down the quiet streets and onto the highway. When we reached A-Barn, I saw Mac leading Phi Bete, her legs bandaged, her body sheeted by Clery Stables’ green and gold, up the ramp to an almost new two-horse trailer with heavy padded sides and heavy springs showing underneath.

“The vet and me bandaged the gelding, Mr. Clery,” Mac said. He appeared to be surprised that he’d survived the experience. “Congratulations, Mrs. Clery. Did Mrs. Tomlinson get there in time?”

“Veil, stephanotis, and all, thank you, Mac,” Rafe said, embracing me, to my embarrassment.

“Is my cat about?” I asked.

“He damned near—begging pardon—wrapped himself up in the bandages,” Mac said, disgusted. “He was on top of us all the time. He’s there, sitting on the black’s rump and growling.”

“Oh, dear.” I broke free of Rafe’s possessive grasp and hurried into the stable. At the sound of my footsteps, Dice started to complain garrulously, walking up and down Orfeo’s backbone as if on sentry duty,

I ignored Rafe’s chuckle as I hastily scratched Dice’s ears and throat in reassuring approval.

“I’ve the bag of goodies for that mountain lion, Nialla. If we put him and the beef in the back of the wagon, it ought to be cat paradise enow. Or would he stay put in the trailer with the horses?”

“Well, yours is big enough so he wouldn’t be stepped on, but it’s strange to him.”

So Dice was captured and put in the station wagon. He had plenty of space in spite of the suitcases, which Jerry had transferred from the Austin. When Dice discovered that there wasn’t an open window and his protests were going unheard (he did look funny, mouth opening and closing and no sound reaching us), he stalked over to the roast beef.

“Orfeo better get used to me, Nialla,” Rafe said when I made to lead the black to the trailer. “Hell, girl, I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” he said in a low hiss that I alone heard.

I couldn’t help thinking of what Bess Tomlinson had said—about his marrying me for the horses—but . . . that didn’t make any sense, although Rafe had never said he loved me. Not once, despite the ardent moments we had shared. He’d said some pretty exciting things about me being made for love, had insisted on marrying me, but never a word that he loved me.

Orfeo had no such reservations, and followed him as docilely as Phi Bete had gone with Mac. Jerry stood by, shaking his head in disbelief. Just then the fair steward, Budnell, came striding into the yard, the anxious expression on his face changing to plain worry.

“I’d thought you’d left, Miss...”

“Mrs. Clery,” Rafe corrected him.

Budnell paused in pulling an envelope from one pocket and a sheaf of papers from another. Then, he grinned nervously.

“Your prize money, Mrs. Clery, and Haworth says you haven’t signed the release yet.”

“Nor will she,” Rafe told him. “Not until she’s been checked thoroughly by my doctor, and not until we know that the gelding has completely recovered from the fire.

“Now, Mr. Clery,” Budnell began.

“Budnell”—and Rafe’s attitude was of slight exasperation—”I’m no fool, so don’t give me that jazz about the fair is not responsible for accidents and you’re only doing this because at heart you’re a sportsman. You know goddamn well exhibitors have been after you for seven years to condemn G-Barn and build a modern facility. Christ, that barn was put up by the farmers who used to race their mares on the flats.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“We’ll be in touch. By the end of next week. Good-bye and thank you!”

Rafe took the envelope and handed it to me, closed :he window of the wagon, ignored Budnell’s continued exhortations, as he gave the tow bar a knowing kick, checked the tires of the trailer and the fastening of the ramp. He got in, and left Budnell standing, mouthing words like a worried clown.

Rafe waved cheerily at all in the barnyard and drove off. We got to the cattle gate before Rafe eased on the brakes, swearing.

“Forgot Pete.” He was out the door and running back to the Austin-Healey, which Jerry was driving home. They conferred briefly, but Rafe was cussing when he got back to the station wagon.

“No one’s seen Pete since yesterday morning. I left tobacco money with Mac, but . . .” And Rafe shrugged.

“Doesn’t he work for one of the exhibitors?”

Rafe shook his head. “He drifts from show to show in the summer. Used to train harness horses until he was in a bad crash on the Goshen track. Spokes of a sulky -heel caught him in the gut. Someone took him on as a caretaker when he finally got out of the hospital. He wasn’t much good for anything else. He couldn’t stay away from horses, but I suppose it was too much for him to go back to the trotting tracks, so he drifted to the shows. Wish I knew half of what he remembers about horses.”

“Where do you suppose he got to?”

“He’ll turn up,” Rafe assured me. He reached over to pat my leg. “Hey, for chrissake, move over!”

Obediently I slid across the leather seat until our shoulders and thighs touched. He spared me a grin, flexing his hands on the steering wheel, then concentrated on driving.

He was a good driver, even with the erratic tug of the trailer. He kept in the right lane at a steady speed, slowing well in advance of lights and intersections so that there’d be no jerk and bounce for the horses in the trailer. There wasn’t that much traffic on the road on a Tuesday anyhow.

He turned the radio on to a pleasant background level, increasing the volume slightly for the news broadcasts, to which he listened with far more interest than I.

Our wedding luncheon consisted of hamburgers, french fries, and chocolate shakes, eaten at a roadside stand. It was more fun than the most elaborate and appropriate banquet. Rafe was in a high good humor, and everything we said struck us as either funny or bawdy with double meaning. I couldn’t be embarrassed or uneasy with him, although I was very conscious of the rings on my left hand, of my new status, of him. How could brides stand so many people around them, all thinking the same thing, their eyes knowing, staring at you?

Once we’d finished the last of the french fries, we disposed of the paperware, checked the horses, and were on our way—no rice, no leers, no weeping farewells. Shortly after lunch we hit the bigger highways and the concentration of traffic threading into the city of New York. It stayed with us to the approach to Throg’s Neck Bridge (what on earth is a “throg’s neck”?) where traffic thinned out. A few miles due south, and then east on the Long Island Expressway.

This didn’t look like the Long Island I’d heard of, vast estates and potato farms, or desolate dunes and windswept grasses with sailboats prettily hovering in the distance. Developments were smack up against the six lanes of highway, all ticky-tacky, garish, hot, and treeless. Yet Rafe said he had a farm. Was it, too, surrounded by multiple dwellings in serried ranks, identical in design, differing only in the paint of the trim?

If he was aware of my growing apprehension, he gave no sign, but we’d both been silent since we crossed that Throg’s Neck, the radio chattering into the hiatus.

There was some kind of problem that stacked cars down a long hill by a shopping center and up the other side. Traffic inched forward. When we finally reached the other hill crest, cars were stretching out again, with no sign of any impediment.

“Long Island Distressway,” Rafe said, with an understanding grin. “Curvitis. Everyone slows down to take the curve, and it multiplies.” He’d displayed no impatience with what was evidently a common hazard of this particular route.

To my intense relief, the ticky-tacky houses were abruptly left behind. Broad expanses of golf course could be seen through a comforting screen of huge old trees. One or two elegant homes came in view, well back from the highway, in lofty dignity among oaks. When we finally turned off the “distressway,” there were actually crop-growing fields on either side, cultivated dark earth under the new green of healthy plants. Many trees overlapped the road, and it curved and turned like any respectable, little-used farming lane. Massive rhododendrons flanked an imposing gate of wrought iron and brick and here and there a long six-foot-high brick-and-ivy wall blocked off the curiosity of transients. We were obviously in estate territory. Signposts indicated that Syosset was in one direction, Locust Valley in another, and we were entering the village of Upper Brookville. I began to feel easier. There was a familiarity about this countryside, although, to my knowledge, I’d never been on Long Island before.

Mailboxes and signposts (elegant black, with gold lettering) announced homesites. Rafe carefully eased the car and trailer up a narrow blacktopped road, one which ought to bear the legend “hidden entrance,” the turning was so abrupt. A Cyclone gate barred our way, and Cyclone fencing high with twelve inches of barbed wire slanting atop it went off in both directions into the woods.

Rafe pressed a control on the dashboard that I hadn’t noticed before, and the gate clanged open. When we’d driven past it, it shut. “I’m impressed!”

“It sure beats getting wet or cold opening gates.” To the left, the trees gave way suddenly to a view of lawns sweeping up to the front terrace of a mansion in the Spanish style that had been so popular on the East Coast in the early part of the century—red-tiled roofs, creamy-pink stucco, square towers, grilled windows, all that, and probably a fountain in the central courtyard. A handsome wrought-iron gate between two stuccoed pillars led to the low garages behind the house as we swept obliquely away from it, down a narrow wooded road. Then the woods petered out, and we drove past a complex of paddocks, a jump ring, a fenced orchard with gnarled apple and pear trees under which grazed a bay yearling, just beginning to fill out. He came trotting inquisitively up to the fence and followed us as far as he could. Then he flicked up his heels and went back to his grazing.

“I’ve hopes for that youngster,” Rafe said. “Bred him myself. You’ll see his dam later on.”

We drove straight into a wide flagged yard, through an arched passageway into the inner stable yard. On three sides were box stalls; the fourth, pierced by the arch, was broader, and held, I learned, twelve straight stalls for lesser breeds of horse, a hayloft on one side, and the tack room, garages with grooms’ quarters above, on the other.

Everything was fresh paint and sparkle, the yard well raked and concrete hosed down, with a sense of order and prosperity that ought to soothe but suddenly distressed me.

I had no time to wonder why I was upset. This was the kind of stable, barring a slight difference in style, in which I’d grown up in Lexington. I ought to be reassured. But Rafe had swung out of the car, and Dice was anxious to leave too. I just got the door closed in time to keep him in. Somewhere dogs barked fiercely.

As we let down the ramp of the trailer, a bowlegged man in the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on an adult, male of fifty came rocking through the arch. He was clean-shaven, and his gray hair bristled from his scalp in a month-old crew-cut, but he looked permanently stained. He gave Rafe a dour nod, looked through me, but his face lit up when he saw Rafe backing out Phi Bete. He hurried to take the lead, stroking the mare’s nose and crooning to her lovingly as only a misogynistic horseman can. Her restless prancing ceased, and she snorted at him, butting his shoulder, twisting her neck for his flat-handed caresses. Shameless hussy.

“A beauty, a beauty! Where’d you steal her, boy?”

“She’s my wife’s. Out of Smart Set by Professor D.”

The hostler was impressed, but he still hadn’t acknowledged my existence. Rafe took me by the arm and led me right up to him.

“Albert, this is Nialla Donnelly Clery. We were married today.”

“Meetcha, ma’am . . .” he mumbled, touching his forehead with a purple-gentian-stained finger of a badly scarred hand. Some horse had teethed on him, from the look of it. Then he did a double-take, and his watery brown eyes gave me. a keen raking. “No relation to Russ Donnelly?”

“His daughter,” said Rafe with almost as much pride as he’d announced Phi Bete’s lineage. He shot me a wicked sidelong glance that intimated I must respond suitably.

“Pleased ta meetcha, ma’am.” And he was. Then he turned to Rafe. “Good blood. Good bones. She ride?”

Rafe’s smile was pure malice as he turned toward the sheeted rump from which Orfeo’s full tail emerged.

“You’d better do the honors, Nialla.” He motioned Albert to move aside as I backed Orfeo carefully down the ramp.

“Juggernaut?” The old man’s eyes widened, and the hand that had been stroking Phi Bete’s nose was motionless.

“Orfeo is what Nialla calls him, and she jumped him two rounds without a fault on those nightmares Sunbury assembled for the trophy this year.”

Albert was not to back down from his position. He gave a grunt. “ ‘S what I’d expect of any foal of Donnelly’s. Put the mare in six?” he asked, turning to lead Phi Bete toward the east side of the stable.

“Yes, and we’ll put Orfeo in seven.”

“I moved the gray like Jerry said I should,” Albert mumbled as he stumped off.

Rafe was feeling Orfeo’s legs with a practiced hand. He tipped up the injured hoof and inspected the frog.

“I’ll give MacNeil a call. We’ll have him fixed up in next to no time, Nialla.”

We watered and stabled Orfeo in a huge corner box, knee-deep in clean straw, the hay basket heaped lightly with fresh timothy.

“Now, about that lion of yours,” Rafe said as we viewed Orfeo over the lower hatch of the_ stall door. “There’s half a dozen beagle hounds, a few barn cats, :and the guard dogs. Each is jealous and insists on his. territorial prerogatives.”

“Guard dogs?”

There was a muscle twitch in the corner of Rafe’s mouth, and no amusement in his eyes.

“Against unauthorized entry,” he said succinctly. “I’ll introduce you to the dogs later. They’re out at night, but they won’t bother anyone to whom they’ve been properly introduced.” He placed his hand on the flat of my back, pushing me toward a break in the hitching rail that ran the three sides, under the roof’s overhang.

Dice was quite glad to be released from durance vile and made a low-haunched run around the yard, stopping to sniff at selected spots. Then he headed straight for Phi Bete’s stall, jumped to the top of the open hatch, teetered, landed on the ground, and trotted to Orfeo’s. He angled his rear legs and leaped up and over. I had to giggle at his muffled “yowie” of surprise. He’d’ve been submerged in the straw. I heard Orfeo whicker.

“Not that I wouldn’t bet on Dice against any animal in the place.”

“Boss, whatin’ell was that just now?” Albert demanded, appearing at Phi Bete’s door.

“Mrs. Clery’s coon cat. He stays with the gelding.”

“Goddamnedest thing I ever saw,” Albert muttered, and turned back into the dimness of the stall.

“Dice’s not aggressive.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Rafe said with a snort.

He pulled the ramp up, telling me this’d take only a minute, but could I open the second garage door from the end. He backed the trailer into its slot with the ease of long practice, and I know how easy that maneuver is not. He unhitched the tow bar and motioned me to get into the car.

“Albert has obviously fallen in love with Phi Bete, and if Dice takes care of the gelding, they’ll feel at home by morning.”

When we rolled out of the stable yard, Rafe turned right, up a short drive flanked by heavy rhododendron and myrtle plantings, edged with ivy. Slightly hidden by three massive copper beeches was a hip-roofed, dusty-gray-shingled house, looking settled and pleased with itself. And welcoming.

The double-hatched front door was green and welcoming, too. With strap hinges of a trefoil pattern. Before I could take the first step from the car, Rafe swooped me up into his arms and carried me up the short flight to the porch. How he managed the door, I don’t know, but it pushed in.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Clery,” he said in a low voice, his eyes dark with feeling. I buried my face against his neck, against the pounding of his pulse. He let me slowly to my feet, his hands pressing me against him. “Never was able to do that before. Always married Amazons.” Then his hands tightened on my shoulders. “None of them wanted to live here, Nialla. None of them ever came here. You belong here . . . with me.”

There was an aching hunger in his kiss that effectively erased all thought of my predecessors. He broke the embrace abruptly, standing away and turning me toward the big living room, which ran across the entire front of the house, leading into a dining ell. It was a fireplace-leather-chintz room, with two huge soft Persian rugs. A dignified grandfather clock presided by the staircase opposite the door, by the cloak closet. I suspect there had been alterations on the original floor plan, because the house looked like the front-parlor type. It would likely have a huge kitchen, where most of the living had been done until recently, for the house was old, with broad-planked floors. And while it was not exactly the type of house I’d’ve thought Rafe would live in, it was exactly right for him now that I saw him here. It reflected tried comfort and taste, scrupulously clean and shining. Rafe Clery might affect “mod” sartorial elegance, but he demanded warm serenity, not modern sterility or passing fancy, in his home.

“I’ll get the luggage,” he said, leaving me to wander about the living room. I stepped onto the thick Persian, admired the flowers, and wondered who kept the place so spotless. Two men in the stables, a housekeeper here (live-in?). People who rode the circuit might put on a show of prosperity in public, but Rafe’s was no sham.

“Mrs. Garrison usually leaves around three when I’m not home.” He pointed one suitcase toward the stairs. “C’mon, I’ll show you our room.”

There was a reassuring emphasis on “our.” Three steps led to the first, wide landing, where the steps turned at right angles for the longer portion of the rise, before branching left and right. Instinctively I turned right, toward the front of the house. The door to the master bedroom was invitingly open, and sun shone onto the dark-stained floor from the dormer windows. There was a huge, dynasty-founding bed with carved cherry posts and a hand-loomed cotton spread whose whiteness was accented by the muted tones of an old patchwork quilt. The room was masculine, from the heavy dark furniture to the comfortable leather chairs by the fireplace. Two doors in the right wall must lead to a dressing room and a bathroom, for the bedroom proper was not as long as the living room under it.

As Rafe opened the inner of the two doors, lights came up, revealing sliding closet panels, built-in cabinets, luggage racks on which he deposited the suitcases.

I was suddenly very nervous, oddly tense. I walked with stiff legs to the open window, gazing at the copper beeches, at the lawn beyond, the stable complex hidden by mature evergreens.

He was standing behind me, waiting, and I knew what he was waiting for, because I could feel myself ready. What had come over me, Nialla Donnelly, who had forsworn love? Who was this short man who, by his mere presence, could stir the juices in my loins, make rubber of my knees, and stir wanton lusts I’d never imagined I was capable of?

“Mr. Clery?”

As he unzipped my dress, he kissed the nape of my neck lightly, sensuously, and then progressed with kisses down my backbone, unfastening the bra in the journey. The dress slithered to my feet as his hands flipped the bra straps over my shoulders. As I wriggled out of them, his hands fondled my breasts, traced patterns down my hips to my belly, which drew in at the touch of his fingers. With both hands he pressed against the mound between my legs, pressed and pressed until he was against my buttocks, firm and hard. He released me to slip my pants down far enough so that they dropped the rest of the way to join my dress. As I stepped over them, I heard him undress, and turned to face him, my arms open.

He straightened up, his eyes on me with such an intense expression, hungry, lustful, possessive, and . . . wary . . . that it stopped my breath.

Then his arms closed around me, hard, and the next minute we were flat on the bed. He entered me and filled me. Incredibly, he had thrust only a few times before my body responded to his, arching against him. As we merged in a long, long, unbelievable release, I was dimly aware of two voices crying out at the same instant.

The warm blaze of the sun in my face roused me from a sleep as deep and restful as a cat’s. The quilt was tucked up under my chin, a pillow under my head, but we were lying across the width of the bed, instead of the length. Rafe’s hands were clasped behind his head, and his eyes were open, idly following the patterns of the sun-splotched leaf shadows on the white ceiling. His profile was somehow younger than full-face, the straight short nose, the sensitive lips, the sharp dip to the square chin. His beard was apparent. I could see the pulse in his throat, toc, toc, toc. The plateau of his chest with the fine edging of black hair. He smelled male, with overtones of antiperspirant and after-shave, an enticingly sensual combination. I was suddenly conscious that my breasts ached and smarted and that my nether regions were sore, but I was too languidly relaxed to care at all.

He turned his head to grin at me, his eyes warm, and so loving that I felt my body inclining eagerly toward him. He gathered me gently, not passionately, to him, and cradled my head on his chest.

“For God’s sake, I find I’m married to a sexpot.” Then deliberately he passed his hand over one breast, and I flinched at the soreness. “I didn’t intend to rough you up so much, dear heart,” he said seriously, “but you’re a powerful temptation to the beast in me, and so, so lovable.” He gave me an affectionate squeeze and then touched the tip of my nose with one finger. “But you’re not used to this sport of kings. I’m not about to override you . . . yet!” And his expression hinted of excesses to come, excesses I knew now I’d welcome at his hands, in his arms.

We both heard the faint engine throb and recognized the Austin-Healey’s motor.

“Can’t say I’m sorry Jerry took so long, but I was wondering what had happened to him.”

With a sigh, Rafe threw back the quilt and padded to the mound of discarded clothes.

“No need to disturb yourself, Nialla. I’ll be back.” I was only too glad to remain warm and lazy under the quilt, although I’d’ve preferred him alongside me. The Austin-Healey came throatily up the short drive from the stable, and then I heard Rafe’s steps on the porch below.

“Car give you trouble, Jerry?” Rafe asked. “Or the cops?”

“Cops, but not with the car, boss.” 

“Oh?”

“That detective stopped me in Sunbury. Thought I was you.” Jerry gave a snort, and Rafe chuckled. “He was real pissed off because he’d been told you and Miss—Mrs. Clery had checked out of the motel Monday morning. And he had some questions.”

At the tone of Jerry’s voice, I sat bolt upright, clutching the quilt around me.

“What sort of questions?”

“Seems like they found Pete Sankey—dead!” 

“Dead?”

“Head bashed in, lying in a culvert the other side of the parking lot.”

I didn’t want to listen, but I had to. I huddled under the quilt, trying to pretend the voices were from a radio program or something else absolutely unconnected with me and a Pete Sankey with his head bashed in. 

“Poor old Pete. Who’d want to hurt him?” 

“According to Mac—I checked with him after the cop finished with me—Pete was very upset about that fire. You know how he was about horses, boss. And Mac got the impression that Pete knew something about how that fire started. Last thing he said to Mac was he wanted to talk to someone about a horse. No one saw him after that on Monday.”

“You got this last from Mac? Or did Michaels tell you?” 

Jerry made a noise. “That Michaels doesn’t say much, but he can ask some real sharp questions.” 

“For instance?”

“Oh, take it easy, boss,” Jerry said, for Rafe’s question had been sharp. “Nothing about you.”

A phone rang, the echoing jangle startlingly close to me. I hadn’t noticed that there was an extension by the bed.

“Yes?” Rafe answered it downstairs. “Oh. No, madam, I didn’t sneak in.” The coldness in his voice was so marked that he was almost a different person. “I’ve been here several hours. No. MacCrate was driving the Austin. Yes, I was in Sunbury over the weekend. No. I understood you were in the Laurentians.” His tone, if possible, got colder and . . . not insolently polite . . . but that terribly precise courtesy that’s accorded someone hated and unavoidable. “What’s his number? Thank you. I’ll call immediately. No, Mother, sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t murder anyone.”

Yet. The word hung unsaid in the silence. Then the extension beside the bed gave a startled “twing” as the downstairs receiver was slammed into its cradle.

“I had to give Michaels this number, boss,” Jerry said in a subdued apologetic voice.

“Not to worry, Jerry. I hadn’t switched the line back to the Dower House yet.” Rafe sounded grim still, but he wasn’t addressing Jerry in that stilted, almost-Englishy-affected way. “Albert can’t be trusted to answer a phone, you know, so Garry always switches our line back to the big house.”

“Shall I put the Austin up, or will you be needing it?” 

“No, I won’t be needing it. And please let the dogs out this evening before you go.”

“I always do when madam’s at home,” Jerry said, sounding disgusted. “Will you be working the string to morrow, boss?”

“Naturally.”

“I thought being newlywed . . .”

“This time I married a horsewoman, Jerry. Good evening.”

And Rafe had called that woman “Mother”? It must be his stepmother, I thought, trying to explain his astounding reaction to her. It had to be his stepmother, I decided when he came in, his face bleakly expressionless.

“I heard ...” I said, gesturing to the open window. “Yes, you would have heard it all,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slowly walked across the room to me. He stood, for a moment, looking down at me where I huddled under the quilt, and then his expression softened, he became Rafe Clery—”Sure, Mr. Clery”—again.

“Shall we get the fuzz off our necks?” he asked with a rueful grin.

I swallowed my surprise, because the emotional tension of the phone call had caused me to forget completely the previous conversation.

I nodded, because, honestly, I didn’t want to. Michaels had been polite and deferential, but he’d only been querying me about a fire, not a murder. A second murder, because Pete Sankey was dead because he had tried to help me. His murder was almost as senseless as my father’s. Had the man who killed Pete killed my father too? And why? Why?

Rafe was dialing the number stolidly, frowning as the very brusque, bored voice of the sergeant-operator identified precinct, town, and himself. Rafe held the phone slightly tilted from his left ear so that I could hear perfectly.

“Michaels there?” 

“Detective Michaels? I’ll check.” Michaels answered after a very short pause. 

“Rafe Clery here. I understand you’ve been trying to reach us.”

“Yes, I have, Mr. Clery, and I’ve had some funny answers.”

“I paid the desk clerk, because my wife had been bothered enough, and she needed rest more than rapping. Check with the doctor—Prentice, his name was, I think, if you like.”

“You cleared out in a hurry today, too.” “I cleared out because I got married this morning, and show-circuit people have some pretty obstreperous notions of how to celebrate nuptials if they know about them.”

Michaels mumbled something, then said, “I’d heard you and Miss Dunn were engaged. My congratulations.” He sounded as if he meant it. “However, I have some questions about the fire, and ...” 

“Pete Sankey’s death?”

“Yes,” Michaels said after a brief pause. “I gather MacCrate got back. Where were you and Miss Dunn Monday night?”

To my astonishment, Rafe began to chuckle. “Michaels, man to man, I’d rather not answer that question. The desk clerk was paid twenty to say we’d checked out. We hadn’t. But there’s no alibi, because I gave Nialla a sleeping pill and took one myself.”

I thought I heard a sigh. “Is Mrs. Clery able to come to the phone?”

“She’s here, listening in, as I am.” Rafe stressed the last three words. “A conference call, you might say.” I had no choice. Rafe tipped the phone toward me. 

“Yes, Mr. Michaels?”

“I do apologize for disturbing you, Mrs. Clery, but I’d rather not have to make you come back here today.”

“Not a chance of that, Michaels. Doctor’s orders,” Rafe cut in.

“I do have some questions that I’m certain you can answer right now, and we can get a statement later if necessary,” Michaels went on, as if Rafe hadn’t interrupted. “I understand that Pete Sankey worked for you over the weekend.”

“Well, not exactly worked, Lieutenant. He was kind enough to stay with my horses while I was at dinner.”

“I see. He was watching your stock the night of the fire?”

“Yes. He got the mare out and gave the alarm.” “Have you seen him since the fire?” 

“No. I haven’t, but they said he’d been into A-Barn on Monday. We wanted to thank him and-couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Then he never mentioned to you that he might have seen someone or something suspicious around G-Barn the night of the fire?”

“No, not to me, but then I wasn’t . . .” 

“Michaels”—Rafe had the phone again—”she passed out in A-Barn. And Pete said nothing to me when I saw him on Monday. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist at best.”

“Mr. Clery”—and Michaels’ voice lost a little of its courtesy—”I’m trying to help your wife, not harass her. Her father was murdered, Pete Sankey is dead, and there have been three attempts to harm her. I’m frankly worried for her safety.”

“Why the hell do you think I got her out of that town?” 

Michaels sighed again. “Unfortunately, everyone knows where you live. I’m informing the local authorities . . .”

“My farm is fenced, Michaels, and I run guard dogs at night. Let Bob Erskine alone.”

Michaels said nothing for a long moment, then asked to speak to me again.

“Please try, Mrs. Clery, to think back to the time of your father’s death. Try to remember the most minute, unimportant details.”

“It’s no use, Mr. Michaels. I told the police everything then.”

“You may know something, Mrs. Clery, you don’t think you do. Give the matter some thought, please, for your own sake.”

“There is something, though.” 

“Yes?”

“About this last weekend. I saw a man I used to know on the West Coast, Caps Galvano. He was at the Sunbury Fair.”

“And that’s a helluva funny place”—Rafe had grabbed the phone back—”for Galvano, Michaels, because he’s a racetrack tout from California. And a guy answering his general description was seen leaving the car that blared a horn while Nialla was jumping the black.” Rafe gave a quick description of Galvano. “He used to run a certain kind of service for Lou Marchmount, and Lou Marchmount was in Sunbury Monday night.”

“Russ Donnelly trained for Marchmount, didn’t he?” Michaels’ voice had quickened with interest. “

“Yes, he did.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clery. Thank you very much. And please stay put. I’ll try not to bother you any more than necessary.”

“That would be appreciated,” Rafe said, and hung up. “We’ll let him worry about it. Goddamn, why can’t I once have a peaceful, uninterrupted honeymoon?” he demanded, slapping his hands on his knees in two loud cracks.

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was an utterly exasperated complaint about conspiracy, which, combined with the long-suffering expression on his face, struck me as so ludicrous, under the circumstances, that I collapsed into giggles. His hard strong arms came around me, his laughter was in my ear as we rolled on the bed together. His eyes were merry, and he was not the frightening cold man who had stood in the doorway a few moments before. Suddenly he stripped the quilt from me, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me off the bed with such force that I was propelled toward the closest at a run, when he let go. As I passed him, I was sped on by a smart slap on my bare rump.

“Get some clothes on, woman. I’m starving. And if I don’t feed you up, I’ll chop off my hand on your bony arse.”

The new dressing gown was at the top of the suitcase, and I was mightily relieved that he didn’t suggest dining out, I wanted to be alone with him. Alone and safe with the high fence and the guard dogs on the prowl.

“There’d better be steak in the freezer, or Garry gets fired.” 

“Garry?”

“Garry. Mrs. Garrison. You don’t think a bachelor keeps a house looking like this, do you? As far as I know,” he said, clipping me about the waist and pulling me toward the stairs, “Garry doesn’t eat brides.” 

“I guess you ought to know by now.” 

“That’s a snide remark,” he said, with no rancor, and turned me to the right at the bottom step.

It was a grand kitchen, and, as I suspected, had probably been the center of the house’s daily life in other eras. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but the kitchen fittings had been moved from the hearth to the east wall. A harvest table with rush-bottomed chairs was set in front of the fireplace now, with an electrified big-welled kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling, its shade a rose color. Separated from the breakfasting area and the kitchen were closets and cupboards and obviously a freezer unit as well as a washing machine and a clothes dryer. “What a marvelous kitchen!”

“Efficient, too. Had it redone to Garry’s specifications— she drove the builder nuts—when I took the house over. She’s not as young as she used to be . . . hey,” and he hugged me, sensing my sudden anxiety about measuring up to someone he obviously cared for. “God, she’s been after me to marry some ‘nice girl.’ She’ll take care of you, too, and put flesh on your bones, so you’ll be up to circuit riding.”

“Rafe, do you think there’s any chance of Orfeo showing . . .”

“With any luck,” Rafe assured me smoothly, peering into the freezer. He came up with a freezer-wrapped square package. “Hey, how about meatloaf! With baked potatoes, the cheap kind. If you can find salad makings . . . you do know how to cook, don’t you?”

“Of course I know how to cook!” I was indignant. “None of my other wives could,” he replied imperturbably.

I found silence the best reproof, and began to fix a salad. There were fresh strawberries, all hulled and washed, under a Saran sheet. They’d be marvelous for dessert.

“But if that hoof doesn’t heal . . .”

“That hoof’ll heal,” Rafe assured me again, his eyes suddenly focused beyond me in a determined stare.

Almost as if Orfeo had to jump for a purpose beyond mine. Then Rafe told me where to find condiments and bowls as he started the oven, and we were pleasantly busy.

Sometime during the night, I heard dogs barking. At least, I was sure I heard the dogs, but Rafe’s reassuring murmur, his hands clasping mine warmly, made the incident scant concern of mine.

6

When I woke up, I was lying on my stomach, my head at the edge of the bed, so the first thing I saw were the dappled splotches of sunlight on the wide-planked floor. Along my left side was the comfortable warmth of a . . . husband. Rafe. I wanted to turn and look at him, catch him unawares, and satisfy a nagging uncertainty within me. And I also wanted to remain so comfortably content.

Unfortunately, I’ve got this habit, and once awake, I can’t stay still. My back muscles were crying to be stretched. At my first tentative move, I felt Rafe stir.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” I turned, penitent, to find him watching me, the slightest smile on his lips, and a dark, odd warmth in his eyes.

He slid one arm under my body, as if to pull me to him; in fact, I could feel myself leaning compliantly. Instead he stroked my face with his fingertips (lovingly, I told myself), as the smile deepened. “I’ve been awake awhile.”

Neither of us had a watch on, but I could tell from the slant of the sunlight that it must be early hours.

“And, no, Nialla, you haven’t kept me abed with your sloth,” he went on teasingly, still stroking my face. Then his fingers trailed down my neck, tracing the outline of my shoulder before transferring, ever so delicately, to my breast. As he did finally pull me against him, my head on his chest, he sighed. “I was enjoying the sight of you, curled up in my bed like a trusting Eurydice.” And his chuckle echoed rustily in his rib cage under my ears. (I had the fleeting notion that Rafe, for all his self-assurance, didn’t quite trust me: surprising under the circumstances. I wondered how I compared to his other wives in bed. If they couldn’t cook and didn’t like his way of living, why had he married them?)

I felt his lips on my forehead.

“A daunting sight, I assure you,” he added in an in consequential tone.

I was desperate to stretch, but I could scarcely offend him by breaking his affectionate embrace.

“Do you wake up fast or slow, Nialla?”

“I’m one of those awful ones, up with the sun, and usually to bed with it.” I’d better be candid and get us both off the hook.

“Thank God.” And he released me, swinging himself off the other side of the bed, to stand and stretch until every muscle in his back was fully extended and his joints began to pop. I’d the incredible urge to run my hands freely over his body, for the touch of his skin on mine, to test the firmness of that musculature.

“Shower or bath? Milady has first choice.” And he made a courtly bow toward the bathroom, destroying the image by a boyish smirk. “I’ll use the John down the hall.”‘

The speed with which I untangled myself from the sheet made him burst out laughing, head back, fists rammed against his narrow waist.

“You’re no slugabed, I see, not with your background,” and he was definitely pleased. But as he snagged a seersucker bathrobe from a hook of the dressing-room door, again I was reminded of Bess Tomlinson’s flippant remark. Had he really married me for the horses? And because I was a horsewoman?

Well, if that were the case, I thought as I closed the stall-shower door, there would be many compensations, and I could make the most of them, while I could. For if he’d divorced two women already for cause unknown, I might not last long either. After all, he could marry someone better than a horse trainer’s daughter. I turned the water on full force; the shower head, for once, was the right height for me, fringe benefit number one. I soaped myself thoroughly, aware that my breasts were sore—fringe benefits numbers two, three, four, five, ad infinitum.

Rafe had included a pair of Levis in his purchases for me, and a thin cotton sleeveless shirt. The day promised to be fair, and probably hot. The new Levis were stiff, but the slight flair in the leg kept pressure off my healing burns.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Rafe was just fastening the belt of his Levis—they must have been tailored for him, they fit so well—and his torso showed to advantage in the cotton knit pullover. He was a fast dresser, for he’d also shaved in the time it had taken me just to shower, dress, and stare at my reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror.

He grinned at me and took my hand, tucking it under his arm as we went downstairs.

“Levis aren’t too tight on those leg burns, are they?” I shook my head, because somehow he was too much for me. He was my husband, yes. He’d married despite my objections, my past, the knowledge that I was in trouble; he’d made passionate love to me, given me jewelry and clothes, shown me favor and approval in many small ways: if he had married me for my two horses—and he did have money enough to buy any beast he fancied without necessarily marrying its owner—then I should be glad I’d a dowry to bestow on him.

If Rafe noticed my withdrawal, my watery eyes, he paid no attention, cheerfully outlining his plans for our morning.

“I’d like to show you the place and my string after breakfast. I’ll put in a call for MacNeil, the vet, to check Orfeo over. Then we can get to the shops and see what the local places might have for you to wear.” He pushed open the door between dining-room ell and the kitchen, “Hi, Garry,” he greeted the woman in a neat non-uniform cotton dress and apron who was standing by the table, coffee pot poised over the cup of the single place setting, “This is my wife, Nialla Donnelly Clery. Nialla, this is Mrs. Barbara Garrison.”

“Mr. Rafe!” Her eyes went wide, but there was nothing but surprise and pleasure in her broad smile. Or was she used to Rafe introducing new wives? “And no One telling me you got yourself married while you were away! You could have left me a note for the morning, you bad boy,” she said in a good-natured scold. “Then I could at least have set two places and made Mrs. Clery feel to home here in her own house!” She was quickly remedying this negligence as she spoke.

Rafe, however, handed me into the place originally set for him, giving Mrs. Garrison an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she arranged silver for him.

“Oh, get on with you, Mr. Rafe. What will Mrs. Clery think?”

“That I’m smart to keep on good terms with the best cook in Nassau County.”

“Oh, Mr. Rafe!” She poured coffee for both of us, smiling warmly at me as she filled mine. “Just wait till I see that Jerry. I’ll tell him a thing or two, not tipping me off. Do you favor a big breakfast like Mr. Rafe, ma’am?” And her scrutiny was a little close.

“Yes, she does,” Rafe answered for me. “She likes a big breakfast, and she needs feeding up. Look at her, Garry. No better than a rail. We’ve got to get her back in form. She’s a rider, Garry, and she’s going to ride with me.” I’d never heard that particular ring in his voice, and evidently, neither had Garry, for she looked at him with surprise. “You remember when I was jockeying ... .”

Her expression turned to one of disapproval, although I sensed it was not the occupation she disapproved.

“I used to ride for Agnes du Maurier, and Russ Donnelly was her trainer. Well, Nialla’s his daughter. I’ve been waiting for her to grow up.”

His hand tightened on mine, and I wondered why he felt obliged to perpetuate that fiction with Mrs. Garrison, who so obviously adored him.

“Well, I never! Though I expect it’s a good thing around here that you do ride, Mrs. Clery. Never hear anything else except horses, horses, horses. Would you prefer grapefruit instead of orange juice, Mrs. Clery? Someone”—and her tone underscored the pronoun in which that meant she knew the culprit—”ate all the strawberries last night.”

“We did,” I said, like a penitent child. Then we grinned at each other. “Grapefruit will be just fine.”

“Two eggs? Ham or bacon? Toast or muffins?”

She was sectioning the grapefruit as she queried me, and in a remarkably short time, I thought, had prepared and served beautifully cooked platters of eggs and bacon, with a pile of buttered toast.

“Where’s your cup, Garry?” Rafe demanded as she started to leave. “Well, I ...”

“Nonsense, sit down. Got to catch up on my gossip.” And Rafe leaned over, pulling out the chair opposite me and giving her no alternative.

Still reluctant, for she nodded apologetically at me, she picked up an outsize mug from the sideboard.

“Garry always has her ninetieth cup of coffee with me,” Rafe explained. I could only nod to indicate I had no wish to change the custom.

She settled herself then; she wasn’t a heavy woman, but old enough to be deliberate in her movements. She gave me a second apologetic glance as she filled her cup.

“Well, now,” she said, clearing her throat as she spooned sugar into her cup and stirred vigorously, shedding the last of her scruples, “there’s been some to-dos in the big house with Madam back way ahead of when she told staff. Does she know you’re here, or do I . . .”

“She knows I’m here.” I’d hate to have that flat tone directed at me.

“Does she have this place wired for sound?” Mrs. Garrison asked. “Well, there’s been quite a bit of partying —I’ve been helping Mrs. Palchi, of course—but no publicity!” She pursed her lips and nodded her head to indicate the novelty of that. “You know how she likes to have her picture in the paper, Mrs. Wendy Madison entertaining the chairman of the board of this and the so and so of that, and how many of the jet set came. First I thought maybe she’s ashamed of this new man of hers, but no, he’s society. And horses, too, come to think of it. Then I understood he wasn’t feeling well, but all those parties? Mrs. Palchi says he hails from the West Coast. Maybe you know him? Fella by the name of Marchmount.” Her recital broke off as she saw the sudden stillness of Rafe’s face.

“Is he at the house now?”

“Well, no, come to think of it, he isn’t. Though they all went off together this past weekend to see the Marshalls upstate. Took the Hammonds with them, Mrs. Palchi said.”

“Is he expected back?”

“I can’t rightly say, but do you want I should find out?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t like him none either, do you, Mr. Rafe?”

“You don’t miss much, do you, Garry?”

“Not much,” she assured him cheerfully, and I wondered if she’d noticed my reaction to the mention of Marchmount. “He’s no gentleman, either, for all his pleases and thank-yous. You’d think a man his age would know how to behave in someone’s house. Pinched that nice Marrone girl on the you-know-where, and she didn’t know what to do about him. So Mrs. Palchi’s been keeping her in the kitchen and lets Sam do the upstairs work. By the way, Albert did not want to let him into the stables, but Madam was along, and Albert didn’t dare refuse with her staring at him that way.”

“How long was Marchmount here?”

“Now, let’s see. You’ve been gone since two weeks Tuesday, and Madam came back unexpected from the Laurentians then with him and that friend of his in tow. And then not near as much entertaining as you’d expect.”

“And no photographers? Maybe her last face job is weakening,” Rafe said, and his laugh was nasty.

Mrs. Garrison shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Mr. Rafe.”

“What don’t you know, Garry?”

“Can’t say. A feeling I have. A trouble feeling. My right hand has been so itchy, I’d swear I’d touched poison ivy.”

Rafe laughed tolerantly and turned to me.

“Garry’s often troubled by ‘feelings.’“ And he patted my hand encouragingly.

“ ‘Feelings’ are what you trust when logic isn’t worth a hoot,” I said glumly, because I could feel “trouble” too. Just knowing Marchmount had been here depressed me. Because Galvano was usually his shadow.

Mrs. Garrison gave me a sharp approving nod and rose to clear away our empty dishes. “More coffee?” And she filled our cups without waiting for an answer. “If you could spare me a few minutes this morning, Mrs. Clery, I’d appreciate going over household matters.” I looked at her, startled. “I...”

Rafe leaned toward me, grinning. “All you have to do is listen, nod your head, and agree completely. Garry will do what she’s always done anyhow.”

“Now, Mr. Rafe, I’ll do no such thing. I just want to know what Mrs. Clery prefers.”

“Like no broccoli or French dressing, and starch in your shirts, and untucked bed sheets.”

I nodded dumbly, feeling horribly inadequate, until I remembered Agnes du Maurier and snatches of conversations overheard.

“First let me go along with your routine, Mrs. Garrison, before I make any suggestions.”

“Well, I don’t know as what a few sensible ones wouldn’t be welcome, Mrs. Clery,” the housekeeper said, glaring at Rafe before she rose. “I’ll just see to the beds while you finish your coffee.”

“Madam entertaining Marchmount on the quiet, huh?” Rafe murmured as the door swung after her. His tone was pure distilled hatred. “What a pair!” I couldn’t look at him, not when he sounded that way.

“Dear heart!” His fingers lightly but firmly turned my face so I had to look at him, but he was himself again. “Forget Marchmount. He was here before we came. He’s probably still with the Hammonds in Sunbury. He couldn’t possibly know I was going to marry you and bring you home with me. He needn’t know you’re here now, even if he should reappear. Although that seems unlikely, if she’s back alone.” He sounded very positive about that.

The realization that Marchmount had been here—where I’d thought I’d be safe, where Rafe had told me I’d be safe—was unnerving.

“Nialla, knock it off.” And his voice was sharp. “We’ve got other things to worry about. Worth worrying about, like Orfeo.” He pushed back his chair, tipped it until he could lift the one-piece phone from its wall hook. “Damn thing fascinates me.” And he screwed his face up a la mad scientist as he punched buttons deftly. “Hello, Glen? Haven’t you paid your answering service this month? Yes. Yes, I did. Got a gelding I want you to check over.
Burned sole and frog. Yes, I’ve been soaking it, you bastard. Got it in a barn fire. No, not here, thank God. But I want him jumping in two weeks. Yeah, I know, but you’re the local miracle worker, and I believe in giving my trade in the neighborhood. Yes, like what else is new? Around ten? Fine. No, nothing sensational in the ring, but just wait till you see what I brought home.”

He hung up, beaming impishly at me. “Gives me a hard time, and always ends up doing what I want. You’ll see. C’mon, time’s a-wasting.”

He knocked his chair back, catching it expertly before it reached the point of overbalancing. I rose hastily and reached for the coffee cups.

“And that’s the biggest no-no, Nialla. No dishes for you.” And he led me to the side door. “Although you may wish you were back with just dishes when I’ve finished with you.” His voice was so dark and direful that I glanced back at him, and he was smirking like an old-time villain. “I’ve been trying to find a rider good enough to ride with me in a jump Pairs Class, and you might just qualify.”

He was so outrageous that I laughed.

“Wait’ll you see ‘em, Nialla.” And his teasing turned into enthusiasm. “A pair of matched grays, half-sisters, not a bit of difference in height and conformation, might as well be twins. Broke and trained ‘em myself, though Starrett in Lexington bred ‘em. But I haven’t been able to use ‘em in competition.” He put his arm around my waist and absently matched step with me. “You can do it. Knew it the moment I watched you riding Phi Bete at Sunbury.”

He went on, though I listened with half an ear, telling me about the nervy five-gaited bay mare who only needed a really sure rider to show her properly, about his plans for the bay colt. I was seeing much more that I ought to have realized before—the prosperity of the well-kept lawn, the gardens, a housekeeper, two men in the stable, all of which added up to money. And suddenly I realized why I had unconsciously compared his manner to Agnes du Maurier’s—it was the same self-confidence of several generations of wealth and position; the knowledge of family and background, of enough money to satisfy need and afford luxuries. It explained his English and his classical references; his handling of people and . . . What was he doing marrying a trainer’s daughter? Certainly not for her -horses, I could set my mind at ease on that score. We had reached the stables, and I saw Jerry grooming a long-legged bay mare who was cross-haltered and dancing nervously as he brushed her. She must be the five-gaited that Rafe meant. Beyond her, a rawboned youngster in very tight jeans and a tie-dyed jersey was carefully wiping Orfeo down under the close inspection of Dice. Someone else was forking manure out of a stall, and I saw Albert coming out of the tack room, a bridle on each shoulder and balancing two jumping saddles precariously.

I managed to answer Jerry’s cheerful greeting, his assurances that Phi Bete had already been attended, and he was making sure Denny did a good job on the gelding.

I acknowledged that, realizing Jerry meant that no one had told this Dennis of Orfeo’s reputation. He was whistling as he ran the cloth over the black’s pockmarked hide.

“He sure is big and black,” Denny said, glancing from me to Rafe for approval.

“MacNeil’ll be over to check this hoof,” Rafe said, lifting it. Orfeo glanced around with mild curiosity. “He’s taking notice today,” I said, chirping to him. “Over the worst of the affair then. Albert? Saddling the grays?”

“You told me to.” Albert’s reply was more an accusation than an affirmative, but evidently that was his way, for Rafe only grinned after the figure stumping to the far side of the stable quadrangle.

Then, instead of showing me the other horses, Rafe took me by the hand and led me through the low passageway to the pastures, out of sight and hearing of the stable yards.

“Now what’s the matter, Nialla?” he asked in a level, impersonal voice.

I stared at him, unable to answer, because it wasn’t one matter, it was a psychedelic composite of impressions and pressures, of a nebulous fear not even his presence and flip assurances could disperse.

“The house, the horses, Mrs. Garrison, Jerry and Albert and . .. . and . . . all this. I’m . . . it’s too much for me. I don’t belong here.”

“That, dear heart, is for me to say!” Rafe put his hands on my waist to draw me to him. I tried to lean away, but his hands flattened on my buttocks, pressing our hips together. I could feel him against me. He didn’t fight fair. “I think you’ll find you do belong here, Nialla. There’s no question in my mind that your life is horses.” His eyes compelled me to give some sign, and I nodded. “And you’re certainly a horsewoman. The way you ride that black!” There was no escape from those searching blue eyes, from that strong will. (Was this how he trained his horses—sheer strength of will?) “You evidently want to make a go of it in the show business. So why not do it with me instead of eking out a peanut-butter-and-jelly existence on the fringe?” Still no leavening by the tolerant amusement that had forced me to concede folly before. “I admit I took an ungentlemanly advantage of your situation at Sunbury to forge a legal tie between us, but that, too, can be altered as circumstances warrant.”

Only because we were touching so intimately was I aware of the sudden tenseness of the warm body against me and the fleeting shadow in those steady blue eyes. It wasn’t regret; it was ... I couldn’t put a tag on it, but again I caught a glimpse of a crack in this man’s apparently invulnerable self-assurance. I didn’t want him ever to be vulnerable. My hands tightened unconsciously on his arms, and with my response, his eyes began to lose their impersonality.

“It’s just that I didn’t realize you were so . . . rich,” I blurted out.

His eyebrows shot up, and his eyes began to gleam with an amusement that faded into a sardonic glance across the meadows.

“Rich? Well, I’ve money enough to run the place the way I like to, but the acres are, in effect, mortgaged, my dear, and the interest is high, very high.” He kept one arm around my waist and turned me toward those mortgaged fields. His expression was bleak and unsettling. I hated that look and felt guilty. I should have suppressed my dismay and coped. After all, I had been raised in such an environment; I knew pretty much what would be expected of the. wife of a horse breeder and trainer, and I could learn to- manage the graces required. Anything to keep that horrible emptiness out of his eyes, his face.

Suddenly a horse squealed, high and piercing. It snapped him out of the mood, and his head came around to the stables, his body taut with another kind of tension.

“That goddamned mare!” He looked to me, all trace of the Strangeness gone. “She needs to be worked. She needs a good rider on her back.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” I demanded. “She’s a rough one, Nialla. Are you up to a real tussle today?” He glanced at my legs, and I remembered the burns.

“I wasn’t burned where I grip a saddle—any kind of saddle.”

“God love the girl.” And he wrapped me in a hard embrace.

So I was atop Rocking Lady in a matter of moments, and she took my mind off anything else. That was all to the good, because fighting a fractious mare was something I could do. I made her sweat, and I made her obey me, my hands and my knees. I rode her right up to the bridle, and we were both sweating freely when I finally pulled her to a halt.

On Rafe’s face was the same delighted smile he’d had in the bleachers at Sunbury the first day I’d seen him. As I wiped the sweat from my face, I saw Albert watching from the shadow of the stables, and I knew from his stillness that I’d done better than he’d expected.

“Mrs. Clery, you sure can ride,” Jerry said, shaking his head respectfully as he took the weary mare’s bridle and led her away.

Rafe grinned at me. “Not bad for a first session. Not bad.”

“Not bad? I like that!” I rotated my shoulder blades to ease the strain across my back. “Why, she’s been allowed to get away with murder.”

Rafe chuckled, turning me slightly and kneading the muscles at the base of my neck. Did the man know people as well as he knew horses?

“You want the grays now?” Albert’s words were not exactly a question, and not really a statement. Rafe caught my eye. “Game?” “I’m not ready for the dishes yet.”

Albert came trotting up with the two mares.

Rafe had every right to be proud of them, for they were perfectly matched-—probably right down to the position of each dapple on their sleek hides. They were dainty fillies, about 15.2 hands high, with good clean lines.

“Maisie and Sadie, born and bred here,” Rafe said. “That’s short for Masochist and Sadist, of course,” he added with a reprehensible grin. “You’ll find out why.” He nodded to the left-hand mare and took the right-hand reins from Albert.

“How can you tell them apart?”

“You’ll know, miz,” Albert said as he gave me a knee up, “soon’s he’s up.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Rafe had mounted his mare, and she began to back, head tossing, hooves striking sparks on the cobbles. Rafe had her in hand and spurred her abreast of Sadie, who regarded her sister’s display of temper with calm forbearance. Maisie resisted the maneuver with an ill-tempered fit of bucking, which Rafe sat out. Then, with a snort for her failure, Maisie agreed to move back to her sister, and Rafe led me toward the jumping ring.

Their opprobrious names made sense during that session, for time and again Masochist would attempt to get away with some maneuver to be hauled up, and patient Sadist would compensate. I got so I could anticipate Maisie’s lunges and attempts to balk, and at the last we managed to take four of the six fences simultaneously. I didn’t envy Rafe his jarring ride on Maisie at all, but sitting Sadie was a pure joy.

“Shall we switch?” I asked as we drew the horses to a walk.

“Switch?” Rafe was astonished. “No, we’ll quit. We’ve had a good session on the twins. No sense souring Sadie, and I’m worried about opening those burns.”

“Hey, boss, the doc’s here,” Jerry called from the ringside, gesturing to a tall figure standing in the shade cast by the stable.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, and signaled Jerry to open the ring gate.

As if she had despaired of her freedom, Maisie made a dash and was pulled up sharply by Rafe. She squealed in bad temper and reared, coming down in a series of stiff-legged bucks. I’d not’ve thought she had the energy left. Evidently that was her final effort, for her head hung down in weariness, and she made no more fuss as Rafe trotted her out of the ring and around to the stable yard, Sadie following sedately.. She was just beginning to sweat. 

Glen MacNeil was the long, bony type, with the “angry” face with which some Scotsmen are endowed. Actually he rarely lost his temper, but his features were clustered in the middle of a narrow face with so little space that his deep-set eyes appeared to frown, his brow was perpetually wrinkled where his sharp nose jutted out from his forehead. There were deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth, and between that and the cleft of his strong chin, one did have an overall impression of “anger” except when, as now, his face was wreathed by a broad smile.

“Show me the beastie I’ve got to miracleize.” “Nialla, come meet the MacNeil,” said Rafe, gesturing me forward on the gray mare.

“Nialla, is it?” And Dr. MacNeil’s smile threatened to break his face apart as he shook my hand. “That’s not a common name.”

“Russ Donnelly’s daughter, Glen . . . and my wife.” There was such a ring in his voice that I wondered if he was used to the notion of having a wife again.

“Wife, is it now?” Glen MacNeil boomed out, his eyes almost popping at me from under his heavy brows. “Wife, is it?” He rolled his eyes sympathetically. “Well, now, I wish you luck with him. Or is it Rafe I must console when he’s wed to a girl who looks as if she can outride him?”

“Oh, Rafe’s some hampered by his effect on the female of the species,” I said very sweetly, and slid down the mare’s side. Then I had to crick my neck to look up at the Scot.

“My charm was effective with you, at any rate, m’girl.” And Rafe slipped a possessive arm around my waist as he shook hands with the veterinarian. “Heard about the barn fire- at Sunbury?”

Glen drew in his breath and then stared at us. “You had horses in that? I thought they got all the stock out?”

“Nialla’s dowry is two leapers, and one of them got a frog singed and enough hide gone to make him look like an Appaloosa. Give me your opinion.”

“Of what? The wife or the horse?”

He had the lower half of the stall door part open when he got a good look at Orfeo. He backed hastily out and closed the hatch. “Are you kidding, Rafe Clery? That’s . . .”

“That’s Orfeo’’ I said, more sharply than I meant to, and brushed past the vet into the stall.

“Orfeo, is it? Orfeo!”

“Orfeo!” Rafe’s eyes danced at the man’s confusion and hesitation.

Glen took a deep breath and cautiously entered. Orfeo slowly regarded the newcomer.

“Christ, what’s that now?” Glen demanded as Dice suddenly uncoiled himself from the shadows of the corner.

“The cat is Eurydice,” Rafe said, his face straight.

Dice wove his way through Orfeo’s legs and sniffed at the doctor, backing off as he smelled the antiseptics and aromatics clinging to the man’s Levis. However, he did not raise his hackles, although he voiced a mild complaint about the disturbance. Orfeo swung his head down, whiffling at Dice, who made one further cryptic comment before retiring to his corner, where he observed the proceedings quietly.

“Coon cat, huh? Well, it oughn’t to surprise me this black devil has an uncommon familiar.”

MacNeil had mastered his reluctance, and crooning softly to the gelding, hoisted the damaged hoof, tapping at it carefully and then angling it so he wasn’t standing in the shadow of the stall light.

“Another week might just heal it,” he remarked, checking the hoof itself, mumbling approval that someone had stripped off the shoe. He ran gentle fingers over the other evidences of the fire. “You’d’ve thought fire wouldn’t mark one of its own.”

“Orfeo was horribly mistreated,” I said, stung to speech.

“Never seen him look better or calmer, Mrs. Clery. How’d you tame him?” Glen glowered at me, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes that disclaimed his appearance.

Rafe cleared his throat as if he didn’t want the conversation to take that turn. “Soaks, Glen?”

“You bet. What was the Sunbury man giving him by way of tranquilizers and medication? And, by the way, put the quietus on any brush or refuse fires for a bit. We don’t need to stir up unpleasant memories in this boy, do we?”

The two men exchanged a glance of past experience which I knew neither would explain to me. I’d seen my father look that way at another man—a closed, men-only, questions-unsolicited look.

The vet gave Orfeo a thorough check, grunting occasionally as the horse submitted without resistance. He was shaking his head as he signaled us out of the stall.

“I know it’s the same horse, Mrs. Clery, but I’d swear it wasn’t.” Then he snorted, rather like a restive horse himself, as he eyed Rafe’s arm around my waist. “Seems your soothing influence extends to more than horses and cats!” His perpetual frown lifted in another of his beamish grins. “You brought him two horses?” he asked pointedly.

Rafe laughed and gestured toward Phi Bete’s stall. She, coquette that she is, put her head out and farruped at her visitors. She looked inordinately pleased with herself, her hide shining like dark amber, her eyes rolling as she tossed her head against MacNeil’s caress. “Fine mare. Fine girl! Going to breed her?” 

“Not with that crowbait stallion of yours, Mac,” Rafe replied.

“I was talking to your wife, Clery. She’s got a mind of her own as well as an eye for horseflesh.”

“I bred her myself, but I want to jump her for a while.” I glanced at Rafe, not really sure what my plans were for Phi Bete.

“Don’t mind him, Mrs. Clery, he’s just miffed because I bought Galliard right out from under his nose at an auction. What’s her blood?” 

“Professor D out of Smart Set.”

“Say, you know Marchmount’s been staying at the big house. You aren’t going back to jockeying to give him a hand, are you? Seems his colors haven’t been doing so well lately.”

“I’m out of racing.”

“Except steeple racing,” MacNeil said in a sour tone of disapproval. “Well, I’ll send over some more tranquilizers for the black.” And he left.

“You’d like to steeplechase Orfeo?”

“The notion has certainly entered my mind since I won your hand in marriage, ma’am.” And Rafe’s accent was pure Kaintuck. “That is, if you really need an ulterior motive or two.” His eyes dared me to challenge him.

“Boss?” Jerry leaned out of a nearby box stall. “You going to ride the bay?”

Rafe gave me a squeeze. “Your turn to watch me work . . . and marvel.”

He gave the bay gelding a bruising workout in the jump ring, the big animal fighting him at every jump approach, standing his jumps occasionally in an effort to-thwart Rafe. Jerry and the two boys drifted to the ringside and off again, watching the fray, Jerry occasionally using body English along with Rafe’s efforts to curb the bay’s tendency to run out of the jump. (The gelding had a particular dislike for the brush fences.) The young Dennis blew only two bubbles on his gum, and then forgot to chew as he watched, and the other boy never dragged on the cigarette he was smoking. For when Rafe said he was a horseman, he had every right to capitalize the H. He was. The bay jumper stood seventeen hands in the shoulder or I’d lost my ability to judge; the gelding was nearly as broad in the chest as Orfeo, and certainly as well sprung, but the bay was rebellious. If he’d been Rafe’s previous candidate for any steeple chasing, no wonder the man had hesitated. You couldn’t expect to win on a horse that fought every direction of hand or knee; you needed one that would swerve pile-ups, take off-center jumps without shenanigans about when or how. Though the bay obviously had bottom enough for the arduous jump racing. No, Orfeo was the horse for Rafe. With my blessing now I’d seen him handle the bay. In spite of the amount of frustration, Rafe had rarely used his spurs, relying more on the crack of his riding bat to dissuade the gelding’s notions. His hands on the bridle were firm, not rough, and despite the swearing phrases in which he addressed the horse, there was no hint of anger or impatience; sound but no fury.

Both horse and rider were wringing wet at the end of the session, but I felt better. Rafe had no sooner given the lathered bay to Jerry to walk than a gong sounded mellowly from the direction of the house.

“Good, I’m starved. Damned gelding pulls like a dredger,” he added, slapping the flank of the bay in a “well-done.” “We’ve time to shower. That was the warning gong. I hate to sit down sweaty if I’m not riding again, and we’re going shopping this afternoon.”

Actually we showered together, which was a unique experience for me, Rafe barking like a seal and making like a porpoise. I’d never thought showering could be sexy, too. Then he suddenly “turned off’ and began kneading the muscles along my shoulders. With a slap on my fanny, he pushed me toward my clothes and strode off to get dressed.

I wondered how he’d learned to departmentalize the various facets of his personality. It must be a gift. Would I ever learn every side of the man? Much less know the appropriate response to each of his moods. Please God I never hear him address me as he had his mother ... his mother? It must be his stepmother. I naturally dressed in green, a sheath that unfortunately showed the splotchy burns, but I couldn’t stand anything over the ones that had opened during the morning.

Rafe came out of the dressing room, his heavy hair still shining wetly, but neatly combed and parted. He had on another of his elegant pairs of pants and an electric-blue Italian knit pullover which enhanced his tan as well as his eyes. He looked disgustingly vigorous considering his exertions.

He tucked my arm under his. It had come to my notice that Rafe always kept in touch with me. And he wasn’t being possessive, exactly. Hadn’t one of the therapy groups stressed the point that tactile communications were as important as verbal ones? I’d rather thought we’d established communication on several levels rather satisfactorily. The habit, however, was nice, a sort of “Hey, here I am!”

Succulent aromas dominated the hot-water/soap/clean-clothes odors in the room, and I felt downright starved. We were halfway down the stairs when the second gong rang.

Mrs. Garrison served us a tasty casserole of vegetables and sausages, hearty food for hard-working people, with a salad and a lemon meringue pie that stood six inches from the pan. Peanut butter and jelly, fare thee well! We talked of horses and MacNeil, of how to school Maisie, and we decided I’d ride her next, as horses” respond differently to each rider. I told Rafe I’d like him to exercise Phi Bete. I didn’t want to make her a one-rider horse.

We took off for the shopping tour in the Austin-Healey. The stores were grouped around the railway-station plaza in Locust Valley, which was not much of a town—actually a village, in the way western settlements never are. The architecture was consistent, just missing the cutesy, and the merchandise appropriately priced for the clientele—high. So were the antique stores and the specialty shops. Unused to being able to buy something that wasn’t absolutely essential, it took Rafe’s good-natured prodding, and sometimes high-handed manner, to get me to make up my mind. And then he’d add the gaudy sandals I’d hesitated over or the medallioned belt I’d fingered. The Austin-Healey’s back was jammed with packages by the time we’d finished. I had not only the underclothes I’d really needed, but five nightgowns and three wild muu-muus (for “schlepping around in”—Rafe had grinned lewdly), enough sandals and shoes for a different pair every day, four bathing suits (no caps, because Rafe didn’t care if my hair got into his pool’s filters). I didn’t remember seeing a pool, but I also didn’t cavil. Wonderful what unlimited funds will do to a gal’s notions of shopping. There were five shirtwaist dresses, Villager and Norwich—Rafe said they suited the country image of me.

“There’s a pretty good tailor nearby at Le Shack; he’ll do some things for you in good fabric,” Rafe said, “but that can wait a day or so.”

The very idea of having clothes tailor-made for me was utterly fascinating.

“Right now, I want to get over to the saddle maker in East Norwich and get you some proper boots, a couple of pair of breeks, and a jumping saddle.”

We were pulling out of the parking space when a deep blue Cadillac convertible came within an ace of removing the rear half of the Austin. I’d been half-turned in that direction, as one does in a passenger seat when one’s used to being the driver, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the Caddy’s wide front just as the brakes shrieked.

Before the Austin had stopped bucking, Rafe had jumped out and was striding angrily toward the Caddy, mouthing oaths.

“Only you would pull such a half-assed trick, Madam. If you’re high again, I swear I’ll take steps.”

Even before I had had a chance to twist around, I knew by the tone of his voice who the driver was.

I did not expect to see the bubble-haired blonde woman from the Charcoal Grill, and I certainly didn’t expect to see Louis Marchmount sitting beside her, swallowing nervously and pale beneath his cultivated tan.

Equally evident was the fact that the woman was Rafe’s mother, not his stepmother, for the facial resemblance was marked: the same set of the same blue eyes, the same straight nose and squared chin. But with the similarity of feature the resemblance ended. She looked young enough to be his sister. I’d’ve been happier if she were: a mother isn’t supposed to hate a son that way.

“Well, Ralph, is that the new wife I understand you married out of hand in Sunbury? You might at least have had the courtesy to forewarn me. Particularly with Bess Tomlinson as matron of honor. The Hammonds must be enjoying a good laugh at my expense.” Her voice carried clearly. She meant it to. “Present her to me.” She turned her head to Louis Marchmount and added, “I shall have to have a reception for the girl, and I only hope she’s at least presentable this time.”

There was no expression on Rafe’s face as he handed me out of the car.

“Madam, may I present my wife, Nialla?” She raked me with a searching stare, stripping me of any confidence, as she perceptibly sneered at the marks on my arms and legs. Then her eyes narrowed angrily. “Well?” she demanded, rattling her fingers on the steering wheel in a peremptory fashion. “Surely you see Lou and remember how to make formal introductions.” “My wife already knows Lou.”

“I do?” and to my utter astonishment, Louis Marchmount stared at me without a trace of recognition. He recovered himself and elevated his body a few inches from the car seat. Always the gentleman. “I apologize, m’dear. Can’t think where we could have met.”

“Nialla’s father was your trainer for five years, Lou. Russ Donnelly.”

Oh—-why did Rafe have to say that? But for the steely grip of his hand around my elbow, I think I would have slid to the ground.

Louis Marchmount’s hand went to his forehead, his eyes blinked rapidly. He was plainly disconcerted with this information, and peered at me again, frowning, trying to correlate fact with memory.

“I’m terribly sorry, m’dear. Haven’t been well, you know. Awfully embarrassing. Really. Wendy?” There was a plaintive note in his voice.

“How could you, Ralph? I won’t have Lou upset. He’s not well.” She stepped on the gas, and the Cadillac took off like a drag-racer, one tire scraping against the high curbing of the exit, leaving a touch of burned rubber in the air.

“It’s to be hoped she’ll drive herself to death one day,” Rafe remarked as the car vanished.

I leaned against the Austin, taking a deep breath, trying to assimilate the impacts of that encounter. Wendy Madison hated her son: she loathed and despised him, and evidently took any and every opportunity to belittle and humiliate him. And Louis Marchmount did not remember a girl he’d raped less than a year ago. He couldn’t have been feigning it; he actually didn’t remember me.

“Well, will wonders never cease?”

I stared at Rafe, amazed at his reaction, at the laughter in his eyes. He laughed outright, for I guess I looked my astonishment.

“Marchmount didn’t recognize you, and she was remarkably polite. You know, I wonder if Garry isn’t right, and she’s after Lou. ‘I won’t have Lou upset.’ “ His mimicry was appallingly accurate. He had seated me back in the Austin, and as he closed the door, planted a kiss on my head. “Otherwise, I can assure you, Nialla, she would have tried to reduce the pair of us to sniveling, groveling impotence. Which is one of her favorite pastimes. But if she’s bemused by Marchmount...”

I caught his hand as he reached for the ignition switch.

“But don’t you see, Rafe, if Marchmount doesn’t recognize me, then who . . . ?”

“Who what?” He’d been following his own line of thinking while I was off on the tangent most vital to me. “Hmmm. We need a drink, and home’s too far. Caminari’s is close by.”

Caminari’s turned out to be a large Tudorish restaurant, complete with ivy, on the corner of the main intersection (if you could call it that) of Locust Valley. But the maitre d’ was obviously well acquainted with Rafe Clery, and we were ushered to a small table by the wide windows that overlooked an attractively landscaped parking lot.

I certainly wasn’t the least bit interested in the damned parking lot, but the speed with which the daiquiris appeared at Rafe’s command was therapeutic. And he was in command again. For one brief moment there, with his mother, I had felt insecure in his presence. Silly, on reflection. He was wary of his mother, not cowed or awed. Though why he felt obligated to return courtesy for brickbats, I don’t know.

“I had hoped,” Rafe began after the waiter had retired, “that we could avoid an engagement with Madam, my mother, for a while.”

“She doesn’t look old enough to be your mother,” I blurted out, startled that that was the dominant impression.

Rafe gave a snort. “Madam can afford the best surgeons, m’dear.”

Face-lifting, of course. But her figure ... “She can also afford a masseuse and anything else her heart desires, up to and including Louis Marchmount.” There was a world of disgust in Ms voice now, and his eyes, gazing past my left shoulder, reflected a cynicism I hated to see in him.

“I hate to see the way she affects you.”

Rafe looked at me in surprise. “She doesn’t affect me.”

“You’ve never heard your voice when you’re talking to her.”

He gave me a very level look, apparently digesting a novel thought. “I guess she does affect me ... up to a certain point. I let her strictly alone, but she doesn’t always return the courtesy. She’s big on courtesy!”

He was off again, in some . . . some purgatory of her making. Then his eyes snapped back to mine, as if he’d arrived at a decision. He leaned toward me and began to speak in that cold emotionless tone he always used when discussing anything connected with his mother.

“Sordid biography, Chapter Two. Wendy Herrington has been, in order of their appearance, Mrs. Michael Clery, Countess Milanesi, Lady Branegg, Mrs. Horvath, and Mrs. Madison. Widowed honorably twice, Mexico three times. I have a full younger brother, Michael, half-brothers John Milanesi and Presby Branegg. Mick is a partner in a good corporation law firm. He and his wife—they’ve five kids—rarely come to the island. Pres has just finished Yale and is ‘looking for a job,’ and Giovanni has some position with the American branch of his father’s textile firm. Mother always married more money.

“Strangely enough, I think my mother really loved Michael Clery. If he’d lived, she’d be a much different person. But he didn’t. And she isn’t. I was rising six when he died, and I’ve only a few memories of him. Unfortunately.” The dead light in his eyes altered slightly. “I keep to the Dower House because I found you can’t combine her sort of ‘fun’”—his opprobrium was scathing—”with serious riding. I put up the Cyclone fence to limit social intercourse.” He looked at me again. “She’s mucked up my life too often, so that I limit the association to those occasions which are unavoidable in view of our unfortunate blood relationship. You need only accord her such civility as convention requires. And if she ever singles you out for her attentions, any attention, I want to know if I’m not present. Do I make our position clear in regard to Mrs. Wendy Madison?”

I nodded, because my tongue was very dry. Even the way he outlined his relations with his mother upset me.

“Good!” He raised his glass, and I hurriedly sipped mine to wet my throat. “Now,” he went on, “about Marchmount’s failure to recognize you. Had he seen much of you when your father worked for him?”

I thought that was an odd question. After all, the man . . , “No, actually, he hadn’t seen that much of me. Dad usually went up to the house if he had anything to discuss with Mr. Marchmount. He rarely came to the stables the way Mrs. du Maurier had.”

“Hmmm. And with your hair that stupid shade”—he gave me a look of affectionate disgust—”he’d not be as likely to recognize you . . . particularly in his condition.”

Louis Marchmount hadn’t seemed drunk to me. He was the kind of man who was a very boisterous drunk: I used to hear his whinny of a laugh when he gave pool parties. No, he’d seemed . . . sort of dissociated.

Rafe drummed his fingers on the table, just the way his mother had tapped the steering wheel.

“But, Rafe, he . . .”

There was just a shade of amused condescension in Rafe’s grin.

“I think you have been refining too much upon that unfortunate incident, Nialla. I can’t remember the face of every girl I’ve slept with, and Lou Marchmount is way ahead of me. Only because he’s been around longer.”

Shock battled with outraged humor, and I ended up giggling.

“It’s not a trifling matter, Rafe.”

He pretended remorse. “For him, it was.” He grabbed my hands. “Honest, dear heart”—and his expression became serious—”I’m not being heartless: I’m realistic. I couldn’t care less that your virginity was gone when I married you. I only regret you lost it under such circumstances and that it affected you so adversely. But if you thought you were branded, Lou Marchmount’s lack of recognition ought to ease your mind.”

“It doesn’t, because now he knows who I am. And he’ll surely remember that he raped Russ Donnelly’s daughter because she needed money to clear her father’s name.”

“As I gather you were a scared virgin. I’d say with confidence he’s not likely to want to remember that attempt under any circumstances. Particularly if he’s courting my mother. . . . Did you ever get the money? You never told me.”

“Oh, you’re impossible!”

“Well, did you take your ill-gotten gains?”

“No. I’d never touch it in a million years.”

Rafe frowned. “Then you never saw Caps Galvano again?”

“I left that night, bag, baggage, and mare.”

“Curiouser and curiouser. But you’re sure you saw Caps Galvano at Sunbury?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly when?”

“The first night you took me out. He was standing by the exhibitor’s entrance to the grounds. He didn’t look at me.”

“But you passed close enough to him so that there’s no doubt in your mind that you saw Caps Galvano?”

“Have you met him? Well, then, you know that no two people could stand like that. Sort of S-shaped. And he was wearing a cap.”

Rafe grinned sourly. “Not that same houndstooth monstrosity?”

“No, it was gray, but the same style. I’ve never seen him without a cap.”

“Are you sure that Galvano didn’t recognize you?”

“Positive. His eyes sort of slid across my face and immediately away like ... he couldn’t care less. I should have been warned then.”

Rafe turned the daiquiri glass around and around. “That complicates things, doesn’t it? Actually, Galvano always had a memory for money owed him and horses. Did he ever see your mare?”

“He must have. He was always hanging around the stables when Dad wasn’t there. He knew every horse Marchmount owned, and Phi Bete was stabled with them.”

“He’s one helluva long way from the West Coast, and there isn’t a racetrack near Sunbury. Unless he’s still running Marchmount’s errands for him.” Rafe sighed. “And while I don’t put it past Galvano to slit the girth or honk the horn, why the fire? Unless it’s not Galvano behind it. I certainly don’t see him as a murderer. He’s a sneak, a pimp, a bet welcher, and a stoolie—but a murderer? For what motive? Your father never had anything to do with him?”

“Of course not.”

He patted my hand reassuringly. “Michaels may be right, then—that you  know  something you  don’t think you know.”

“And Marchmount is the murderer?”

Rafe brushed that notion aside with an impatient gesture. “Their appearance at Sunbury may just be a coincidence. Marchmount hasn’t had enough grip on reality to murder a fly; lechery is his style. Sorry. Now, look, Nialla, take a swig of your drink and let’s do some objective reviewing. Forget it was your father who was killed. Pretend you’re describing a TV play, one of those fraught with symbolism and allegory, so that every bit of the scenery is relevant to the script.”

I wanted to say that I’d been over every detail of that day with the police; I’d relived its horror a hundred sleepless nights, but I had no more chance of refusing Rafe’s request than the bay had of refusing a fence with him riding.

“Dad had been down at Tijuana with the racers. I was at college. ...”

“Marchmount hadn’t been winning much, had he?”

“No, but I know he wasn’t dissatisfied with Dad. He knew his previous man hadn’t been all that good. I don’t mean to say that Dad was so fabulous . . .”

“Russ Donnelly knew his flat racers, Nialla, and better still, he knew who to put on ‘em to win.”

“Honestly, he hadn’t much winner material in Mr. Marchmount’s stables when we got there. But there were four very promising three-year-olds, and Mr. Marchmount certainly acted pleased. I mean, I know he was backing his own colors heavily.”

“Hmmm, Too heavily?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Rafe. You know, Dad never talked much about the betting end of racing. You weren’t thinking that maybe it was a quarrel between Mr. Marchmount and Dad? It couldn’t’ve been, because Mr. Marchmount didn’t come back from Tijuana until the next afternoon. He couldn’t get a flight out.”

“And Galvano?”

“I don’t know when he got back. I didn’t see him until that night . . . that night I fell for his con game.”

“We digress. Let’s go back to your father returning from Tijuana.”

“Well, he called me just after I got back from my eleven-o’clock class and told me to come home. He wanted to talk to me right away.”

“You said he was furious.”

“He was absolutely seething with anger.”

“And Russ had a very high boiling point. But when he did get mad . . . What did he say?”

“That he wanted to talk to me and to come right home.”

“Nothing more?”

I shook my head. “There didn’t seem to be any need for more. I thought I’d be seeing him ... in an hour, tops.”

“Of course, dear heart. Take a drink and go on. You drove home. How long did it take you?”

“At that time of day, just under an hour.”

“Then?”

“I got to the house.”

“How’d your father get from Tijuana? Train? Plane? Car?”

“He had the stable station wagon. He usually took that with him.”

“He’d driven that home? Where was it?”

“Pardon?”

“Where was it when you got home? In the driveway?”

“No, it was down by the stable. That’s why I went there when I realized Dad wasn’t in the house.”

“Notice anything about it?”

“Should I have?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I gather the police never uncovered a motive?”

I shook my head. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

“And now three attempts to injure you suggest that someone thinks you know something you don’t know you know.”

“They’ve had over a year to kill me.”

“But you hightailed it out of San Fernando, my dear, dyed your hair, and changed your name. It would take time to find you . . . and recognize you. And”—he pointed a short stubby forefinger at me—”neither Louis nor Galvano did at Sunbury. Ergo, I don’t think they were after you. Now, you’ve discovered the station wagon. Describe it.”

I tried to picture that scene in my mind. It wasn’t easy, because I had so deliberately blotted out that whole period. Rafe let me think, not even touching me, though I was conscious of him, a bulwark against the terror and insecurity of those awful days.

“The station wagon was parked by his office. And the 
tailgate was down.”

“Anything in the load bed?”

“Nothing except some loose hay. Dad always took his own hay to Tijuana, you know. He got sold some moldy timothy once.”

“Then why was he bringing hay back to San Fernando?”

“It was just loose stuff.”

“Go on.”

“I looked into his office.”

“Anything out of place?”

I shook my head. The office had looked undisturbed. I’d been sure of that, because the police had questioned me over and over about his files. Was something missing? Would I know? Where had Dad kept records of his bets? Did he have an off-track bookie? They simply hadn’t believed at first that Dad did not bet on horses. He didn’t believe in it. Superstition. Once in a great while he’d place a carefully considered fiver on a promising yearling if he’d no horses in the race. Or he’d tell me to if I liked, but according to Dad, you just didn’t bet on your own entries.

“The police questioned you about it, I gather?” 

“Endlessly. They were sure that was the motive for Dad’s murder, and, Rafe, they said the most awful things.

They insisted he must be fingered by the Mafia. They tried insisting that Dad had doctored the Marchmount entry to win.”

“That would have made your father seethe.” 

“If you think for one moment my father ...” 

“Christ, Nialla, I’m not even remotely suggesting he did. Remember, I rode for Donnelly. Don’t waste your bristle on me. But you said that your father was livid with rage. If someone suggested he’d fixed a horse, he would be, and rightly so. Now, did a Marchmount entry win at Tijuana about then?”

“Yes, the one three-year-old Dad had ready. But he hadn’t been doctored!”

“Don’t overreact, dear heart. Only a fool would try that stunt, particularly so close to the Dr. Fagin nonsense. But something must have prompted that line of inquiry? Anyone strange hanging around the stables?”

“Honest, Rafe, I don’t know. I lived at college during the week, and came home weekends only if Dad was there.”

He patted my hands and then signaled the hovering waiter for another round. Abruptly I remembered that we were, after all, in a public place, however deserted it might be at this unfashionable hour.

“Okay, now let’s abandon that tangent and go back. You looked into the office, and nothing was amiss. So then what did you do?”

“I went into the stables.”

“And , . . ?” I could no more escape Rafe’s insistent questioning than I could now escape total recall of that strangely distorted hour.

The stable had been cool and dark after the blazing California sun in the yard. The stable had smelled of sweat, grass, and horses. I’d called Dad. I’d called again, louder, when I didn’t get an immediate answer. I’d even gone to the pasture door, to see if he was out there. It was then I’d heard the scuffling above, in the hayloft.

“I couldn’t imagine what Dad was doing up there.”

“But there was hay in the wagon bed?”

“Oh, you mean, someone had sold him bad hay at home?”

Rafe shrugged.

“That wouldn’t have made him leave racers at Tijuana.”

“So?”

“Then I climbed the ladder to the. loft.”

“More than one way up?”

“Yes.” And I grimaced, because if I’d kept my wits about me instead of having hysterics when I discovered Dad was dead, I might have seen and identified his killer leaving by one of the other exits. “It’s a big loft. Three ladders up, and the main loft door.”

“Go on.”

This was the hard part. I swallowed. “The loft door was open: I remember that. And there was hay scattered all over. And Dad was spread across three bales, the pitchfork going up and down. . . .”

Rafe’s grip hurt me, but I needed the pain. Just then the waiter set two more drinks in front of us. I drank almost half of mine.

“So,” Rafe said in a quiet voice, “whoever had killed your father had managed to wipe his fingerprints from the handle and leave by any one of three ways, eliminating the ladder you’d used.”

Rafe shook his head angrily, as if he was annoyed with himself. He frowned deeply again, his eyes dark with shifting thought.

“Now, a slit girth wouldn’t necessarily have resulted in a fatal accident,” he said at last. “A horn might have put your horse off, possibly resulting in your falling and injuring yourself.”

“And a barn burning around my head?” I instantly regretted my sarcasm.

“Meant to frighten you, Nialla, not kill you.”

“The difference is slight.”

“True, but vital. And blackmail is not outside Caps Galvano’s talents.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rafe’s expression was patient. “He extorted money from you the first time. . . .”

“But, Rafe, I was down to peanut-butter sandwiches.”

“That’s true.” Then he glanced severely at me. “You mean Russ didn’t have any insurance?”

“Yes, but ...” I felt so foolish I wanted to sink into the ground. “I never thought about it when I left. They’d told me something about probate.”

“Russ did have a will?”

“Yes. It was in the safe-deposit box, but that was all sealed and things because of the murder.”

“And you’ve never written to the lawyer or bank, claiming your inheritance?”

I flushed and mumbled that I hadn’t. I couldn’t bear Rafe grinning like that.

“We’ll get on to that first thing. I rather think you’d feel more comfortable if you did have some money of your own, Nialla, though God knows you’re welcome to all I have, dear heart.”

His fingers stroked my palms gently until I finally could look him in the face. Oh, God, how I loved him.

“And Caps knew there was money?” I asked instead.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. The theory makes more sense than a murderer seeking you out, particularly when none of those incidents could have proved fatal.”

“One did. Pete Sankey’s dead.”

“And if that is Caps Galvano’s work, we still don’t have to worry. It’s in the capable hands of Lieutenant Michaels now.” He drained his glass and motioned me to do likewise.

“It’s all so sordid, Rafe. So vile. Louis Marchmount and Caps Galvano are alive, and good, decent men like my father and Pete Sankey, who was only doing me a favor . . .”

“Easy, Nialla. Let’s go home now.”

“And you.” I resisted his attempt to pull me from the chair. “You’ve done me a favor, too, Rafe Clery. What’s going to be your reward?”

He raised his eyebrows in that sardonic way of his when he’s amused with the antics of someone.

“Dear heart, Rafe Clery does favors for no one. And I can take care of myself . . . and you!”

He set his jaw, and bowing, offered his hand to me again.

“Sure, Mr. Clery,” echoed, unsaid, in my ears.

7

He referred once to that conversation on the way home, to inform me that he’d call Michaels and tell him that Galvano had tried a con game on me in California and was obviously setting me up again. He appeared to have a great deal more confidence in Lieutenant Detective Michaels than I did, but then, I’d had a disastrous confrontation with certain law-and-order elements, and my judgment was a trifle prejudiced.

Rafe drove into the stable yard instead of up to the house.

“First I’m going to take you to the dogs, dear heart,” he said. “ ‘Bout time, too.”

As if they knew they were about to be visited, (the deep canine voices raised a greeting. Rafe ushered me lout of the stable yard, to the right, where a large enclosed run was partly sheltered by huge, long-needled pines and the side of the stable. The dogs were hysterically barking and leaping frantically up the ten-foot fence, but it was not our arrival that had excited them.

Calmly, with great precision of step, Dice was touring their pen on the upper bar. He seemed completely unconcerned by the efforts of the two large silver shepherds, oblivious to the snapping jaws that came rather close to his daintily placed feet. It was as arrant a display of confidence as I’ve ever seen, though I didn’t in the least doubt that Dice could have tangled with both dogs and emerged alive. Quick as shepherds are, they’re no match for the agility of an old campaigning torn.

“Dice! That’s taking an unfair advantage. Get down here, you tease.”

Dice regarded me with some surprise on his white-masked face, and flicked his tail saucily.

“Dice!” Rafe said. “No nice roast-beef scraps! No more chicken hearts.”

He halted the insolent tail mid-arc, as if he believed the threat. He didn’t seem to gather himself, but the next moment there was the flash of white belly fur over our heads. The thick evergreen branch whipped up and down from such an assault. Dice’s complaints faded as he used the upper route to less parlous pursuits.

Rafe chuckled with delighted malice, and his eyes were dancing with mischief as he turned to me. “He’s a dirty infighter, too, isn’t he? But I won’t peach on you and tell the dogs you’re his.” He pulled me close enough to kiss my cheek.

I had to laugh.

The dogs, beautifully marked silvery shepherds, weighing a good hundred and twenty pounds apiece from the look of them, were respectively Dame and Demon. They came readily to Rafe on command, tails wagging, their irritation over Dice completely forgotten. I was introduced, duly inspected with slightly damp whuffles, and then ignored as the two vied for Rafe’s caresses. They all but knocked him over in an attempt to get his favor. He laughed and braced his legs against their enthusiasm, cuffing them playfully. They growled happily as they mouthed his arms and made to nip his ankles. After several passes he ordered them down, and they backed off, with much sheepish running of tongue around their chops. They’d been well trained.

As we left, they were already seeking the sun-warmed corner, circling the chosen spot before they dropped, to recline in Germanic dignity.

“Did you ever have a barn fire?” I asked as we walked back to the house.

“No.” But Rafe’s expression was grim. “But almost. And. that’s the kind of miss I’d rather keep a mile away. A couple of Madam’s cronies elected to take a toss in my hay a few years back. Albert happened to be up with a sick mare and went to investigate the noises in the loft. The goddamned fools were smoking, and one of ‘em tossed a lighted butt into the hay just as Albert got there. He smothered it before it could do more than light some chaff. I put the dogs in a year ago when there was a rash of vandalism and petty looting. Hard-liners will scale ten-foot fences to keep in their habit, but dogs make this farm very inhospitable. Let’s get your loot organized before dinner. I want to see you in something besides green, love.”

After Rafe had brought up all the packages, he muttered something about speaking to Garry and left me. It ought to have been fun for me to put away all the pretty things we’d bought together. Instead I found my pleasure soured by the disquieting scene with Rafe’s mother and  Marchmount. I was enervated by reaction. I could not dismiss the Sunbury accidents as easily as Rafe could, to the capabilities of Lieutenant Michaels. Nothing was that simple these days. And I had that awful “thing” about compensation. I’d the gift of Rafe’s protection, the prospect of the kind of life I’d always wanted, and for such riches I’d have to pay. Somebody’s Law of Equity.

But I’d better take my clues from Rafe. A glum, superstition-prone wife would not win his affections. And it was reassuring to think I had some money of my own, even if it was, in effect, blood money.

I put such thoughts out of my mind and dressed for dinner in one of the elegant new gowns. I could scarcely call anything at those prices “dresses.” I put on fancy sandals and a pretty necklace and earrings of dainty shells. I experienced a surge of pure feminine vanity as I looked at myself in the long mirror: by God, I looked like someone!

Mrs. Garrison served Someone and her husband a simple but elegant meal, starting with an excellent muttony broth, a flounder that was as tender and delicate as sole (she knew the man who’d caught it that morning off Lloyd’s Neck, where the flounders were running), and a whipped concoction guaranteed to put flesh on anyone’s ribs.

As she poured second cups of coffee, Rafe gave her a stern look. With a sigh and a slightly apologetic nod to me, she found her cup and joined us.

“Well, Mr. Rafe, Mr. Marchmount’s back. Came in on the afternoon train, and that friend of his arrived by car a little later on. Of course, I told Mrs. Palchi I couldn’t help out right now, but she said there was just them two more.”

 “That friend of Marchmount’s doesn’t wear a greasy gray cap, does he?”

“A greasy cap? Lands no, Mr. Rafe. He’s a foreign gentleman and dresses very well, Sam says, though he does favor wild California shirts and those indecent tight pants that flare out.” She seemed unaware that Rafe wore extremely close-fitting pants that flared out. 

“No caps in sight?” “None.”

“Can you find out if there has been such a type—racetrack-tout type?” Rafe asked.

“Now, you know perfectly well that kind wouldn’t get in Madam’s house, Mr. Rafe.”

“True enough,” he agreed amiably, “but I still want to know if such a type has been seen there since Madam took up with Marchmount.”

“That I can do easy enough,” she said, and finishing the last of her coffee, arose. “Of course, Mr. Marchmount gave Sam strict orders that he wasn’t seeing anybody.” 

“Oh?”

“That’s right. Sam’s to say that Mr. Marchmount isn’t there. Orders from Madam and Mr. Marchmount. Sam said he was slipped a twenty.”

Rafe made a grimace of surprise at me. “Any indication why?”

“Well, it seems as if Mr. Marchmount’s health isn’t too good. And that’s a fact, for Madam took him into a specialist Dr. Bauman recommended. All the way into New York. You ask me, it’s all that drinking and late hours for a man of his age. Can’t burn a candle at both ends, you know. Must say I never thought Madam’d waste so much time on a sick man. Would you be wanting any likkers?” (That’s the way she pronounced it, at any rate.) “Good brandy’ll settle all that rich food, come to think of it.” 

“Rafe!”

My outraged exclamation came on top of Mrs. Garrison’s, and Rafe ducked, utterly unabashed.

We took the brandies out to the veranda, watching evening close in, until the big trees blended with the dark sky. Lights came up in the stable yard suddenly, under lighting the foliage dramatically. We strolled down to the stable to check on the horses. Dice sprang from a straw-filled corner of Orfeo’s stall, prrrowwing softly with the inner contentment of a full stomach. I wondered how much flounder he’d had.

“You’re a naughty boy, bothering the dogs.” But I softened the scold by scratching his chin vigorously.

He pulled his head away, eyed me balefully, and jumped down. Rafe chuckled.

“Can’t tell that one a thing, can you?”

“Well, he’s been warned.”

Rate’s arm around my waist tightened. “‘I told you so,’ “ he chanted in a nasal nag.

“Dice’s not foolish.”

“I didn’t imply he was.”

“And he takes his job as stable cat to Orfeo very seriously.”

“I’ve noticed.” And Rafe was beginning to nibble my face with kisses.

The gong sounded, startling us both.

“Phone call.”

Mrs. Garrison was on the veranda when we turned the curve of the drive.

“There’s a phone call for Miss Nialla,” she said, sounding surprised and a little troubled.

“For me?”

“Probably Michaels,” Rafe muttered, his fingers closing around my arm reassuringly as we walked up the steps.

“Nialla Dunn Donnelly?” asked a man who was not Detective Lieutenant Michaels.

I glanced frantically at Rafe even as I stammered out a reply. Rafe mouthed something to Garry and then went up the stairs three at a time, but I didn’t hear the click of the upstairs extension.

“Heard you’ve been having some real uncomfortable accidents lately, Miss Dunn Donnelly. You need some protection.”

“Protection? I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person.”

“Oh, no I don’t,” the man said in a snarl. Did he sound like Caps Galvano? I couldn’t remember having heard Galvano over the phone. “I’ve got the right party, all right, sister. Had your saddle girth cut, didn’t you? Your gelding spooked? Yeah, sister, I’d say you needed protection bad.” 

“I have protection. I’ve got fences and guard dogs and a husband to protect me from con artists like you.”

From his end I heard a sort of surprised snarl and felt that I was handling him and his threats properly.

“High and mighty all of a sudden, ain’t you?” The vicious taunt was too confident. “Feel safe with fences and guard dogs. But how long will that fancy husband of yours protect you when he sees what I have to show him?” 

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t think so. Not with the photos I’ve got in front of me.” “Photos?”

“Yeah, some pretty, pretty pictures of you and someone else. In a pretty compromising position. In fact . . .” 

“You couldn’t have any such photos.” “Oh, couldn’t I?” The angry snarl was back in his voice. “You got a short memory, sister. The night of June eighteenth? . . .”

I slammed the phone down. He had to be lying. He had to be. I’d’ve seen a flashbulb go off. And the candles that Marchmount had insisted on couldn’t have given off enough light for a picture. I was trembling so badly I had to hold on to the phone table, and it wobbled. Mrs. Garrison came bustling in from the kitchen, and I wanted to run from her, but I couldn’t move. Oh, God, what did I do now?

“The nerve of some people!” Mrs. Garrison’s eyes were sparkling with indignation. She enfolded me in her arms, patting me on the back with comforting gestures. “How can they think of such filthy things? The very notion. . . . I’d heard of such people, peddling faked-up photographs, just to get money from nice people who don’t want their names ruined. But I never really believed such tales. How could anyone . . .”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t trace that call?” Rafe was bellowing. “You had enough time. No, I don’t need police authorization when I get crank calls. But, by God, the next time I ask you to trace a call, you better do it, my good woman, or you’ll be damned sorry you didn’t.
Threaten you? I don’t threaten! As you’ll find out.”

He was still damning the operator as he stamped downstairs, his eyes a brilliant blue. Then he caught sight of me, and his expression altered. He was down the last of the stairs and had me in his arms before the sob in my throat could be born. Mrs. Garrison’s comfort had been strangely debilitating; his embrace was bracing. I swallowed my fear.

And nearly choked on it as the phone rang again, shrilly, viciously. But Rafe grabbed it. From the violent look on his face I knew that it was the blackmailer. He listened for just a moment.

“No, buster,” he said in a deadly calm voice, “my wife is not coming to the phone. You’ve got me to deal with. What?” This time Rafe held the phone where I couldn’t hear. “No. No, bud, that won’t work. Send those photos to me if you feel inclined, send ‘em to The Daily News, wherever you want. But I tell you this, loud and clear, not one red cent would you get from me, and all you’ll get from the editors is a get-lost. So get lost. Shove it, boobie!”

He jammed the phone down on the cradle only long enough to disconnect that call, then began dialing again so hard the base jumped half across the table, until Mrs. Garrison steadied it.

“We can dispense with this kind of nonsense right now. Threaten my wife in my house, will he? He’s made another mistake.”

“You’re not calling the police?”

He paused, stared at me incredulously, and then dialed the last two digits. “You’re damned right I’m calling the police.”

“But, Rafe, if he . . .”

“There’re no ‘ifs’ in dealing with a blackmailer, Nialla. You give them one bloody cent, and you’ll be paying for the rest of your life.” The fury in his face faded a little, and he pressed my head against his neck. “I know what I’m doing, Nialla. Believe me, I do. Hello? This is Rafe Clery. I want to speak to Detective Michaels. No? Then have him call me back as soon as you locate him. How’s that?” The cords of his neck stood out against my forehead, and he didn’t seem to breathe for a moment. When he spoke again it was in that dead, cold, expressionless voice, the soft kind that no one ignores. “I’ll repeat my message. Loud and clear, Sergeant Cartland. This is Rafael Clery in Syosset. I expect to hear from Lieutenant Detective James Michaels within the next half-hour, because if I don’t, I know who to report.”

He put the phone down so deliberately there was only a faint clink when the plastic met the cradle.

I struggled away from him, bitter at such a betrayal. He caught me by the shoulders and held me, his eyes still blazing, his face grim.

“Nialla, you got sucked into paying off before, and what happened? Running didn’t do any good. It never does.”

“But he said he had pictures . . . Rafe, how could he?” Rafe’s eyes darted, warning me that Mrs. Garrison was there. I gasped and burst out crying.

“Exactly, Nialla. How could he?” He scooped me up in his arms, carried me to the sofa. “We need some brandy, Mrs. Garrison.”

“Rafe, there wasn’t any flash,” I cried when she’d left. “There wasn’t.”

“Whether there was or wasn’t isn’t the point, Nialla. Get a grip on yourself. I know what to do.” 

“But if he does send the photos . . .” “Nialla”—and he shook me, his hands hard and hurting on my arms—”can’t you get it through your head? Those shots aren’t worth anything to anyone but you. Your fear is his currency. D’you honestly think that one more pornographic photo is going to make any dent in what pours in to most rag newspapers? Well, if you were bedding Richard Burton, possibly.”

He held me more gently now, because even the notion of me in the same bed as Richard Burton was ridiculous. Just then Mrs. Garrison returned. She bore the brandy decanter and two crystal snifters on a silver tray, linen-lined. Somehow Richard Burton’s face was superimposed on hers, and I burst out giggling.

“That’s my girl,” Rafe said. He splashed a healthy jolt in one goblet and told me to take a good snort. I did, and it burned all the way down.

“Mr. Rafe”—and Mrs. Garrison’s lips were still thin with anger—”I’d be glad to stay the night.”

“Garry, I don’t think much of that character’s threats.”

“You certainly let him know where we stand, Mr. Rafe, but I’d rest a lot easier tonight here than I would in my bed at home, worrying whether that awful man could get in. You know what a light sleeper I am.”

Rafe grinned and patted her hand affectionately. “My top dragon! I think Nialla’d feel safer with all her loyal legions on hand. Wouldn’t you, dear heart?”

I felt tears threatening again, and I wondered if she’d feel the same intense loyalty if she knew how much truth there was to that awful threat.

“Awful man, awful man,” Mrs. Garrison murmured. “I’ll be right in the kitchen, Miss Nialla, if you want something else.”

Rafe started to rise, and when I reached after him, patted my hand. “Mobilizing the troops to repel invaders.” He dialed three numbers. “Jerry? I want the dogs out now, and if you can, I’d like you to stay on tonight. Shotgun detail. Ask Albert to bed down with the mare, right? And he’s to keep his ears open for the gelding’s stall. Yes, I know he won’t, but I’m only asking him to keep his ears and eyes open.” He listened, nodding once or twice as Jerry evidently repeated his instructions. Then he gave a snort. “No, Jerry. Not the big house. Our girth-slitting, horn-blowing, barn-burning friend is in the vicinity. Yes, I agree. Thank you!”

“Now, Nialla”—and there was something daunting in his face when he joined me on the sofa again—let’s sort this out for once and for all. You heard Mrs. Garrison’s reaction, and she listened to everything on the extension. I admit that you hung up before he got to specifics, but she didn’t believe him.”

“But . . . Rafe...”

“Shut up,” he advised, not unkindly. “His threat is aimed at compromising a bride, but I already know about Marchmount. All about him. Therefore those pictures could not affect us, you and me, because I wouldn’t let them.”

His strong fingers forced my head up. There were angry lines at his mouth, and the frown made him look older and fierce, but his eyes were dark and, I guess, sad.

“No matter how preposterous those photos are, I’ve 
seen worse. I know the type.” He gave an odd kind of a snort. “Hell, I even modeled for some at one point.” He snorted again at my gasp, and looked at me with a wry grin. “I’m not a nice guy, Nialla. I told you that. That’s right, shake your head, because nothing I say is going to change your opinion of me. Correct?” I nodded, and his smile curved up in a kind of smugly satisfied way. “Then, dear heart, using the same irrational logic, nothing can convince me you’re not a nice girl. Fair?”

I wanted to slap his face, and I wanted to laugh because he’d talked me so neatly into that trap.

“So”—and he cradled me in his arms with the air of someone who has won a decisive victory—”we now ponder those alleged feelthy pictures from another angle. Let’s assume, since that particular fateful night was mentioned, that Marchmount is the other body. Ergo, why isn’t our chum peddling his wares to Marchmount? Or is that why Marchmount is not at home at the big house?”

The phone rang. I jumped as if I’d been kicked. Rafe gave me a reassuring grin as he strode to answer it.

“Good evening, Michaels. I see Cartland got my message to you. Mrs. Clery just had a threatening phone call that I tried to trace, with no cooperation from the local operator. The extortionist had some compromising photos he told Nialla he’d send me unless he got paid off. Oh, yes, he mentioned the accidents, and when she wouldn’t grovel, brought up the photos. She hung up. He called back, and I answered. Told him just where he could put those faked photos. Nialla believes the blackmailer is Caps Galvano.” He glanced over to me, eyebrows raised until I nodded hasty confirmation. “Yes. Yes?” There was a rather surprised look on his face. “Nialla, you’re positive of your identification of Galvano?”

“If I wasn’t before, I am now, and you know why,” I said, speaking sharply. Fear and shame were fuel to my anger. “Why?”

“Michaels says the California police have Galvano listed as dead.”

“He can’t be.”

“She says he can’t be. When did he—ah—die, Michaels? Well, I’d find out the details. I wouldn’t trust that bastard to be dead until his body started to stink. I’m not telling you your business ... all right, I am”—and Rafe chuckled amiably—”but Nialla’s positive about her identification. And there are other reasons why I’d prefer you checked more thoroughly with the California, authorities on Mr. Galvano’s so-convenient demise.” He listened a moment. “All right, and also request the local Bell Tel to cooperate. Yes, I suppose Bob Erskine’ll have to know, but I prefer my own security measures to his, Michaels, and they’re in effect right now.” Another pause. “Well, thanks for that, too.” He said good-bye in a very cheerful voice and hung up, altogether looking pleased with the exchange.

“What was that last bit about? And how could Galvano be dead?”

“Yes, that’s very interesting, isn’t it?”

“What else was Michaels saying?”

“It’s turned out that Pete Sankey did have an idea who started that barn fire. Mentioned it to Mac at A-Barn and Budnell on Monday, which is the last time he was seen alive.”

“Then he got killed because of me. Galvano killed him. So Galvano isn’t dead. Dead men can’t kill. How convenient. Dead men can’t be executed, because they’re dead already. It’s the brandy, Rafe!” He’d grabbed me and shaken me. I think I was more appalled at the imminent hysterics than at my feeling of guilt for Pete.

“Listen, Nialla, not all the keening in the world -will bring Pete Sankey back, so don’t carry guilt for him. After all, you didn’t order him to go after the guy. And frankly, my dear, to jolt you out of that self-centered rut, Pete did it because horses were involved, not Nialla Donnelly. Pete didn’t think much of the human race, but deliberate barn burning was something no horseman can tolerate.”

He was right about Pete Sankey. And he was right about me, too, wallowing in self-pity and guilt.

“You’ve quite enough to worry about without taking on guilt for Pete Sankey’s death. That’s the trouble with being raised right”—and there was bitterness in Rafe’s face now—”you expect everyone to operate on the same rules you were raised to respect. The ‘all-men-are-brothers’ routine. You’re absolutely lost when something like blackmail or rape hits you, because ‘people don’t do such things.’ Take a swig,” he ordered me as he refilled our glasses.

“Worst lesson a parent can teach a child—love one another. Now, the ‘do-unto-others’ bit makes slightly more sense, although I hardly want you seducing Louis  Marchmount to get your own back, or blackmailing Caps Galvano. Goddamnit”—and Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring at the dark night beyond the windows—“why the hell is Caps bothering you? You’re small fry. Even your father’s insurance couldn’t have been more than ten thousand dollars—twenty thousand at the most. He must have reams of stuff on Marchmount if he’s taken to blackmailing. And why would he have to fake his own death? Unless . . .” He turned to me again, his eyes intense with his thoughts. “But why would a racetrack tout like Galvano need an ‘out’? Unless he had promised to doctor a Marchmount entry! Hmm. Nialla, when Galvano came to you, he sold you some story about trying to clear your father’s name? How did he know it needed clearing?”

“He said that’s what they were saying around the tracks. That Russ Donnelly ...”

“That’s all he said? There wasn’t anything in the papers about it?”

“Only, thank God, the usual bit about the police are following several leads. But Rafe, they were saying such things around the tracks. The grooms at the stable told me, and they were upset.”

“Hmmm. What else did Caps ask you?”

“Ask me? About what?”

“About how you found your father, and what the police wanted to know.”

“You think Caps was pumping me? You know, that’s odd. He did seem more interested in what questions the police were asking me. But honestly, Rafe, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“No, of course you weren’t, dear heart. Tell me, though, was Galvano questioned by the police?”

“Oh, yes, he said he was, but he’d been in Tijuana at the time.”

“So he says.”

“What are you driving at, Rafe?”

“I’m not quite sure, Nialla.” And he’d risen to pace back and forth in front of the sofa, swatting one hand into the other.

“You can’t possibly imagine Caps Galvano murdered my father? Why, Dad was half a head taller and a good thirty pounds heavier. That little slimy man ...”

“Yes, I know, Nialla.” Rafe sighed, shoving his hair back impatiently. “I guess it’s silly to try to relate the two things—your father’s death and this spate of accidents. Blackmail is Galvano’s line, and he found a quick buck in your situation and took it. He spotted you at Sunbury while he was trying to catch up with Louis Marchmount, and couldn’t resist the chance to pick up some spare money. Not knowing, of course, that you hadn’t collected your father’s insurance.”

“Or the money I was supposed to get from Marchmount.” The brandy was reaching me, because I began to giggle. “I guess blackmailers have to eat and pay rent somewhere. Even dead men, because he certainly couldn’t go make book at Belmont or Aqueduct without having his alibi exploded.”

“If that goddamned operator hadn’t been such a shit-head, we’d’ve at least known the general area he was in,” Rafe said, pausing to look down at me. “Drink that 
brandy.”

“I’m getting tight, Rafe.”

“I know. That’s my plan.” And he sat down beside me, filling the snifter. “I want you to sleep tonight, Mrs. Clery, and I won’t keep barbiturates in the house, so it’s drunk I’m getting you, dear heart.”

“If you get me drunk, I won’t know what’s going on.”

He gave me an odd sideways look. “Nothing’s going to go on, dear heart.”

I groaned, because I usually get more amorous when I drink.

“That’s a girl.”

In his artful way I think he coaxed half the decanter down my throat before he carried me up to bed. But by then I wasn’t seeing very straight. I remember getting into bed, and I remember his chuckle in my ear. I also remember being told to stop twitching, but I was warm and comfortable, and that was all I remember.

The barking of the dogs woke me to bright daylight. Woke me and Rafe. We both listened tensely, but their calls weren’t alarms; more like canine conversation, and soon stopped.

“Probably arguing over who gets which bowl.” Rafe rose and stretched leisurely. “How’s your head?”

“Fine! I never get hangovers.”

“I’ll remember that.”

And our second day started much as the first. When we got down to breakfast, though, Jerry MacCrate was propping up a cabinet, a mug of coffee in one hand. He was bleary-eyed and rumpled, but when we entered, he grinned broadly at me.

“Morning! You know what that cat of yours has done, Mrs. Clery?”

“I’d never’ve believed it myself,” Mrs. Garrison said, her smile widening into a chuckle that set her comfortable bosom bouncing. “What do you do to animals, Miss Nialla?”

“What’s more to the point, what has Dice done?” asked Rafe.

“Cowed those shepherds,” replied Jerry, relishing the effect.

“Cowed the shepherds?” Rafe was startled.

“Yessir. I always feed ‘em in the morning, you know. So I put down their food, turned around, and that damned—pardon me—cat came sauntering in as if he’d had an invitation. He walked up to Dame’s pan, took his own sweet time settling himself, and ate a little while she sat on her haunches and whined.”

It was so exactly the sort of trick that Dice had pulled on the Poiriers’ watchdog that I started laughing.

“And then,” Jerry continued, waiting until I had subsided a little, “and then, he went over to Demon’s pan and sampled that.”

“And then”—Mrs. Garrison took up the tale—”he came here and finished off a huge dish of scraps just as if he were starving to death and hadn’t been fed in a month of Sundays.”

“The big bowl was too hot, and the medium bowl was too cold, and . . .” Rafe began in a singsong voice, his eyes dancing.

“. . . And the enormous bowl was just right!” I capped it between spurts of laughter.

“Well, he’s like no cat I ever saw, boss,” Jerry said. “God, if I’d a dime for every cat those shepherds have chased off the farm, I’d retire.”

“The shepherds recognize class when they see it, Jerry,” I said as soberly as I could, for I could picture the actual scene clearly.

“And another thing, boss,” Jerry went on, equally serious, “d’you know, he was following me during the night? Every time I made the rounds, I’d catch a glimpse of them big eyes of his in the trees, or lurking in the underbrush. Damned near scared me silly the first time, and I almost let him have a blast. Only he meowed and came right up to me.”

“He’s the guy who watches the watchman,” I said.

“Your loyalest legionnaire,” Rafe supplied.

“It’s just that I worry about him if he’s got the dogs bamboozled,” Jerry said, shaking his head.

“I think you’ll find that the cat and the dogs have worked out some sort of an arrangement, Jerry,” I told him. “He used to patrol at the Poiriers’ farm in Pennsylvania. And their watchdog always let Dice sample his dish. He’d been on guard, too, after all.”

“I’ve heard everything.” Jerry did not believe everything, however. “Not that I doubt you, Mrs. Clery . . .”

“He’s a special breed of cat,” Rafe added. “A Maine coon cat, bred and trained to hunt raccoons.”

“Well . . .” And Jerry appeared able to accept that explanation.

“He’s used to hunting. He’s also far more intelligent than the common shorthair cat,” I went on. “But if it bothers you to have him prowling about, we can always shut him up in Orfeo’s box. He’s the one he’s supposed to watch, not you.”

“Oh, no, don’t lock the beast up,” Jerry told me, and I wondered from the look in his eye if he thought Dice might blame him for it. “Well, I’d better get some shut-eye.”

“Nothing to report?”

Jerry shrugged. “Not even much noise up at the big house. Nothing around all night, but that cat.”

Rafe nodded and thanked Jerry, who said he’d be back late this afternoon, and left.

We had a very pleasant breakfast, chatted with Mrs. Garrison. She hadn’t anything to report on odd types trying to see Mr. Marchmount, but evidently Madam was some exercised over something. Mrs. Garrison’s attempt at tactfulness only made her omission the more obvious. She might just as well have said that Wendy Madison was furious over Rate’s unexpected remarriage.

Well, I comforted myself, the people who apparently liked Rafe didn’t seem to be upset. Bess Tomlinson had gone to considerable trouble to be a part of the ceremony, and Mrs. Garrison, who certainly cared more for Rafe than his own mother did, was already “Miss Nialla-ing” me.

We inspected the stables and the pastures more thoroughly today. Rafe preferred jumpers, and he had two old pensioners in with the mares and foals. He didn’t have as many mares as he wanted, he said, but he was on the lookout for good breeding stock. We watched while Dennis Muldoon combed out Orfeo’s long full tail, which hadn’t been too badly thinned by the fire. Dennis also had the kind of voice, a baritone rumble, that horses prefer, and had been told to keep up a running commentary as he groomed. Orfeo stood quietly, lame hoof cocked as the boy toweled him to a high shine.

“I’ll have him back to soaking again, Mrs. Clery, but I think there’s an improvement already.”

Rafe tipped the hoof up, and the cinder mark was definitely on the mend. When the foot was released, Orfeo put it down squarely for a few moments before easing up again. He did it absentmindedly, as if from habit and not discomfort. Rafe slapped the black rump and kept stroking forward to the withers, until his fingers reached the relaxed ears. Aware of an unfamiliar touch, Orfeo gazed around. There was a kind of wondering expression in Rafe’s eyes as he returned the black’s diffident stare. Then Orfeo tilted his head slightly, so that Rafe’s ministering fingers caught an itchy spot at the base of one ear.

Rafe chuckled as he slapped the curving neck, and stepped back.

“He must be something over the jumps,” Dennis said admiringly.

“We’ll soon see.” Rafe’s eyes glowed.

Would I have riz/To where I now iz/If Orfeo hadn’t been mine? I paraphrased in my mind. Then I shook my head of such thoughts and walked on to greet Phi Bete, who was whickering urgently for my offering of carrot. She chomped happily, tossing ground carrot flecks at me. Albert had already curried her, for she shone like amber, her silky forelock neatly plaited and bouncing on her forehead.

I glanced into Orfeo’s stall. Dice gave a sleepy prrroww, his eyes gleaming from a dark corner for an instant before he resumed his nap.

I rode Maisie that morning, and she was a rough one. She tried every one of the same tricks on me she’d used with Rafe the morning before, and found me quite prepared to deal with her.

“She’s not very inventive, is she?” Rafe remarked as Albert led the pair away.

“No, but she’s got more scope than Sadie, if she’ll ever settle down.”

“Yes, that was my feeling, too. Next week sometime, we’ll give her a good workout on the big field,” and he waved past the barns to the right.

I glanced over my shoulder at a training ring that I’d thought rather complete.

“Oh, I’ve got ditches, drops, water jumps, a couple of downhill approaches, stone fences, real live hedge, not that plastic garbage they use in shows. A complete setup, if I say so myself.”

“A good ‘chasing ground,’” I heard myself saying.

Rafe turned sharply to me, his eyes watchful, and then he gave me a small smile.

“Yes”—and that tight smile relaxed into a broad grin— “and I can’t wait til you say I can try him!” That was a challenge. “Feel up to Rocking Lady?”

I was game for anything, even the workout the bay mare gave me. But my shoulders ached, and several burns smarted on my legs, irritated by perspiration. I was glad enough to hear the warning bell for lunch, though it didn’t seem to me as if the morning had passed that quickly.

As we got in the front door, Mrs. Garrison met us.

“Dr. Bauman’s office says they can give Miss Nialla a two-o’clock appointment, Mr. Rafe.”

“Not settling with the insurance people until I’m certain you’re sound of wind and limb,” Rafe told me when I glared at him. “Up to the showers, m’dear,” he said, pushing me toward the stairs. “Got the wolf cooked, Garry?” “The day you catch him, I’ll cook him,” she replied. By the time we got back from the doctor’s office, I was beginning to be sated with the constant-companionship routine. I hadn’t been alone in six days, except on the back of a horse, and that wasn’t exactly alone, after all. The doctor had dressed the opened burns with a few caustic remarks (didn’t Rafe know any diplomatic doctors?) about damned fools who don’t know when to take things easy. But my hemoglobin was up, and he’d estimate that another week—without undue strain on the burns—would see them healed. He ordered me to use A & D ointment or I’d have scars. Rafe listened with a half-grin on his face.

If I had “rested,” I’d’ve gone mad. I could forget about fires and slit girths on top of a horse—and in Rafe’s arms at night. But I felt a lot better leaving this doctor’s office than I had leaving the one in Sunbury. A few days off a solid diet of peanut butter is to be strongly recommended.

Michaels was in the living room when we arrived. Rafe noticed the coffee tray with slices of cake and some of Mrs. Garrison’s home-baked cookies and grinned. I doubted that Mrs. Garrison was likely to extend hospitality to just any police officer who identified himself. I agreed with her assessment of him, for he was so completely different from the breed of cop I’d contended with in San Fernando.

“Not a social call, I gather,” Rafe remarked dryly.

“I didn’t . . .” Michaels began, gesturing helplessly at the tray.

“Seal of approval, Michaels, not to worry.”

The man grinned then, which made him look less tired and drawn. I wondered if he had more than one suit and if he ever had time to get it pressed.

“Got a comprehensive on John, alias Caps, Galvano.” He handed me a sheaf of photos, typical police-type records, all the names blocked out. “Would you please see if you can find the man you saw at Sunbury among these?”

“Police line-up?” I asked? riffling through. Caps ought to be easy enough to spot, but my confidence was somewhat shaken when I came across the first likely candidate. Same weasel-type face; no, the nose was wrong. Then I got annoyed. They didn’t believe I’d seen Caps Galvano and were trying to trick me. I took my time. And when I did come to the photo, I was positive it was Caps; with or without the cap crammed down over his eyes, he was unmistakable. “This is John, alias Caps, Galvano,” I said in a tone I hoped would convey my irritation with this ploy.

Michaels gave me an apologetic nod as he took the photo.

“Now, if the gentleman will kindly remove the concealing label,” Rafe said in the manner of the TV-commercial announcer, but his eyes told me he wasn’t pleased either, “we will see which product this impartial witness chose.”

Michaels didn’t bother. “This is Galvano.” He grimaced. “The California authorities aren’t happy with his resurrection.”

“Why?” Rafe’s one word had the sharpness of a command.

Michaels sighed and leaned forward. “John, alias Caps, Galvano was presumed dead when a vehicle, registered in his name, went out of control on a hairpin turn and crashed into a canyon, where it burst into flame and exploded.”

“Convenient.”

“Yes. What was left to identify tallied well enough with Galvano’s physical statistics. So the verdict was death by misadventure. At the? time, the police had far more pressing matters than to worry about the erasure of a smalltime racetrack tout.”

“What pressing matters?” Rafe demanded.

“Last summer there was a massive crackdown on marihuana smuggling, and yet there was a huge supply circulating in San Fernando.”

“What did you say?”

Michaels was as startled as I was by Rafe’s explosive question.

“Did you say marihuana?” Rafe asked.

“Yes. You know, they’ve been tightening customs inspection all across the border to prevent drugs from being smuggled in. Marihuana in particular.”

Rafe crowed, slapping his knees. “Particularly marihuana. And particularly at Tijuana.” Rafe bounced to his feet, pointing at me. “Nialla, tell Michaels what you told me. About the hay in the station wagon?” He shook his head impatiently when I stared dumbly at him. “Nialla’s father always took his own hay with him to Tijuana. He had a spotless reputation, too. No harried customs officer would have bothered the Marchmount cars or transports. Yet the day Donnelly was killed, he’d come back from Tijuana unexpectedly. Nialla said he was furious when he called her to come home. When she got to the house . . . Go on, Nialla.”

I wasn’t sure yet what he wanted me to say.

“Sweetheart, about the hay. Sorry, Nialla.” And he’d whirled again to Michaels. “There was hay, hay, Michaels, in the station-wagon bed. And when Nialla got up to the loft ...”

“Yes, there was hay, loose and still in blocks, spread all around. And you don’t do that. You use just as many blocks in a bale as you need. I thought that was odd at the time.”

“Odd? Odd!” Rafe was more excited than I’d ever seen him. “As odd as the hay your father accidentally separated in Tijuana. Hay is grass, Michaels.”

I understood now. “You mean, someone was smuggling marihuana into the States in my father’s bales of hay?”

Rafe flopped onto the couch, smirking with satisfaction. “Exactly. And what a helluva clever way to smuggle keys of grass. God, how ingenious!” He leaned forward, striking off points on his fingers. “Donnelly’d undoubtedly bring more bales than he needed, and it would be no trouble at all for Galvano to stuff the keys in the hay blocks. Who’d suspect him? He was always around the Marchmount stables. Goddamn!”

“And you think Mr. Donnelly accidentally discovered the stash?” Michaels asked.

“What else? And came back to San Fernando to investigate. That’s what infuriated your father, Nialla. He’d be livid at being used that way.”

Yes, he would have, I thought. “Then who killed my father?”

“Galvano!”

“Oh, Rafe, he couldn’t ...”

“Nonsense, Nialla. Anyone can kill. There was a pitchfork handy. Makes a . . . Dammit, Nialla. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His arm was around me, his expression white with remorse. And all I could think of was “Do unto others.” I shuddered.

“It has to be Galvano, Michaels.”

“Why? It could have been the pickup man.”

“True. But why else would Galvano want to play dead?”

Michaels considered that, and shrugged.

“Okay,” Rafe went on grimly, “play the devil’s advocate. Galvano finds out that Russ has discovered the grass. Follows him back to San Fernando. Kills him. So let’s also assume that Russ has destroyed all that shipment. Galvano’s in a real bind now, man. He doesn’t have the grass, and he doesn’t have the bread to pay for it. And he’s got to answer. Sure, he’d rig an accidental death. For Christ’s sake, no one has connected him with Russ Donnelly’s murder yet. He even checked with Nialla to be sure she didn’t see him in the loft. But if she had, she’d’ve told the cops, so she hadn’t. My God, that little prick thought fast and smart. He even conned her into shelling out five hundred dollars.”

“He extorted money from Mrs. Clery in California?”

I held my breath.

“Galvano approached Nialla with some song and dance about helping her clear her father’s name.”

I shot a furtive look at Michaels. Was that enough to tell him?

“Then he comes back again for more money, five thousand, wasn’t it, Nialla?” I could only stare at Rafe, willing him to shut up now. “That’s why I think things were getting so damned hot for Galvano. He had to split.”

“Did you give him the five thousand dollars, Mrs. Clery?”

Numbly I shook my head.

“You realized he was extorting money from you on false pretenses?”

I could only shake my head.

“You didn’t report the attempt to the authorities . . .”

“Damn it, Michaels,” Rafe cut in, his voice rough with irritation, “the fuzz in San Fernando—I consider you a policeman, so you’ll understand the distinction I made— gave Nialla nothing but grief. They accused her father of everything from doctoring an entry to welching on a bet. Albeit they were trying to find a motive, but they hectored Nialla so much in the process that even a lousy con artist like Caps Galvano looked good. Of course she didn’t report it to the police. She left.”

“Actually, Mrs. Clery ought to have informed the authorities of her leaving.”

Rafe answered with a short expletive. Michaels looked at him for a long moment.

“There was no apparent motive, Mr. Clery, for Russell Donnelly’s death. There were no clues. The handle of the murder weapon had been wiped clean, and all other fingerprints in the loft were accountable. When Mrs. Clery disappeared without a trace, it was logical to assume she’d been murdered too.”

“Oh. That hadn’t occurred to me.”

Michaels smiled at me reassuringly. “If one’s alive, one doesn’t assume the authorities consider you the victim of foul play. But you should have told the police where you were going. They had some questions.”

“Questions?”

Michaels fumbled for a flimsy sheet in his pocket, clearing his throat as he scanned it. “There were deposits of one thousand dollars made to your father’s checking account on the first of September, the first of December, and . . .”

“My college money!” I stopped feeling contrite and got mad. “You mean they thought Dad was receiving payoff money.”

Michaels had the grace to blush. “They didn’t know what to think, Mrs. Clery. The amounts were suspicious.”

“They came from the legitimate sales of stock.”

“In even thousand-dollar lots?” Michaels asked.

“Yes,” I replied, so sharply that Michaels blinked at me. “Mrs. du Maurier advised Dad to start a mutual fund for my education. You can sell off enough fund shares for exactly the amount you need.”

Rafe nodded. “That’s right.”

“I just needed an answer, Mrs. Clery.” And Michaels was patient with my indignation. “I have one, and you have my apologies. Now, would you also tell me where you were between the time you left California and arrived in Sunbury? That’ll spare you another visit from me.”

“I took off across country, stopped at Manhattan, Kansas, to rest me and my mare. That’s where I bought the station wagon. Then I stayed with the Poiriers in West Chester until I took up circuit showing February in Florida.”

“And you informed no one in California of your whereabouts?”

“There wasn’t anyone left in California that I wanted informed.”

“Understandably. Well, I suppose that’s why Galvano didn’t catch up with you until Sunbury.”

“Galvano hasn’t been after Nialla, Michaels,” Rafe said in a quiet voice. “She’s just a fringe benefit. Sorry, dear heart, but that’s the way I see it. Galvano’s been stalking Louis Marchmount, who was, as I told you, in Sunbury last weekend. Traveling for his health, I believe the euphemism is. And he’s up at the big house right now, incommunicado.”

Michaels gave a sharp nod of his head as he absorbed the impact of this information.

“Look, Michaels, take this in two segments: the murder of Russell Donnelly because he discovered the marihuana is one—right up to the point where Galvano fakes his own death, because that’s the only way to get the grass ring off his neck. He’s in the clear, right? Because no one has connected him with Russell Donnelly’s death. But he’s also without access to his usual source of income—the tracks. The moment he puts his weasel face near a betting window, he’s had it. Second segment: how to make a living now. He’d already started by conning Nialla out of five hundred dollars for ‘expense money.’ When he realized that he’d have to split, he’d sent her to try to wheedle five thousand dollars out of Marchmount, but Marchmount doesn’t give, and Nialla decamps. So I’ll bet he started after Marchmount to get him a disappearing stake. And Galvano must know a bundle about Lou.” “The flaw in your argument, Mr. Clery, is that Marchmount must certainly know that Galvano died in that accident in California.” Michaels consulted another set of telex sheets. “Marchmount admitted to seeing Galvano up until just after the Donnelly death. He insisted vehemently, and had the pull to make it stick, that once he discovered the man’s unsavory reputation, he had had nothing more to do with him. Evidently Galvano left the Tijuana scene without paying off some bets. That’s another reason why the police let his bones lie.”

“Ahah, but the flaw in your flaw, Mr. Michaels, is that blackmail is an anonymous business. Galvano doesn’t have to present calling cards with what he has to peddle. Filthy pictures, protection after a score of minor accidents.”

The lieutenant looked thoughtful as he rose.

“I want to get in touch with the California authorities again, Mr. Clery, on this hay-is-grass notion. I think it’s a valid line of inquiry. In the meantime, I’ll have copies of this mug shot of Galvano circulating in Sunbury and in this neighborhood to see if we can come with a positive identification.” He sighed.

“I’d find out whether Louis Marchmount’s been paying extortion, if I were you,” Rafe said, getting to his feet.

“If I were you”—and the pronouns were only slightly accented—”I’d concentrate on my home front. Not” Michaels added hastily, “that I think you have anything more to worry about from Galvano right now, Mrs. Clery.”

“He sure as hell can’t reach Nialla behind a Cyclone fence with K-9s patrolling,” Rafe said.

The lieutenant looked about to speak and then sighed, as if he’d thought better of it.

Rafe grinned sardonically. “Galvano has a bigger fish to gaff up at the big house, Michaels.”

The lieutenant ignored the jibe. “I’ll keep in touch,” he said, and strode out the door and down the steps to the waiting sedan.

“Oh, Rafe ...”

His warm arms encircled me. “Dear heart, this is something we get through, and when we reach the other side, it’s over and can be forgotten. I’m not letting anything . . .”

The phone rang shrilly. Rafe didn’t move, holding me more firmly when I shuddered at the sound.

“You’re not at home to anyone either, love.”

The third ring was cut off, and we could hear Garry’s voice in the kitchen. She came through the dining room, her lips firm with disapproval.

“Are you at home for Madam? She says she knows you’re here.”

Rafe exhaled slowly, and released me enough so we could walk to the phone. He held the receiver between us.

“Yes?”

“I told you to call me Wendy,” she said in a sharp voice, which mellowed suddenly. “We’re having an informal reception for you and”—a condescending half-laugh—”your latest bride.” Again her voice altered, harder now. I won’t take a refusal from you, Ralph. Everyone knows about your frightfully romantic wedding, so you’ve forced me into a very awkward position. Just good luck I was in Sunbury with Lou this weekend. Is that chit really Russell Donnelly’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“That makes some sense, then. You’ll be here for cocktails at seven. And tell her to wear dark stockings. I want those horrible marks hidden. Mrs. Garrison can come up and give Mrs. Palchi a hand.”

The connection was broken. The coldness in Rafe’s eyes was frightening. It was worse than open hatred or anger. It was ... I don’t know what it was, but 1 had to erase it from his eyes.

“Rafe, I don’t mind. Really, I don’t.” And I tried to laugh lightheartedly. It came out sounding like a dreadful imitation of her laughter. I put my hands on his face and forced him to look at me. “I’m really durable. After police interrogations, blackmailers, threats, arsonists, I ought to be able to survive a suburban cocktail party.”

His arms almost crushed me, and his cheekbone hurt mine.

“I mind.” His eyes were still on a distance invisible to me. Abruptly he refocused, but there was still “that frightening reserve about him. “I know her sort of party, Nialla. And I know why she’s giving it. Not for you or me, but to preserve her ‘face’ from the slings and arrows of outraged society. On the other hand . . .” And he began to smile. It wasn’t a reassuring smile at all, and I stepped back, unsure. He looked at me again, but the empathy of a few moments ago was gone. “You’ll need some rest. Garry?”

She came into the room, a tray in her hands. “Moment I heard her voice, I knew what was happening, Mr. Rafe. You’d better munch on these. Cocktails at seven? Humph! No dinner till all hours if anyone’s able to eat then. I’ll just go up and give Mrs. Palchi a hand, if you don’t mind. She gets so upset.”

It was easy to seize on Mrs. Garrison’s reaction to the call to ease through the awkwardness. We consumed most of the cheeses, all the crackers and rye bread. Rafe kept urging me to eat heartily, because Garry had the right of it; we mightn’t get dinner until ten or eleven.

“Can’t say who’ll be there. Her crowd varies, depending on who’s ‘in’ or who’s getting divorced or dried out of one thing or another.” He gave me a less acid smile. “Oh, they’re not all bad, dear heart. It’s just that the bitches stand out. I’ll be latched to you all evening.”

So I smiled at him.

“And Marchmount?”

He cocked his head at me, and there was a shade more humor in his expression now. “If he appears, I’ll do the talking, Nialla.”

He made me go up and rest, but I had too many day-mares: hay blocks piling themselves over my father’s prone body, while baling wire snaked around, hissing like Wendy Madison; and then, in another sequence I kept trying on dress after dress with the echo of her malicious laughter in my ears.

I had enough of that in short order and decided to see which of my new acquisitions I’d wear. I’d about chosen the white linen sheath and wild sandals when Rafe sauntered in, flat jeweler’s box, one of the solid old-fashioned kind, in his hand.

“These suit you,” he said in a very solemn voice, and flipped open the lid to display the coral necklace, earrings, and bracelet. The set belonged to another, more gracious era, when young debutantes were permitted only certain adornments. Tiny seed pearls and diamonds accented the coral spikes. The earrings were for pierced ears, and Rafe was saying he’d have them altered if I didn’t want my ears done.

The necklace and bracelet, however, were the perfect touch for the white linen. And damn him, he had on a deep green linen jacket and white, slightly flared pants and white boots. One of those gorgeous Italian scarves of his was carelessly knotted at the throat of his white lawn shirt. He stepped beside me so that we were both reflected in the mirror, .and his grin was sheer boyish impudence. There wasn’t an inch of difference in our heights.

“We look like goddamned fashion dolls. Who is it—Barbie and her friend Ken?” He gave an amused snort. “C’mon. Let’s get the agony over with.”

No, one didn’t fool Rafe Clery at all. Except Rafe?

As we got into the car, I tried not to think of the cocktail party as an ordeal. I tried to assure myself that if Wendy Madison were so punctilious about conventions, she wouldn’t be openly discourteous to me. But her dictatorial summons didn’t fit in with the mutual-antagonism/hatred/contempt between her and her son.

Rafe drove right by a gate clearly heading into the big-house grounds. In fact, I had already braced myself for the car’s turn, and felt a little foolish as we whizzed by.

“Gate’s locked,” Rafe said.

We drove a short distance to the main road and through our gate, then up the main road, to turn in at the impressive urn-topped gates, up the long white-pebbled drive to the mansion, wheeling into the parking area. Through the opening of the glassed colonnades, I could see the fountain busily spouting up, falling into the ornate marble bowl, and drooling down into the upturned stone faces of leering cherubs.

There were four expensive sports cars already parked in the wide turnaround. Rafe backed the Austin-Healey, nose out, at the far end. For a quick getaway, I asked myself?

The pebbled surface was a little hard on the sandaled feet. To my surprise, Rafe-paused at the heavy wooden door with ornate knobs and nail studs. He twisted the iron ring. A son didn’t walk in? I heard the distant echo of a deep bell, but the door was opened at the same instant by a sandy-haired heavyset man in a white linen coat.

“Evening, Mr. Rafael.”

“Evening, Sam. This is my wife, Nialla Donnelly Clery, Sam’s an old cavalry man, Nialla. Put me on my first pony. Six days to learn equitation and sixty years at bloody well trot.”

Sam’s brown eyes narrowed slightly as he gave me a quick but polite stare. He bowed slightly from the hips, and though he didn’t smile, I had the impression the smile was there behind the very correct alignment of his features.

“We wish you every happiness, Mrs. Clery,” the man said, with the unconscious dignity of a trained servant. “They are on the terrace, Mr. Rafael. Miss Nialla.”

I felt Rafe’s fingers press mine as I was accorded acceptance. I wondered fleetingly what Rafe would have done if Sam had disapproved. Sam had gestured to the right, and Rafe, who surely needed no directions, led me through the Queen Anne living room, all soft purples and blues with Wedgwood lamps and elegant porcelain baskets of ceramic flowers on practically every surface. I wouldn’t have thought this decor suitable to Wendy Madison’s taste.

A burst of laughter came from the windows that opened onto the side terrace. Sheer glass curtains obscured the view. Rafe guided me to the left, through a smaller sitting room (morning-room variety?). French windows, gave access to the terrace, which was furnished with chintz sun lounges, glass and wrought-iron tables and iron chairs, the tables shaded by enormous umbrellas in matching print. Ten elegant sun-bronzed people hovered near the portable bar set at one side of the terrace.

I was rather surprised to see that the bartender was young Dennis Muldoon, but if Wendy Madison commandeered Rafe’s housekeeper and cook, it was logical for her to recruit others as well.

I caught a glimpse of Dennis, concentrating on the proportions of the drink he was mixing. His expression was neutral, unlike his friendly naturalness in the role of groom. We had halted on the threshold while Rafe surveyed 
the assembled. He had just put his hand on the small of my back to escort me out, when someone caught sight of us.

“Hail to the groom! Here’s Rafe!” And the curious thronged toward us.

I dislike intensely being the focus of social ogling under any circumstances, and to have all these rather tall people crowding around was bad enough. To have Louis  Marchmount staring at me, desperately trying to remember my face, was more than enough. Inconceivable as it was to me, the man who had raped me did not recognize me.

Any relief was tinged with revulsion and the added shame that he had robbed me of something I’d valued and then forgot the theft and the thieved.

I found a highball glass in my hand just as Wendy Madison inserted herself between me and Rafe. She draped her arms around our shoulders, which only emphasized the difference between her height and ours.

“Don’t they make a lovely couple, everyone?” my mother-in-law asked in an arch voice. (She did not look old enough to be a mother-in-law, but she certainly knew how to play the role with blue-ribbon insincerity.) “Let’s hope it takes, this time. They have so much in common.” She smiled broadly at Rafe and then accorded me the unseeing glance of the caged lioness.. She hadn’t accepted me as a person, much less a daughter-in-law.

They were all lifting their glasses, faces wreathed in bright, happy, winning toothpaste smiles, so I suppose I managed to smile. My face ached, as it will when I force an expression. Mercifully, the hypocritical toast was made, and people began to talk to their neighbors. To my dismay, Louis Marchmount pushed through to us.

“Thought your face was familiar t’other day,” he said with false heartiness. “Friends tell me m’memory’s going.” His smile was suddenly uncertain with anxiety. These lapses bothered him, but I was grateful. “Meant no discourtesy, you understand.”

“It worried Lou tremendously,” Wendy Madison said, taking Marchmount’s arm possessively. (As if I had any designs on the man!) “I won’t have Lou bothered.” She glared at me. “He’s not been well, you know. Heart.” A bright social smile returned to her face.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Rafe said with a matching brittleness.

I noticed then that a heavyset, dark-complexioned man was sort of angled by Lou Marchmount. Not angled, though, as much as hovering, listening without seeming to. He saw my look, and by turning a fraction closer, became part of the group, so that Wendy Madison was aware of him.

“Mr. Stephen Urscoll; I don’t believe you’ve had occasion to meet my son, Ralph Clery, and his . . . bride.” Her introduction was grudgingly made, her manner rude. I wondered if she’d ever give me a Christian name. And I also wondered why Mr. Urscoll rated her displeasure. He was a good-looking man, well dressed, and certainly had better manners than she did. “Mr. Urscoll is ... a friend of Lou’s.” The words came out in a rush, as if distasteful to her.

“My congratulations, Mr. Clery. My felicitations, senora,” he said, with the kind of bow from the hips that was second nature to the Californian. Come to think of it, :is inflection was certainly that of one whose first language had been Spanish. “I’ve often backed your father’s yearlings to my benefit, Mrs. Clery,” he added, and then suddenly stepped back, effacing himself.

“Been east long, Lou?” Rafe asked.

The question was casual enough, but the effect on Marchmount was electric. He swallowed, blinked wildly, and looked to Wendy Madison.

“Lou’s been traveling, visiting friends. He had a heart attack on the Coast, and he was advised to get a change of scene, take it easy.” She patted his arm.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He rallied, straightened his shoulders, and his expression looked more alert. “Been looking at likely stock in Lexington. Think I might look in at Goff’s and see what’s promising at Ballsbridge. Haven’t been paying as much attention to my stable as I ought. Lost my trainer, you know. Best one I ever had. Was bringing along some promising colts. Damned inconvenient, losing him.”

“More inconvenient for Nialla, I’d say,” Rafe replied in the stunned silence.

“Lou!” Wendy Madison evinced the first honest response of my short acquaintance with her.

“Hmmm? What?” The man didn’t realize what he’d said.

“Louis has not been feeling himself,” Urscoll said to me, adroitly stepping into the breach. “He meant no disrespect.”

“No, I’m not myself,” Marchmount agreed petulantly. “How could I be? It’s too much for any man. Urscoll, I need one of my pills. I must have one. I really can’t be persecuted and questioned and badgered this way. I’m not well.” He put his hand to his brow, a gesture that failed to be affected, because the hand was trembling so badly.

Instantly Wendy Madison was all concern. She signed to Urscoll to take Marchmount’s other arm, and with a furious glance at us for upsetting her guest, led him toward a chaise lounge on the far side of the terrace.

“Michaels might contest that statement,” Rafe remarked quietly, “but I’d say Marchmount’s being blackmailed.”

I said nothing, watching as Mrs. Madison (I simply couldn’t bring myself to call her my mother-in-law) fussed over Marchmount. He had certainly failed terribly since ...

“Don’t,” Rafe said, and when I looked at him question-ingly, his eyes were dark. “And don’t feel sorry for him, Nialla. His memory’s not gone; he’s high.”

“He doesn’t act drunk.”

“Drunk? He’s not drunk, Nialla. He’s on drugs. Didn’t you notice his eyes? The wide pupil? The vague smile and lack of association?”

“I’m for that.”

“Good to see you again, Ralph,” said one of those over-hearty voices that can puncture eardrums. “You always marry the prettiest girls.” Before I could turn, I was whirled around and bussed with thick wet lips, “And the most kissable.”

I wanted to wipe my mouth of the distasteful impression, but the man was looming over us, his presence a combination of an expensive, musky cologne, active male, and alcohol.

“I can always count on you, Paddy,” Rafe said in a dry tone, gathering me back against him, away from the hearty, heavy man.

“Paddy Skerrit’s the name, in case you didn’t get it first time around. Wendy babbles so you can’t catch names. Tied the knot Tuesday in Sunbury, I hear?”

Rafe agreed to that, making no attempt to encourage conversation.

“Going to put her to work for you, huh? I expect”— and he gave me a buffet on the shoulder which hurt—“that Russell Donnelly’s girl knows horses, eh? Never thought you’d stick the bloodstock game, Ralph, but you inherited something from Big Mike after all, I guess. Say, you didn’t dump that Fairchild-Hiller stock did you? No? Good lad. Hold on to it. I know it’s going up again. Sure can’t go down further.” And the man’s florid face lost its bluff geniality as he introduced this sober topic.

Rafe, too, looked grave, and sipped at his drink. “I’d say it hasn’t hit bottom yet.” Then he launched into a discussion of debentures and coupons and percentages that were incomprehensible to me. I hadn’t actually thought of Rafe as a businessman—outside of horses—but Paddy Skerrit soon stopped patronizing remarks and listened to what Rafe was saying, so I assumed he was knowledgeable indeed. Sam came by with a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. Skerrit scooped up a fistful and began popping them into his mouth like so many peanuts.

One of those gauntly thin women who looked exceedingly elegant at twenty feet slid up to me. Very brilliant dark eyes scrutinized me from sunken sockets. The skin of her face was so tautly stretched across her face bones it looked painful. There wasn’t an ash-blonde hair out of place in her teased coiffure, and not a line in her face.

“You must really mean it this time, Ralph,” she said, smile-less, although her tone of voice indicated she was being amusing. Her eyes flicked to the coral necklace. “He never broke out the family jewels for the others, my dear,” she said to me, and her hand on my arm was dry and stiff.

“You’re looking well, Iona. Taken any good cures lately?” Rafe said.

She shrugged, and the neck skin wrinkled, completely destroying the illusion of youth in her face.

“I don’t dare relax these days, Ralph. Too many fascinating things happening.” And her eyes slid over me as she turned her head toward the tableau of Madison, Marchmount, and Urscoll. "Think she'll be next in the family, dear?" And there was malicious amusement in her slurred question.

Paddy Skerrit snorted contemptuously at the idea. "Nonsense. The man's got a bum heart."

"I think Wendy rather fancies herself in the role of the doting, ministering angel, don't you, Ralph?" Iona's eyes glittered with a hungry expectation.

"My mother has fancied herself in many roles," Rafe replied casually.

"They say Marchmount's lost heavily since the scandal over his trainer. Ooops, sorry," she said, patting my arm with a familiarity I found very offensive. "Of course, the state of the market doesn't help much, does it? And he had all that money in railroads. I told him, and I know you did, too, Paddy, when we were at Palm Springs, that railroads are out, definitely passé. I've unloaded all I had. Transferred to airlines, though I don't like what Pan Am has been doing since they split."

"What? Eschewing foods, Iona?" Rafe asked. I couldn't believe the pun. Or that they didn't get it.

"I'm sick to death of food products," she said in a voice that was almost a snarl. She tossed off the last of her drink and called out to Sam, holding her glass up significantly.

"Now, Iona, you promised ..." A David Niven type hurried up and took the glass from her hand. His eyes had a sort of harried, anxious look, though he smiled around pleasantly.

"What I promise, Terry, and what I decide to do are often miles apart," she said in a hard, shrewish voice.

Terry swallowed nervously, encircling her thin waist and drawing her against him placatingly.

"And this party's dead. Dead. Dead!" She went on, glaring at me. "I don't know what's happened to Wendy since she took up with Lou. She used to give good parties, with lots of fun, and people worth talking to. Now she's hiding away and being so ... so parsimonious. I need a drink! Sam!" She broke away from Terry and stalked across the terrace to the bar. Terry followed.

"Gawd!  She just got dried out," Paddy remarked in what he used for a stage whisper, but if Iona heard him, she was more interested in obtaining a drink.

More guests arrived at that moment, three men and a black-haired woman who kept her arm hooked through her escort's as if she would actively resist being parted from him. I was so astonished at the costume of the tallest man that I really didn't look much at the others. He was one of those long thin people who appear taller than they actually are. He affected muttonchops, long wavy hair that was clean and probably styled, though that style didn't suit him. He wore a white see-through lace shirt, an ornate medallion, white drill pants, and sandals that, mercifully, showed clean feet and polished nails. But he was completely out of place in this milieu.

"Ralph, darling, so you've done it again," the woman exclaimed, inclining toward me, so that I realized we were to touch cheeks. She wore an exceedingly expensive and heavy perfume. "I'm Nancy McCormack, and this is my husband, Ted." But Ted was not the man to whom she was attached. "Jeff Fermaugh"—she edged closer to him (if possible)—"and the outrageous one is Bobby Wellesley. Bobby, I told you Faith would be here. There she is at the bar."

The men had shaken my hand and said appropriate things to Rafe as she made the introductions. Abruptly Bobby Wellesley's limp hand left mine, and he lurched toward the pretty fair-haired girl talking with Dennis.

"I used to see you at Agnes du Maurier's place when you had red hair," Ted McCormack said, eyeing my cropped head.

"Nialla got singed at Sunbury," Rafe said, and I realized he liked Ted McCormack. "G-Barn finally caught fire, and Nialla went in after her gelding. Damn fool."

"You did too," I said, a little self-conscious under Ted McCormack's admiring eyes.

"Rode out of the barn on the nag's head," Rafe said, grinning.

"Horse safe?"

"Lost some hide, but so did Nialla," Rafe replied, indicating my legs. "Gelding got a cinder lodged in the off-hind, but that's healing nicely."

"Jumper?"

Rafe laughed. "You'd probably recognize him as Juggernaut, Ted."

McCormack reacted with a surprised double-take. "You don't mean this little bit of nothing rides that bastard?"

"Rides him like he was a Sunday-canter-in-the-park hack." And Rafe beamed with pride at me.

"Live up to your red hair, don't you? Sorry about your father, Nialla. He was a damned good trainer." McCormack's eyes flicked from me to Marchmount, reclining on the glider, and his expression was perceptibly disgusted.

"Hasn't it been stifling today?" his wife said brightly, and began to steer her escort toward the bar. I gather she didn't talk horses.

But as I glanced after them, I saw another interesting situation developing at the bar. Faith, the girl Bobby Wellesley had hotfooted to see, had her back to him and was talking animatedly to Dennis Muldoon. Bobby Wellesley shifted from one foot to the other, glaring at them.

"Are they still trying to foist Bobby off on Faith?" Rafe asked Ted.

"Faith's a nice child," McCormack replied. "I’d hate to see her having to cope with Bobby's inadequacies."

"Faith's no one's fool. Good seat. Nice hands."

McCormack laughed and slapped Rafe's shoulder. "Rare praise from you, Clery. Thought for a while there you'd marry the girl and save her from her match-made destiny."

Rafe grinned as he sipped his drink, giving me a sideways look. "She didn't have enough dowry for me."

McCormack let out a bark of laughter and pounded Rafe across the back. I assumed that Faith must be wealthy.

"We'll have to come to her rescue," Rafe said, and I hastily agreed when his look required that of me.

"Shame, though. She'd be the makings of young Bobby. That boy has a good mind, Rafe, even if it is filled up with this liberal nonsense and counterculture, technocracy. Oh, I suppose he has to 'find' himself," Ted McCormack went on, frowning toward the bar. "That's the current phrase, isn't it? And I suppose I'm being square when I refuse to go along with this drug phase the youth of this generation have to explore. But I haven't seen anything intelligent yet from a mind expanded by drugs. I have seen some pretty sick examples of its effects."

We all sort of turned toward Marchmount.

"You can't drop a hint to your mother, can you, Rafe?"

My husband lifted his brows quizzically.

"No, I guess you can't, can you?"

"There's no calories in grass, you know," Rafe said in a low voice.

"Where's she been getting it from? I thought the FBI cracked down on the marihuana."

I felt a need to drink, and took such a hasty swallow I nearly choked.

"Gotta watch that caloric intake, Nialla," Rafe advised in a drawl as he swatted me on the shoulder blades. "Who's that Urscoll fellow? Sounds Spanish, or Mexican."

"No clue. Came with Marchmount, talks about stock sales and some of those offshore oil ventures in the West, but he doesn't quite add up." McCormack was thoughtful. "Still, I'm glad Marchmount has a traveling companion. Man's half-senile. Talks about persecution and ruin and police interrogation and all that crap."

"You don't suppose his vices have caught up with him?" Rafe asked in the most casual of voices, as if he really wasn't interested in an answer. Talk about dissembling?

"How d'you mean?" McCormack was curious.

"If he talks of persecution, ruin, and police interrogation . . ." Rafe let the question trail off diffidently.

"You mean blackmail?" Ted McCormack was both surprised and mildly contemptuous. "Bull. Everyone knows what he's like."

"Ted . . ." called his wife from the bar, making his name sound as if it had four syllables.

"Excuse me," and McCormack went off.”

"I don't understand that," I said, bending toward Rafe in case anyone overheard us.

"What? Ted and Nancy? Oh, that's been going on for years. In their own way, they're devoted to each other."

"You know perfectly well what I meant, Rafael Clery." And then caught myself as he laughed. "Why would . . ."

I stopped, because Rafe's expression had turned into shocked incredulity. He was facing the French doors. I turned and beheld quite a vision—in electric-purple bell bottoms, a floral see-through shirt with flowing sleeves, ruffled at wrist and chest, accented by a white embroidered vest. The young man's face was adorned by as glorious a set of mutton chops and curling hair as any rock singer's. This paragon of East Village sartorial splendor was holding the hand of a girl with medium brown hair rippling down to her buttocks. She wore an almost indecently short purple (and the color clashed with her escort's pants) embroidered Indian shift and Indian toe sandals.

"Halloo, there, Raffles," cried the young man, and dragged his girl over to us. In the midst of hugs and back thumpings (the boy was eight inches taller), good-natured remarks about wedding bells, I gathered that this was Rafe's youngest brother, Presby Branegg. The girl and I exchanged tolerant grins as the fraternal exuberance continued.

"My name's Sara Worrell," she said, holding out her hand rather aggressively. "I guess you're the bride, so I ought to congratulate you."

"Naw, naw," Pres said, draping one arm around Rafe, the other around Sara, "you felicitate the bride, you congratulate the groom. Now, congratulate the brother. Rafael Clery, this is Sara Worrell. We met in economics class, and I can't figure out how she could spend four years at Yale without my seeing her;"

Rafe kissed the girl's lips lightly, because Pres was holding the two together. "Maybe she studied at Yale," he said as he broke away.

"You know, you're every bit as nice as Pres said you'd be," she said, and then blushed.

"Good things come in small packages," Rafe replied, and she blushed deeper, self-consciously trying to lessen her own inches.

" 'Bout time you found that out," his brother said crisply, "instead of going for the large economy size."

"They were anything but economical, brat," Rafe replied.

"Presby!" Wendy Madison's voice held a stern come-hither note, and the boy's attitude changed from good-natured chattering to anxious anticipation.

"What's her frame of mind?"

"Worried about Lou. Play it up," Rafe said, and jerked his head toward their mother, indicating the pair had better not dally.

"He's in for it," Rafe said after a moment. "God, did he have to dress like that and bring a girl along. Our mutual parent intensely dislikes sharing her men with any other female. And it takes more than a sweet featherweight like that to prevail against her. Poor kid."

"Doesn't the maternal edict apply to me? I'd the temerity to marry you."

Rafe regarded me in what I could only describe as an inscrutable fashion.

"Dear heart, I married you."

Before I could find an adequate comeback, a tall young man in a pale blue silk suit of impeccable cut came striding across the terrace from another side door. He was very Italianate, from his straight thick black hair, swarthy skin, and very dark eyes, to the subtle virility he exuded and the sensuality of his full, smiling lips.

"You can always count on John-boy to present the proper family image," Rafe murmured. "Nialla, my brother, John Milanesi."

Although this brother was far more sophisticated than Pres, complete with Continental bow and a kiss floating three inches above my hand, I found I preferred the mod one. The calculation in John Milanesi's eyes was almost offensive.

"I am charmed," he said, without releasing my hand, his fingers curling into my palm and caressing the skin, until I slid my hand free. "A lovely surprise ... for me, at least." The sensuous lips curled up, as he intended me to realize that the marriage had not been well received.

"How's factory life, Giovanni?" Rafe asked with more reserve in his manner. Or maybe I was imagining it. John shrugged, too bored to enlarge further. "You'll lose your shirts on the midis if you insist on pushing them," Rafe said, and received his brother's full attention.

There was another diffident shrug. "It would amuse me to find the haughty fashionable deposed from their giddy heights. The maxi, at least, disguises feet of clay. And speaking of  clay feet," he added, glancing toward his mother, "I see Pres made good his threat. Must you continually put that child in a position where he has to follow your example?"

Rafe frowned, glancing back from Pres's flamboyant figure to John. "He can't mean to marry that girl?"

John rolled his eyes expressively. "You'd already been divorced once by the time you were twenty-one." "Christ! I'll have a talk with him." "Don't bother. Wendy's ringing a peal over him right now that ought to suffice."

We couldn't hear what was being said, but there was no doubt that the conversation was unpleasant for Pres. He seemed to be contracting, and so did poor Sara. Suddenly Louis Marchmount raised a feeble hand, and Wendy turned back to him, allowing Pres and Sara to escape to the bar.

I felt John Milanesi's hand on my arm, his fingers stroking the skin.

"He hasn't accepted the AGM offer?" Rafe asked. 

"Obviously not," John replied, indicating Pres's costume. "I must say, you could watch your timing, Rafael. She's not going to make life easy for anyone." His hand tightened on my arm, but I couldn't figure out any way of breaking that hold without appearing rude. "Not to offend you, my dear sister-in-law, for Rafael's no longer easily seduced; it's simply that our dear mother cannot abide marriages that aren't hers."

"D'you think she's got bells in mind for Marchmount?" "Hardly!" John was openly contemptuous.  "Although I'd've thought she'd've sent him packing long since."

"If Mrs. Madison is so possessive, why this farce of a reception?" I wanted to know, and got my arm free of John Milanesi's clutch to gesture at the terrace.

The two brothers locked glances, shrugged, and laughed. "Our fair mother's private judgments never affect her notions of social duty," John Milanesi replied, his cynical gaze falling on his mother. I was scarcely in any position to cast stones, but his look was unhealthy. "You know, Marchmount's debility has a morbid fascination for our mother. I'd better make my duty and see what I can overhear."

"You need a fresh drink, Nialla," Rafe said, and guided me toward the bar. "I meant what I said yesterday, dear heart. The Dower House is separate from this establishment, by my choice and order."

"Then why ..."

My rebellion waned at the warning pressure on my elbow.

"Why, because! I'm not ashamed of you as my wife, Nialla, and in the course of dealing with the woman who bores me, I've discovered that it is a far, far better thing to obey her few social demands. That's all this is—Mother's reluctant bow to convention. It's to our advantage, actually."

"Ralph dear!" The clear voice caught us just two feet from the bar. "Ralph, would you and the bride step over here a moment?"

"See?" Rafe pointed to the man following Sam onto the terrace. "The court photographer will proceed to record the event; there'll be a nice spread in the paper, describing the reception Mrs. Wendy Madison gave for her son, Rafael Clery, on the event of his marriage to Miss Nialla Donnelly, and the Goddess, Convention, will be appeased. Let's go smile for the birdie."

"So good of you to come, Mr. Arnold," Wendy Madison was saying to the photographer, who accepted her greeting with a nod and a mumble, and became very busy with his light meter.

Wendy Madison pulled John in on one side of her, glared Pres away, gestured Rafe to her other side, leaving Rafe to collect me groomily. She arranged the proper expression on her face and then smiled significantly at the photographer. He took several shots.

"I want one of the bride and groom together," he said.

This was no more to my liking than to Wendy Madison's. I turned to Rafe to protest, when I heard the click-shosh of the camera and the frame being advanced.

"How about a smile this time, Mrs. Clery? This isn't a funeral." He meant to be funny, I know.

Rafe pressed my hand encouragingly and angled me toward the camera. His mother urged me in a sharp brittle voice to smile, and I know she wished it was my funeral.

"Rafe," I whispered, as Wendy Madison, bubbling with social graces, bustled the photographer off for a drink, "does the photo have to go into the papers?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, dear heart. In fact, now is absolutely the best time for it to appear."

I wasn't quite sure why he should feel so, but as he signaled Sam to bring his tray of drinks over, I didn't have the chance to ask. And then Faith came up to us, obviously trying to shake Bobby Wellesley, who trailed after her. She wasn't much taller than Rafe, and kissed him with a resounding smack that made Bobby Wellesley wince.

"There!" She grinned mischievously at me. "I've been wanting an excuse to do that for years, so thanks for providing me with the opportunity. Rafe's one of my favorite people, and I really do sincerely wish you both the very best." She held out her hand to me with a forthrightness (and a firm grip) that was refreshingly candid. "Did you really tame Juggernaut? And was he the horse you rescued from the Sunbury barn fire? Is he all right?"

"That's right, Faith, show more interest in some goddamn horse than you do in a human. Talk horses with Rafe and his new wife," Bobby Wellesley said in a wild voice, pulling her roughly around to face him. "Flirt with the bar boy, do anything but talk with me. You're the only reason I came to this..."

"Cool it, Bob," Rafe said, and before either Faith or I could react, he had taken the agitated young man to one side of the terrace. What was said was inaudible, but there was a visible change in the boy's posture, from arrant aggression to chagrin.

"I'm sorry he's acting this way, Mrs. Clery. I like Bobby, but I don't like the company he keeps or his form of amusement," Faith said quietly. "I also don't like being forced into his company every place I go. It's . . . it's positively medieval." She glanced over her shoulder toward the Iona woman and her David-Nivenesque companion. "Mother's not a bit of help."

I was amazed. "She's your mother?"

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Faith suddenly sounded very old, very cynical, and very sad. "I'm Faith Farnham, you see."

I didn't, though.

"You mean," Faith went on, with a laugh of surprise, 'you haven't grown up on Farnham's Farina, good for chick or child?"

I shook my head.

"Your poor disadvantaged darling," she said with mock concern. "You're a relief. And Rafe's such a doll. Oh, don't mistake me. I've cherished an infatuation for that man for years, but I don't fancy him as a husband. Not," she added hurriedly, "that I don't think he'd be a good one for the right sort of girl. Oh, I'm really putting my foot in it today, aren't I? Let's erase that scene. Okay? I must say, you are a relief. And Rafe's a doll . . ." Her eyes were so full of droll humor that I couldn't help but laugh with her. "He's coming down is his problem. Bobby, I mean. And I simply cannot cope with him in that condition."

"You mean, he's using drugs?"

Faith started to say something, probably caustic, from the set of her mouth, but instead she just looked at me, sort of wistfully.

"Yes, he's been using drugs ... to expand his consciousness, because he finds himself unable to relate to present-day values and artificial standards!" She was obviously :quoting something Bobby Wellesley had prated at her. He's not the only one here, either. Look at Lou Marchmount."

"I thought Mrs. Madison said he had a bad heart."

"Yeah." And Faith's eyes were very cynical now. "From drug abuse. He's had a couple of real bummers since he's been here. I wonder how he smuggled it past his bodyguard."

"His bodyguard?"

"Steve Urscoll, of course," Faith replied, as if the man were wearing a label or something. "She must really be gone on Lou if she'd introduce a bodyguard as a house guest."

"What's this, what's this?" Rafe asked, joining us so suddenly that I almost squeaked in surprise.

"Faith says that Mr. Urscoll is a bodyguard."

"Please, Rafe, I let that slip. It can't be broadcast. Mother told me when she thought I was getting too friendly. I prefer him to Bobby. He's got his feet planted on terra firma, not some psychedelic cloud."

"Now, why would Louis Marchmount need a bodyguard, Faith?" Rafe's question was the most casual! She gave a little laugh.

"Frankly, Rafe, I think he's just had too many bad trips and is getting flashes. Every time a phone rings, he flips his lid. But if a bodyguard makes him feel safe, why not? The man does come from a good family, after all, and I must say that I like a person who can take reverses like a gentleman, who faces reality." "Bobby's really bugging you, Faith?" She nodded rather grimly. "I'm supposed to be the making or breaking of him. And I'm sorry, Rafe, I simply don't look at the problem, or the solution, from that angle."

"Using moral blackmail on you, huh?" Rafe asked, and gave me a look that made me want to kill him—for just a split second, mind you. "You ignore that kind of shit, Faith. You're on the right track. How're your classes progressing? . . . Faith teaches equitation to handicapped children."

"I'm qualified for that," she said, still a bit grim. "What did you say to Bobby?"

"Enough. I sent him for some coffee and suggested that he was making an ass of himself. One more explosion would upset Lou."

"Oh, Rafe, how could you?"

"Why not? Wendy can put the fear of God in him when neither you nor I can! She scares him shitless."

"Who scares who?" asked John Milanesi, insinuating himself into our group. I wished he wouldn't lean over me so. "Have you seen the palatial grounds of the Herrington estate, my dear sister-in-law?"

And he took my arm and began to lead me off, nodding pleasantly to Rafe and Faith. If I had not seen my mother-in-law bearing down on us with a stormy expression on her face, I'd not have let myself be "rescued." But I did. "You certainly are a surprise, sister dear," my new relative said, tucking my hand under his arm in a way that made me wonder if I was being taken from the pan only to deal with the fire.

"In what way? You ought to have had enough practice meeting sisters-in-law."

He laughed, and it was a sort of caressing type of laugh that disturbed me.

“You're different." He glanced down at me, his eyelids obscuring his expression. "Nialla. That's a pretty name." He halted now that we were at the top of the sloping lawn, and gestured about, as if he were monarch of all he surveyed.  "Lovely setting, isn't it?" I duly appreciated the view. "No comparable aspect from the Dower House, is there?"

Again he gave me that unsettling sideways glance.

"No, there isn't, but I prefer the Dower House. The ambience is suitable to my plebeian tastes."

I’d’ve said you had . . . more ambition than that."

"I'm a horse trainer's daughter. Horses are my life, and my ambition is to deal with . . . horses ... as much as possible. This"—I could make regal gestures, too—"is not my scene."

"My, my. Do we protest too much?"

"No, I just want to get something straight, Mr. Milanesi. When Rafe married me, I thought he was just another horse trainer."

"And here I was given to understand that this was a romance of long standing."

Rafe and his little white lies! I glared at John Milanesi now.

"What is it you want to know, Mr. Milanesi?" I asked, trying to keep my temper.

He eyed me coolly, a half-smile on his lips. "How much you'll cost us."

"How much I'll . . . Why, you, you ..."

"Son of a bitch?" He suggested.

I couldn't leave him fast enough, but I forced myself to walk, each step jolting through me and the pebbles of the path throwing me off balance. I told myself he was not laughing, he was not laughing, but his laughter followed me all the way back to the terrace.

Rafe was nowhere in sight. Nor, fortunately, was that bitch, his mother. John had to be acting on his mother's instructions. Or could he be so two-faced that he'd adopt one attitude in front of his half-brother and propose to buy me off when be got me alone? Either way was despicable. Despicable! Lou Marchmount was reclining in his lounge, a limp rag of a man. Paddy Skerrit was talking at a sullen Iona—who did not have a drink—and the D-N type. Pres and Sara were absent, and Bobby Wellesley, while the others were clustered about the bar. Just then a clutch of new arrivals swirled out onto the terrace, Rafe and his mother in their midst.

One thing certain, she hadn't expected to find me back on the terrace so soon. Another thing, I wanted to go home. Now! Protocol had been satisfied, and I wanted out. If Rafe wouldn't take me, I'd walk!

Without seeming to hurry, Rafe reached me before the vanguard of the new guests. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were blazing with anger.

"John try to buy you off?" he asked in an undertone, though the question must have been unnecessary if my face mirrored any portion of the rage inside me. "Don't blow your cool now, Nialla. I beg you!"

In the instant before we had to turn to be introduced, I got several messages. I must be, I could be, bigger than all the insults being dealt me. Rafe wanted me to be bigger. He had chosen me, despite two bad marital experiences. He was proud of me, and I could make him prouder. This whole evening, with its vicious undertones and inhospitalities, was insignificant in the fabric of our lives together. As if I were faced with a bad approach to a very difficult jump, I took a deep breath and looked up, straight ahead.

Maybe my frame of mind made the difference, plus the fact that most of the new arrivals stayed for only a drink or two, and their conversation was confined to felicitating me, congratulating Rafe, some jokes or chitchat all on a polite and jocular level. Pres's costume made a conversation piece. (I wasn't sure who looked more unhappy, Pres or Sara, but they stayed at the bar, finding sympathy in Dennis' kindred company.) Bobby Wellesley had sunk, almost out of sight, into the lounge at the edge of the terrace, and seemed almost as much of an exile as Louis Marchmount. Wendy kept everyone away from him; Lou, that is.

One older couple, the Eldicotts, were particularly outgoing. I was very sorry when they excused themselves. Of course, they were horse breeders, and I felt much happier on that subject than the ups and downs of the stock market that otherwise dominated small talk. Small talk? The figures mentioned took my breath away.

Full dark came, the terrace lights glowed before Rafe asked Sam about dinner. The party was now down to the original complement.

"A buffet is set up in the courtyard, Mr. Rafe. It's ready whenever Madam is."

"Madam is, whether she knows it or not," Rafe told him, and Sam, inclining his head with dignity, went off into the house. "Otherwise"—Rafe grinned at me—"I'll never hear the last of it from Garry."

"I'm so hungry I could even eat peanut butter."

"We can leave right after dinner, dear heart, if I can catch Urscoll by himself for a few moments."

"Urscoll?"

"Yes." And Rafe's eyes narrowed. "If he is a bodyguard, maybe he'll tell me from what is he guarding Lou Marchmount."

"He simply doesn't look or act like a bodyguard."

"You've seen too much TV, love."

"Oh, you know it all."

Rafe raised his eyebrows in polite consternation. "Hardly, but I appreciate your attitude."

Madam, my reluctant mother-in-law, was also reluctant to interrupt her drinking for dinner, but Ted Mc-McCormack greeted the announcement with such gusto that she relented, all gracious smiles, and brightly announced that everyone should follow her to the buffet.

I think, under other auspices, I'd've enjoyed that dinner. Certainly the setting was lovely, with the fountain playing under colored lights, the tables set around it; the cold soup, the delicious curry, the salads, the meringue dessert. There was champagne, too, with which our health was drunk. (I wonder she didn't choke on the bubbles, it pained her so to propose our happiness.)

We didn't get a chance to talk to Urscoll at dinner; we were seated at smaller tables, and the Madam-Marchmount-Urscoll trio did not encourage the arrival of a fourth at their table.

After dinner, however, when Madam suggested we all take coffee and liqueurs on the terrace and watch the youngsters dance, Rafe homed in on Urscoll like a magnet. Dinner had evidently revived Marchmount, because he was quite smiling and talkative.

"You and Lou are planning to make the bloodstock sales at Ballsbridge this fall?" Rafe asked as we all watched Lou and Madam trying to rock and roll.

Urscoll hesitated before answering. "That's the plan, but, ah . . . Louis isn't at all well."

"Oh, the quiet pace in Dublin might be therapeutic," Rafe said. "Give Lou a chance to really get away from it all."

Urscoll instantly tensed, then smiled. "Yes, he needs a complete change of scene."

"And not just for his health."

"What do you mean?"

We had moved somewhat into the shadows, away from the dancing area. Bobby Wellesley was dancing with Sara, while Pres partnered Faith, She knew how to dance, too.

"Would the name 'Galvano' mean anything to you?" Rafe asked casually. I thought the man would drop his glass.

"Should it?" he asked with a commendable recovery.

"Come off it, Urscoll. I'm family," Rafe replied. "Lou Marchmount has been many things, but not a paranoid. And don't give me that nonsense about a bad heart. That man is running scared. From what?"

Urscoll wet his lips, glanced at Marchmount and Wendy Madison giving a bad example of the frug, and then began to talk.

"I am not, Mr. Clery, a sportsman." And Urscoll smiled wryly. "I'm a private investigator for a West Coast firm. I was chosen because of . . . family connections and my background ... to act as companion to Mr. Marchmount. He is being threatened by an extortionist. He has already paid substantial sums."

"Paid? Why in hell did you permit it?"

Urscoll looked unhappy too. "I realize that seems odd, Mr. Clery, but I assure you my firm has urgently recommended on several occasions that this be taken to the proper authorities. Mr. Marchmount is adamant that the police may not be involved. Frankly, Mr. Clery, he is such a sick man that anything might result in a fatal heart attack. I wish he wouldn't dance so violently, but my wishes are seldom consulted." Urscoll looked more ill at ease than ever. "My instructions are to avoid any contact with the extortionist."

"It is Caps Galvano, isn't it?"

Urscoll gave Rafe a long look. "I . . . think so."

"You think so?"

"When my firm checked the police records about Galvano—very discreetly—he was listed as dead. Naturally, we told Mr. Marchmount. He insisted that the man was very much alive. As Mr. Marchmount had just suffered his first heart attack, we discounted his insistence. Then Mr. Marchmount experienced a series of odd mishaps, and I was assigned to ... to protect him from any more. On three separate occasions I have intercepted phone calls from a person whom Mr. Marchmount insists must be this Galvano. In spite of my precautions, Mr. March-mount has paid the demands. And he absolutely refuses to let me consult with the police. I am in the difficult position of seeing—to be blunt—fear kill my client and being unable to prevent his death." Urscoll sighed. "Believe me, we usually do not operate in such a ... an inefficient and ineffective way. But"—Urscoll gestured his hopelessness—"he is living on borrowed time right now, and if I can just keep that . . . that blackmailing Galvano away from Marchmount, I will be at least guarding the body."

"So you've been traveling?"

"Yes, by slow stages and with no advance plans and leaving no forwarding address. My suggestion. It would be harder for the extortionist to track us. Until just recently that worked. The man caught up with us two weeks ago."

"You've had another extortion demand?"

Urscoll grimaced. "For twenty thousand dollars."

"From Galvano?"

"I assume so. It was the one time I wasn't with Mr. Marchmount"—and Urscoll's regret seemed sincere—"and he took the phone call. You can see what it did to him. If it weren't for Mrs. Madison, I think the man might have died."

"Does Madam know he's being blackmailed?"

"No!" The denial was explosive, and Urscoll glanced quickly around to see if anyone had noticed his exclamation. "She thinks he's being pestered by an ex-wife for alimony. I wanted to confide in her, in anyone, because frankly, Mr. Clery, I'm exceedingly worried about him." "Good thing you didn't tell Mother," Rafe said. "But she seems to know that you're an employee."

"Oh, yes." And if I thought I'd suffered at Wendy Madison's hands, I ought to compare notes with Stephen Urscoll. "I realize what an imposition it is, but . . ." He shrugged. "I must protect my client."

"More from himself, I'd say, than the blackmailer." "If he'd only let me approach the police,"  Urscoll said gloomily.

"Don't worry, Urscoll. The decision has been taken out of your hands." 

"How so?"

Louis Marchmount's whinny of a laugh cut across the music, and we all looked over as he began the most insane contortions, totally unrelated to any dance step ever conceived.

"Lou, stop that! Remember your heart! Lou! Oh, Christ!" Wendy Madison was trying to pin his arms down, but he flailed wildly around. Urscoll ran to her aid, and just as he got to Louis, the man gave a wild scream and collapsed.

"He must have got something. He must have. My God, what did he take now?" Wendy Madison screamed. "Turn off that goddamned racket."

Someone did, as Urscoll, Rafe, and John Milanesi carried a white-faced Louis Marchmount and laid him carefully on the long couch in the living room. He was breathing stertorously, his complexion turning a green-gray.

"His heart. His heart," Wendy was moaning, clutching his hand and stroking his forehead.

"Sam's calling the doctor. Urscoll, go get a blanket." Rafe had taken command.

"That won't do any good." His mother was weeping. "He's taken something. How could he have got any drugs? I threw everything I had out. He knows it's bad for his heart. He knows . . ." Her glance fell on Bobby

Wellesley, who had been, I realized now, exhibiting the same unnatural exuberance. "What did you give him, you little turd?"

"Give him? Give him?" Bobby's voice rose to a shriek. "I didn't give him anything. He took it. He came into the bathroom and took it. I only had two tabs left. Just two, and no chance of getting more before Monday. He took it. Serves him right."

"Took what?" Rafe asked in a mild voice.

Bobby's expression turned cunning and suspicious. "No. I won't tell you. Think you can treat me like scum all evening. Turn Faith against me. Then you want me to help you. Well, man, flake off. I won't . . ."

Rafe moved toward Bobby, his hands clenched into fists.

"You little creep, you can't scare me," Bobby said, drawing himself up to his full inches. But suddenly Paddy Skerrit and Ted McCormack closed in on him from behind.

"You're all against me. Coming at me. Don't! Don't!" He had turned in a frenzied, caged-creature way that was horrifying.

"Don't, you fools!" The words were low but urgent. It was Sara who had spoken. She used the stunned silence to run closer to Bobby, her voice soothing and soft. "Bobby, Bobby, they won't crowd you any more. You need your freedom, don't you?" She cajoled him, and he watched her, almost as if she were hypnotizing him with her slow, easy advance. "You need space, don't you, man; space and air and sympathy, or everything will fall in, right?"

Rafe waved Paddy and Ted back, his eyes on Sara. She reached up and took Bobby's hand, stroking his arm, patting his face, murmuring reassurance all the time.

"If he doesn't tell us . . ." Wendy Madison began to wail.

"If you don't shut up and let Sara handle him . . ." Rafe left his threat hanging, but his harsh tone cowed his mother into silence.

"I can't think of anything meaner, Bobby, than losing your last tab like that. It's one thing to offer it to a friend, but no one should take it from you," she said as she pulled Bobby over to a chair and got him seated, all the time soothing his forehead and patting him. "Now, I'm right here with you, and nothing and nobody is going to bother you. You can have a safe trip. When'd you start, so I'll know when you'll be coming down? There's nothing to worry about, because I'll be right here all the time. When'd you start?"

"Just after dinner."

"Oh, then you're really just starting. Well, Sara's here, and it'll be a good trip. What're you on?"

"Berkeley Brown."

"Jesus," said Rafe in an undertone. "That's a composite. Why didn't Lou just take cyanide and forget it?"

"He took my last tab. He'd no right to do that. Not even asking, the old fart." Bobby threw off Sara's hand and staggered to his feet. Sara waved Skerrit away when he moved to cut Bobby off from the door.

"C'mon, Pres, you can help me with him. He'll trust us," she said, sweeping the room with a scathing glance. "We know what he's up against."

"The nerve of her!" Iona Farnham exclaimed.

"You'd better be grateful for her nerve, Mother," Faith replied in a voice of quiet condemnation. "Otherwise we'd never have found out what Bobby gave him. I'm terribly sorry for my part in this, Wendy. I knew he'd taken something, because he was more impossible than ever. But I never dreamed that Mr. Marchmount had any of it."

"I don't understand you at all, Faith," Iona said, her smooth face too composed in contrast to the outrage in her eyes, in her voice, in every line of her body. "Condoning the use of drugs."

"I don't, but is that any worse than what you're using, Mother?" Faith demanded, pointing to the brandy snifter in her mother's hand. "Liquor or drugs, they're both poison."

"What is this Berkeley Brown that Lou has taken? You know how bad his heart is!" Wendy Madison interrupted curtly. "Oh, how long does it take for Bauman to get here?"

However long it took was far too long for those of us forced to sit around. The McCormacks and the Farnham party left, with Faith repeating her anxious apology for the occurrence. She wasn't to blame, which was what Rafe told her, though Wendy's eyes followed her departure in a baleful gaze. Maybe, I thought, Wendy Madison would now leave Faith and Bobby Wellesley alone.

Dr. Bauman was furious when he saw Marchmount's condition. He went livid, however, when Rafe told him what had happened. And which drug was involved.

"A compound? Of what? Some damn fool chem major whomping up some damn fool ingredients? How in hell can I treat an overdose until I know what I'm counteracting?"

Rafe sent John in search of Sara and Bobby. She came back by herself and with a kind of suppressed satisfaction (I wouldn't have suppressed it) told the doctor what he needed to know.

"Bobby said he took it just shortly after we finished dinner."

"And when was that?" Bauman seemed to know the habits of the house. "Well, then we might be able to get enough of it out of his stomach to save his damn fool life." Bauman glared at everyone in the room, but he patted Sara on the back. "You know too much. Hope you don't mess with the stuff, young lady," he added sternly.

"Anyone can mess with drugs, doctor; it's when you let them mess you that you're in trouble."

She turned on her sandaled heel and marched out of the living room with such dignity I almost seconded Rafe's low "Bravo!"

The doctor wasted no further time, but ordered an ambulance, called the hospital, and gave them swift instructions.

"Oh, no, not the hospital." Wendy Madison roused herself enough to protest.

"Yes, the hospital," the doctor snapped. "I warned you after his last excess that his constitution could stand no further abuses. Part of his physical condition is psychosomatic."

"But we just had a few friends in," Wendy said.

"A few friends?" Bauman rolled his eyes up in his head and threw up his hands.

"You could hardly expect me not to give a reception for my son's bride."

•Bauman caught sight of us and merely closed his eyes.

"She ought to be resting, too. Ah, I give up on the lot of you!" He flung out his hands impatiently and then turned back to Louis Marchmount, moving his stethoscope across the thin tanned chest. I looked away.

The ambulance arrived, siren going and lights flashing; its appearance set Wendy Madison to wailing again. I think John might have soothed her, but as luck would have it, Bobby Wellesley came roaring back through the living room, mouthing obscenities. Sara and Pres were right behind him, both showing signs of having struggled to keep him under control.

The sight of the raving young man being restrained by two husky volunteer ambulance men until Bauman could administer a sedative sent Wendy Madison into hysterics. She was also sedated and taken upstairs by Rafe and John.

Urscoll had mumbled something about staying with Louis Marchmount, so when the ambulance roared off, followed by Dr. Bauman's Lincoln (he drove more erratically than the ambulance), I was left with the notion that a barn fire was really a minor evil.

In a sort of stunned bemusement I looked around the huge empty living room, its beauty vapid and dangerous. The whole house was quiet suddenly, though I'd heard Mrs. Madison's imprecations—mainly aimed at me—clearly enough until cut off by a door.

Outside, tree frogs and night creatures chorused with the occasional muted noise of a fast car on the main road as counterpoint. I was very, very tired.

The soft thud of footsteps on the stair carpeting roused me, and glad of any company, I hurried to the hall. Rafe was swinging down the steps.

"Sorry, Nialla. Let's split this scene." He glanced over his shoulder as if he hoped nothing would interfere with our leaving. He hauled open the heavy door, and we went out into the clean cool night.

The moment the electric eye began to open the big gate, the dogs came charging out of the underbrush. Rafe called to them, and their forbidding advance turned into a lolloping welcome. Their eyes winked red and Vaseline yellow in the headlights as we passed. When the gate had clanged shut, I saw them sniffling in the driveway, tails wagging. Then they were off again, into the shadows, at a businesslike trot.

Night lights in the stable yard illuminated a tall figure in the arch as we drove by.

"That you, boss?" I heard Jerry's voice.

"Night, Jerry."

I saw him stand there until we swung past the bushes. The porch lights and a small one in the living room showed us the path in.

"Hungry?" Rafe asked in a conversational tone.

I shook my head violently. The thought of food was nauseating.

"Nightcap?"

I just shook my head and made for the stairs.

"I'll be right up, honey," he said, and gave me a proprietary slap on the rear as he turned back to fasten the door.

I had an overwhelming urge to be alone. Completely alone. I ran up the stairs and closed the bedroom door behind me. I wanted to take a shower and get clean. I closed the bathroom door behind me, too. The room was all steam when I finally felt clean. I wrapped the thick wide bath towel around me. Abruptly the atmosphere was no longer steamy; it was suffocating. I ran out into the cool quiet dark of the bedroom.

I knew Rafe wasn't there before my eyes got used to the night, and I wavered between relief and disappointment. The ghastly evening assailed me in flashback as I lay in bed, tired and not as relaxed by the shower as I'd hoped. My blood seemed to pound through my veins, and certainly memories pounded through my brain. The only really nice people had been Faith, the Eldicotts, and Sam. Ted McCormack, possibly.

Had that sort of thing been going on in Agnes du Maurier's huge house when I was growing up, and I was just too naive to know it? I shook my head. No. That lady had been brusque and candid, but not vicious. She'd loyally stuck by her adulterous husband (and he'd never abused an employee's daughter) until his death, and it hadn't made her like Iona Farnham or as possessive as Wendy Madison. I mopped the perspiration from my face as my body temperature gradually lowered in the cooling night air.

What made people like Louis Marchmount and Bobby Wellesley take drugs?

Where was Rafe?

I had a most persistent vision of Louis Marchmount lying on the couch, with Bobby Wellesley's twitching length superimposed on his bony chest.

Where was Rafe?

"I can protect you, Nialla. I want the right to protect you..." Rafe had told me. Was it really only four days ago?

He did well enough with police and doctors and insurance men, but in the bosom of his own family, he was a bust. (Oh, Gawd!) But the awful pun brought my humor into operation again. I needed every ounce of it I owned, with that kind of mother-in-law playing charades and sending a kid brother (not even a full brother, at that) to buy me off.

I burrowed under the sheet, for the warmth of the shower had dissipated enough to make the night air a bit chilly. I'd half-thought that Rafe might be showering, but it seemed to me he was taking a long time coming to bed. I listened until the night insects sounded louder than the distant passage of long-haul trucks on the highway half a mile beyond the farm. I could hear nothing of manmade noises. The house emanated such a deserted silence, my breathing was positively stertorous.

Where was he?

I slid from the bed to the window and realized that both the porch and living-room lights were off. The nearest glow welled up through the evergreens around the stable. I concentrated, discounting insect buzzes and frog chirpings, listening for any odd sound.

Where had Rafe got to? Had he learned something he didn't mention to me? Had he gone back to the big house? Perhaps that was it. Although Rafe in the role of loving son was about as ridiculous as his mother cast as Florence Nightingale—unless you made it "Martingale," and that was what she wanted to put on Louis Marchmount.

The droll notion did not restore my sense of proportion, for there was nothing really amusing about Wendy Madison. Well, at least Pres Branegg was trying to slice the silver cord, but John Milanesi's fixation was damned unhealthy.

Where was Rafe?

I rose again, uneasy and—yes—afraid to sleep without his protective presence. I might not be able to cope with someone like Wendy Madison in person, but once she was out of sight, I didn't have to worry about her. It was the things I couldn't see, the enemies I knew I had that really frightened me.

I paced through the upper floor of the house, peering out of each window and listening intently, trying to catch the crunch of someone on the gravel. Clever of Rafe to surround the house with gravelly paths that couldn't be jumped easily or crossed silently.

Not a noise, not a leaf stirred without the light breeze to account for its movement.

Maybe Rafe was disappointed in me?

Then ... I heard something. The slightest bit of scraping noise. On the stairs.

My throat went dry—just like they say it does—and although I couldn't seem to breathe, my pulses were pounding so hard they ought to be audible.

I could see the interruption of normal shadows on the staircase, a darker patch that advanced, not toward our bedroom but toward the back of the house, toward me, where I was standing in the west bedroom.

"Rafe!"

I raced to him, almost crying with relief and joy. I flung myself at him so hard that the breath went out of his lungs in a whoosh. Then his arms encircled, hard, comforting, and he swung me, chuckling into my ear.

"Glad to see me, huh?"

"Oh, Rafe, where have you been?"

"Sentry-go-round."

I leaned back, trying to see his face in the dark. The shadows made him seem totally different, a stern stranger, until he turned his head slightly, and I could see the gleam of his teeth and eyes.

"You were worried?"

•"Not particularly," he said, which meant he had been. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."

It was the casual comment, delivered in a sort of impersonal tone, that told me how much the disastrous evening had upset Rafe. If I had dreaded the affair, he had loathed it. Yet even Rafe couldn't have foreseen the ghastly capper to the party.

Well, he'd done his filial duty, introduced his bride, and neither she nor he could be compelled to make another appearance there!

"Asleep? You gotta be kidding, man," I said. I felt him tense slightly, saw his smile fade, and realized he misunderstood me. I tightened my arms around his neck, pressing my body against the tight muscles of his torso with what I thought was a sensuous motion. I angled my head so our noses wouldn't collide, and kissed him till our teeth grated together.

"Dear heart." He laughed as he gathered me up in his arms and made for our bedroom. "Dear heart," he repeated as he laid me very gently down on the bed. "Don't rush the fence. Sexy is soft." And his lips covered mine very lightly, his tongue caressing the edge of my mouth in a feather touch. "Very soft, until you ache for more."

And he demonstrated.

8

I'd no notion when we finally went to sleep. Who thought of wristwatches? But the morning sun slanting over the top of the windowsill through the beeches woke me. I had been so deeply asleep that for a moment I couldn't recall my whereabouts.

"Thank God tomorrow's Sunday," Rafe said close to my ear. His toes brushed mine as he arched his back in a joint-popping stretch.

"What difference does Sunday make?" I wondered. "Sun rises same as ever."

"I ignore the sun until noon on the Sabbath." Rafe threw back the covers—off me, too—and bounced to his feet. He looked down at me, a little reminiscent smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "I feel like ignoring the sun right now." He looked about to dive on top of me. I giggled. "Shameless hussy!" He didn't dive, but he had me in his arms again, his warm flesh exciting against me. But, as our chests touched, I winced. My breasts were tender. He put me from him with an oath, and there was absolutely no desire in the penitent kiss he placed on my cheek.

"Rafe?"

"We can wait. It's not going somewhere else."

With that cryptic remark he hauled me out of the bed, swatted me on the buttocks, and pushed me toward the shower.

"We gotta ride, and then I want to take you to the Locust Valley meet this afternoon at Charlie's place. That is, if you'd like to go."

"Is that where the Eldicotts are going?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to see them again especially." 

"Thought you would. Old friends of my father's, and good friends of mine." Then he was off down the hall.

I showered quickly without steam effects, pleased I'd see the Eldicotts again and also watch a meet I didn't have to compete in for a change. I'd been going steady on that routine ever since Florida. But I'd plenty of points accumulated for the big trophies.

I have a tendency to forget time in a shower: I get pensive from the mesmeric beat of water on my shoulders. God knows the last few days—few days?—had given me a lot to think about. Incredible! I'd met Rafe only last Saturday, and yet, in some aspects of our days together, I felt I'd known him a great deal longer. Could I actually have met him when he jockeyed for Dad? And simply not singled him out of the gaggle of short men who drifted in and out of the Du Maurier paddocks? I shivered with erotic memories of last night. Unlikely that I'd have met Rafe and not remembered. No, now, Nialla, you'd've been twelve? Thirteen? You weren't noticing boys in that way . . . only horses.

I was also a little nonplussed that Rafe hadn't taken me again this morning. He certainly looked like he wanted to. I wouldn't have minded the hurting: it was perversely stimulating, I'd discovered. But if Rafe was considerate of me, he hadn't married me just for that. (I couldn't any longer use the contemptuous vulgar words with which I was used to referring to the sex act—not after being pleasured by Rafael Clery. "Pleasured"—that was exactly the right word, too.)

I ruthlessly turned on the cold tap. The sharp needles of water stung my breasts, and I turned my back on that. Neither Maisie or Sadie was I. Speaking of whom . . .

I was losing time ruminating again, and just as I stepped from the stall shower, there was a discreet tapping on the door. He was leaning against the jamb, a wistful expression on his face.

"I'm so sorry, Rafe. I get started thinking under a shower and lose all track of time."

"So long as you think of me," he said, pushing himself erect and speaking with an exaggeration that put me instantly in mind of a Rudolph Valentino movie.

"Of you, my lord, of you and no other," I replied with matching extravagance, and flourishing my hand to my brow, pretended to swoon.

"I have you in my power, my proud beauty! Must I be valet as well as lover?" quoth he, bending me back until my head nearly touched the floor. "But I won't have much power if I don't get my Cheerios!" he added petulantly, pulling me up and letting me go so suddenly I nearly fell. He steadied me, his eyes merry with our fooling.

We were both laughing as we went downstairs. I thought of last night's harrowing scenes and decided to forget them completely.

But there were too many reminders. Jerry, sleepy and disgusted, sipping coffee in the kitchen, waited to report that not a damned thing had happened last night. It was his opinion the blackmailer was just talking. Rafe reminded him that a slit girth, a blearing horn, and a barn fire couldn't be classed as "talk," and perhaps the absence of activity was designed to relax our vigilance.

"Ask Dennis to take over if these late hours are getting you down," Rafe suggested half-jokingly.

"His Sue Jan's baby-sitting this week for the Perdues," Mrs. Garrison said, turning from the pancakes she was watching.

Jerry grumbled something about a boy taking a man's job and said he'd sleep on it. I tried not to giggle, and heard Rafe clearing his throat, but Jerry wandered off, yawning, oblivious to the play on words.

After Rafe finished nine pancakes—and Mrs. Garrison's were not the chintzy restaurant size—I slyly suggested Cheerios and meekly endured her lecture on empty calorie foods and starving on a full stomach of such blown-up garbage. Rafe had to assure her I was teasing, and we both insisted that she sit down for coffee.

"Well, I could just tell something was going to happen last night, Mr. Rafe," she said, "and I was that scared it might be trouble for you and Miss Nialla."

Inadvertently my eyes met Rafe's.

"I don't mean to sound unfeeling about Mr. Marchmount—who's holding his own, I heard—but I guess it could have been worse. It's her's not well today."

Rafe's eyebrows rose in polite inquiry.

"Yes. Mamzelle said she was in a fine state of hysterics, carrying on about being disgraced and ruined all because Dr. Bauman insisted on taking Mr. Marchmount to Nassau County Hospital and making that Wellesley child go, too, and what would the Wellesleys think of her when they heard he'd been taken ill in her house. Taken ill!" Mrs. Garrison snorted contemptuously at the euphemism. "As if his people wouldn't know what that young feller's been doing, the way he dresses and all. As if they didn't know what she does now and again. My lands, how can people fool themselves. . . . That photographer had left by then, hadn't he?"

We nodded.

"That's a mercy. And young Dennis had gone, too. I'm just as glad of that."

"And you think Dennis doesn't know about grass?" I asked before I stopped to think.

Mrs. Garrison looked at me, her lips firm with disapproval. "I expect he does, Miss Nialla, but he's got more sense than to use it. Grass is for horses to eat, not people to smoke."

I wondered if she had failed to catch an essential difference, but I wasn't the one and this wasn't the time to explain.

"I expect," Rafe said, grinning at me, "Dennis agrees with you, Garry."

"I should hope so. He's a nice boy. I know he was kept up pretty late bartending, but he was here right on time this morning. Oh, and Mr. Rafe, about those race types, Mrs. Palchi said there haven't been any at the house."

"Phone calls?'

"I told you about that, Mr. Rafe. Sam's to say Mr. Marchmount's not there, same as before."

"To work, to work," Rafe said, clapping his hands together. "We'll put the string through a quick workout and then run over to Locust Valley. Garry, can you put lunch forward to about one, one-thirty?"

"Of course, Mr. Rafe. It's going to be a scorcher, according to the weatherman"—and she wasn't too certain about his ability—"so I'd planned something cool and light, Miss Nialla. Doesn't pay to eat too heavy in hot weather."

"That sounds fine," I murmured, and Rafe and I left.

"While you were lost in that shower," Rafe said as we walked briskly through the still-cool morning air, "I called the hospital. Spoke to Urscoll and told him about your extortion call. His bosses can't fault him if Marchmount's involved, sidereally, as it were, and Marchmount, if he lives through this relapse, can't say they abrogated his confidence. But I'm not having my wife threatened, even as a fringe benefit for some ex-racetrack-tout. Meanwhile, back at the ranch"—and his arm tightened around my waist—"let's you and me concentrate on some steeds."

"Going to be a scorcher," Dennis said in greeting. He'd just finished grooming Orfeo in the passageway. Dice was watching, yawning sleepily. "He had a hard night, that one."

Rafe loosened the halter rope and led the gelding out into the sun, his hide gleaming with dark rosettes.

"He's stepping out well," Rafe remarked. "Dennis, move him about."

We stood and watched as Dennis ran with the gelding, but he was still, just a little, favoring the off-hind. Rafe took the lead from Dennis and gestured for me to look at the hoof. It was almost healed, the char all but gone from the sole and barely noticeable where the cinder had burned into the frog a little.

"He'll be as good as new in a few days," I allowed.

Rafe was communing with Orfeo; he didn't even seem aware I'd spoken. There was excitement in Rafe's eyes, and the hands that caressed my black gelding were as possessive and gentle as his hands on me. I felt a surge of conflicting emotions: jealousy, regret (Orfeo was my accomplishment), envy, irritation, impatience, unworthy feelings; I suppressed them. Orfeo was no less mine if Rafe rode and won on him, and I damned well couldn't chase him.

"Rafe, would you ride Phi Bete this morning for me? She needs some exercise, and I'd like you to try her," I heard myself saying.

Orfeo tossed his head, and I didn't see Rafe's expression.

"Well, since you ask me so nicely, I don't mind if I do," was what he said, and there was an odd ripple in his voice. And a kind of pleased smile on his face when Orfeo moved back.

Rocking Lady worked better for me this morning, though she seemed very spooky. Maybe it was me, for I was constantly craning my neck to see if Phi Bete was performing properly. (I mean, you can get awful silly about a horse you've trained, who's had only you on her back, to the point where it's absurd.)

"You ride that damned bay," Rafe muttered under his breath as we were walking the jumpers after a steady round, "and let me ride your precious darling." The deep smile on his face belied the words. He reached over impulsively and kissed me on the lips, right in front of the delighted Dennis. He patted Phi Bete's curved neck, too. "She's as beautifully trained a jumper as I've ever sat, Nialla. You can be proud of her. And stop worrying. I need you to take the rough edges off that bay bitch."

"You're sure . . . "

"Stop frowning. I goddamn well don't put the Clery seal of approval on any spavined ring-boned blown hack simply because I married her owner." What he didn't say—"It's Orfeo I want your permission to ride"—hung as clearly to me in the silence as if he had spoken the words. And, for the life of me, I couldn't see why I had any hesitation in offering.

We worked the grays next, until all four of us were sweating heavily. The weatherman had been right, and by eleven the sun scorched hot through the heavy humid air.

"Let's call it a day, Nialla. I feel stewed in my own juices. And the jumping will be hot at Locust Valley. We ought to go watch awhile. You may be riding against some of the winners later on."

Dennis appeared to take the sweating horses from us, listening carefully to Rafe's instructions about cooling them.

I seemed to have spent a good portion of the last week in a shower—far better than a pail in the ladies'—but this time I made a conscious effort to stick to cleaning and rinsing, without deviation.

I'd have to improve if I wanted to beat Rafe, for he was tapping at the bathroom door, black hair still wet but sleekly combed. He also looked disgustingly cool in a tissue-thin blue jersey pullover and elegant walk shorts, twirling ebony-framed sunglasses in one hand. He presented me with a matching pair.

"Reduce the glare. Charlie's place usually has a nice breeze, but there's not much air stirring on the island today."

Charlie's place happened to be one of those huge estates that still boast ten-foot, glass-topped concrete walls. Only a discreet sign in gay-nineties printing, "Horse Show," gave any hint of the doings those walls hid.

We turned obliquely left, before the drive that led to a gorgeous Georgian brick mansion, past an elaborate swimming pool glimpsed through screening rose arbors, around the estate's stable complex, before we came to the open fields with the usual appointments of horse trailers, cars, people, horses, temporary rings, children, and even a mobile sandwich truck.

Some events were already in progress as Rafe stopped at the improvised box office of card table and elderly gatekeeper. The loudspeaker was urging Numbers 18, 23, 36, and 72 to come to Ring Number Four, if you please!

"Nice to see you holding up after last winter, Willie," Rafe said, handing over money and accepting two programs.

"Hot weather's good for me, Mr. Clery. It's the cold bothers my chest."

"Ought to be hot enough today."

"Just right. Just right," the old man agreed, mopping his brow.

As the Austin-Healey made its low, slow way over the rough ground, I suddenly wished I were on horseback among all these strangers. Rafe's chuckle, pure devilment, distracted me.

"This'll be good. George's here."

"George?"

"Uh-huh. One of the top jump trainers in the world. Look at him! Flaunting enough ribbons to set up a shop!"

I followed his gesture to the big blue horse van whose side doors had been rigged with a line on which hung an impressive array of reds, blues, and damned few lesser shades. Two youngsters were sitting in the camp chairs, bootless legs stretched out, fanning themselves. Four pink hunting jackets and several plain linen ones hung on a bar across the back of the van.

"George runs one of the best jump clinics on the East Coast. He's got young hopefuls from all over, saying yes-sir and no-sir, ready to swallow their pride and their fathers' almighty dollars to qualify for Madison Square or Chagrin Valley. God, there are some people who'll make a racket out of anything."

"George?"

"No!" Rafe seemed almost annoyed, not realizing that his aspersion was ambiguous. "The prestige-seekers, the status-claimers. 'My kid won a blue jumping at Broken Tooth.' Takes all the joy 'out of it."

The one clump of shade by the larger of the two iron-picketed rings had been preempted by the show officials. They had even moved the equipment from the loudspeaker truck, which would have been a glass-walled steam bath.

Four separate rings were in operation, I realized, looking over my program as Rafe parked the car on the far side of the ring and began to study his. There was a small ring beyond the main field for the pony classes, a huge meadow with five substantial hunt-class jumps, and the one permanent ring, set under some magnificent oaks, where flat riding was being judged. One could see the dust clouds, at any rate, and the spectators were standing well back from the railing. I wondered that the judges could see a thing in such smog.

"Ray just informed me," the announcer informed the county, "that unless 18, 36, and 72 are at Ring Number One gate in one minute, Class 23 will be closed. What's that? Oh, well, we'll give her one more minute to change tack." Then, sort of off-mike, "We're not giving them enough time between classes, Ray."

Just as Rafe suggested that we drift around, someone hailed him. I was delighted to see the Eldicotts coming over. They were such a handsome couple, bearing gracefully the years which Iona Farnham and Wendy Madison tried to deny.

"Anne, you sneaked away far too soon last night," Rafe said, kissing her hand and then shaking Steve Eldicott's.

"Just as well, I gather," Steve replied in a dry voice.

"Oh?"

Anne Eldicott smiled reassuringly and patted Rafe's hand, for he hadn't released hers. "The show is a gossip kettle, Rafe. They'd make soup from a stone. They'd have it that the Herrington estate was raided by narcotics agents last night, and half a dozen people were rushed to the hospital. That's the worst you'll hear. Ran into Ted McCormack, and he told us that Lou had a mild seizure."

Rafe gave her a long look. "Lou's heart is bad, and he did have a seizure last night, and Bauman rushed him to Nassau County. He's holding his own."

"Bob Wellesley has heart trouble, too?" Steve asked, his expression very bland.

Rafe began to chuckle. "Bob, you might say, has heart trouble, too. Faith."

"Hope and Charity," mocked Steve.

"We really were sorry we couldn't stay longer last night," Anne told me, without seeming to change the subject. "Rafe's one of our favorite people, so very much like his father."

"And all the time I thought it was my winning personality."

"Ha!" said Steve with a disparaging snort, then addressed me. "Pure self-interest on Anne's part. She's an inveterate gambler, and used to treble her betting fun every time Rafe rode."

Rafe cast a despairing look at Anne. "It wasn't my big blue eyes?"

"Sorry, chum," Anne said with an unpenitent grin. "Have you noticed that Korlin is still trying?"

Rafe looked around, spotted a tall, graying man warming up a chestnut. "He'll never make it on that bay. I keep telling him bargains in horseflesh aren't bargains if you're after jump trophies."

We walked along the rail, seeking a spot that gave us the best view of the set jumps. The entries were by now all assembled, and the first contestant did her round. The Eldicotts knew most of the entrants. There was a preponderance of younger riders in this open class, all hoping to win enough points to qualify for the events in the bigger regional horse shows, and finally Madison Square, come November. Some of the kids were good; certainly all were well-mounted.

"One of George's," Rafe said to me as a girl trotted by on a well-bred dark dappled gray with an uncommonly white mane and tail. "How can you tell?"

"Look at George." He pointed across the ring, where a man stood, arms on the top metal strap, intently taking the jumps with the contestant. When the girl made a flawless round, the man relaxed but did not smile.

Although Rafe and the Eldicotts chatted about mutual acquaintances and training troubles, I never felt left out, though I had few comments to offer. We were all interested in the class's progress. The judge's indecision between the two first-place contenders was exactly mine. He asked them to switch mounts. The gray moved out as well for the boy as for the girl. She had to keep the boy's mount well in hand, for the chestnut showed an inclination to refuse, which she thwarted with nice leg work. She took the blue. George's face seemed to indicate that there'd been no question at all in his mind. And then I saw the second-placer joining George's small knot of adherents. His rather flat voice carried across the ring as he discussed the class, gesturing from one rider to another as he remarked on the aggregate performance.

The announcer was calling another class, juniors sixteen or under, limit only. It was a large class, half the kids nervous and communicating it to their mounts. The raw-boned bay was almost on me before I recognized the colored Tomlinson headstall and saw Bess Tomlinson's daughter go by.

"I thought I'd find the bride and groom here," called a cheery voice. I whirled to see Bess herself bearing down on us. As usual she had one freckled arm loaded with bangles. They cut into my back as she embraced me warmly. She really did seem pleased, too, her grin threatening to split the biggest freckles on her cheeks. "By God, you look a thousand percent better already. If Rafe hadn't been taking good care of you . . ." Her threat trailed off. "Anne, you look disgustingly young; how's Jeffrey?"

Mention of this person seemed to dampen everyone's spirits.

"Jeff's just fine," Steve replied, but Anne's gentle smile and Steve's stock reply told me that "just fine" wasn't all 

that good. "Your girl up on old Majority?"

"Yes. I try to keep her out of the game, but she's determined to compete with her old mother."

There was a kind of taut determination in the lumpy girl's straightly held shoulders.

"I used to think excitement followed Rafe," Bess was saying to me, "but you manage to gather a fair amount of it yourself. Recovered from the fire? How's that leaping fool of a Juggernaut?"

"Juggernaut? Thought he went to glue years ago," Steve said.

"No, as a matter of fact," Rafe said in the manner of someone who's held on to a surprise, "he's up at my place. Nialla is actually a white witch and worked a spell on him. On me, too. But she jumped him to a blue at Sunbury. . . ."

"You were in that fire?" Anne exclaimed with concern. "Oh, your legs and arms." She could now admit she'd noticed them.

"The girl's a real heroine," Bess went on proudly, and launched into a reasonably accurate account of the fire and my part in it. All the time she had one eye on her daughter.

"Actually, if Rafe hadn't come to my aid, I'd never have got Orfeo out," I said, obliged to tone down her exaggerations.

"Rode the damned horse's head to keep the blanket on,"

Rafe added.

"Did you lose any stock?"

"No horses."

"But a lot of peanut butter," Rafe put in with a straight face. "And all her clothes and tack. I got me a bride with only tatters to cover her. . . ."

"I'd've thought you'd remedy that," Bess said outrageously. I didn't dare look around. "However, Rafe Clery, you did get Juggernaut and that sweet-moving sorrel mare. Say, they haven't discovered who killed old Pete, have they? And what's all this about Lou Marchmount taking an overdose of drugs? I saw him with Wendy in charge at the Marshalls'." Bess grimaced. "She was put out . . ." Bess broke off, her eyes flicking to mine, and she flushed. "Oh, good girl!"

We all concentrated very intently on the jumping.

"She is still letting him crowd his fences," Bess said with a dismal groan. "And she wobbled all over the saddle on the hurdle jump. If she'd lose ten pounds, she'd be able to get her thighs into the saddle properly. But that doesn't get you off the hook, Clerys," she continued, jabbing Rafe in the shoulder with a bony forefinger. "Girth cut, horn blaring, barn burning . . . not to mention old Pete with his head broken. I don't believe that hogwash about spontaneous combustion, either."

"Bess, you're a love, and I promise not to compete against your string all summer, but I can't give you answers I don't have," Rafe said, his expression grim.

Bess looked at his arm around my waist and raised her sun-bleached eyebrows.

"Well, I see you're intent on guarding your own interests and counsel. Just remember, I stood up for this girl, and I dislike having my arrangements broken."

"Mrs.—Bess"—I corrected myself as she glared at me—"was my matron of honor," I told the Eldicotts, who were politely hoping for an explanation of something. "D'you know, she brought me her veil and flowers?"

"D'you blame me for rushing Nialla off her feet?" Rafe said, giving me a rather shameless leer.

"If she's got that black jumper, no. You always swore you only needed a chance at him to get him working properly," Steve said. "I admit I thought Brader would take your offer. Six thousand was a damned good price for that beast, considering his manners."

Six thousand? I'd paid forty dollars for Orfeo because that's all I had on me that day. And I expect that the farm who'd been holding Orfeo for the knackers considered that a bargain for taking a near corpse off his hands.

"Steve!" His wife regarded him with mock horror, then smiled at me. Had my face revealed something? "You'll make Nialla think Rafe's mercenary."

"As far as horseflesh is concerned, he is," Steve said in a succinct fashion, softening by the smile he gave me. "However, I think he's met his match on all points in Russ Donnelly's daughter." Steve frowned then, his eyes. going from my face to Rafe's, but whatever he thought, he said nothing, although from time to time he watched me intently.

I'd been genuinely glad to see Bess Tomlinson, but her questions, however well intentioned, only brought back the shadows which the show had briefly banished.

"Gawd, it's boiling here. C'mon, Nialla. Spot you to a Coke," Rafe said when the judges had announced their decisions.

Bess's girl had a fifth-place ribbon and looked rather put out. She'd had stiffer competition here, though, since it was a class in equitation rather than the horse's performance.

"That'll knock Madam's yarn," Rafe. chuckled as we got out of earshot of the Eldicotts and Bess. "Though why she wanted to be at the wedding is beyond me."

"She didn't go to the others?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Rafe looked perversely pleased.

"No indeed. But then," he told me in a bland voice, "I've never been to any of hers." His arm linked through mine, and he matched my stride. "Bess is worried about you, dear heart. People do, you know, besides me. And the Eldicotts really like you, or they'd have stayed away from us today. They tend to keep to themselves."

"Why? Because of this Jeff?"

Rafe's glance was warmly approving. "Jeff's their only child. We used to go to the same school till I got 'asked to leave.' He's a paraplegic from Korea. I drop in now and again."

And that was all he wanted to say on that subject.

He stepped up to the counter of the mobile snack truck, greeting the older of the men working there, chatting as he waited for the Cokes to be found in the cooler. Rafe couldn't be as unconcerned over the rampant gossip about us as he appeared. I mean, it might not matter to the Eldicotts, who had problems of their own, or Bess Tomlinson that his wife was obviously connected to some fatal incidents. But this business-as-usual might be misconstrued as indifference. And last night's episode, while scarcely any fault of mine, made me feel a real Jonah.

"There's a time, Nialla, when you don't look for more problems," Rafe said, handing me the Coke with a flourish at variance with his serious advice. He tipped his bottle back for a long swallow. "Boy, that hits the spot. Hotter'n the hinges of hell here." We moved to the shadow cast by a big horse van. It wasn't any cooler, but the sun didn't bite my shoulders and arms.

"I should have known Bess would be here, and her usual games-mistress self. But nothing will affect her opinion of you." He chuckled, because he knew he'd read my mind a-right. "Dear heart, I know you, inside-out-side-hindside-nearside. And that’s why we're at a show today. It's the only thing will take your mind off what's bothering us both. Also"—and he glanced around us— "we're in a big, safe crowd. And if you think I'm going to leave your side for a moment, you're wrong."

I wasn't just imagining it: there was affection in the depths of those disconcertingly blue eyes. Damn the six thousand dollars. It wasn't because of Orfeo.

"So let's divert ourselves for another half-hour and then go home and eat. Unless you'd rather pick up a hot dog here. Garry won't mind."

I looked at the snack truck and then at the people milling around. Somehow this place seemed safer than the quiet Dower House for all the gates and the guard dogs.

"Of course, it's damned hot, and the house is air-conditioned. We can leave here anytime. You want to go swimming or something? Come to think of it"—and there was astonishingly enough a shade of apology in Rate's rueful admission—"I don't remember to ask what you'd like to do."

"You don't have to—mind-reader."

He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and evidently the matter was settled, for he suggested that we see what the Hunter Class was doing, all gussied up in pink coats (they must be boiling), breeks, hunting boots, whip, gloves, hat, saddle accessories. They were waiting in the ruthless sun for the judges to check the appointments.

We managed to get some shade from the high hedges in the corner of the hunting meadow, Ring 4. And, watching the contestants stretching their horses over the ground between hurdles, I did manage to forget the omnipresent shadow of fear. I didn't connect the slowly approaching 
police car with my involvement, even when it pulled up near us.

"Clery! Hey, Clery."

I didn't react to the name the first time, because I wasn't used to thinking of myself as a Clery.

"Well, if it isn't Bob Erskine," Rafe said, nodding pleasantly to the heavyset police officer who heaved himself out of the back of the sedan. His badge said "Sheriff," and that's how he was introduced to me.

"Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Clery"—he must take lessons from my mother-in-law—"but I've a few questions to ask you."

"Thanks all the same, Bob. You don't need to assign a man to protect Nialla."

"Protect , . ." Erskine floundered momentarily. "I'm talking to your wife, Mr. Clery. Are you Irene Nialla Donnelly, otherwise known as Nialla Dunn, and did you reside in San Fernando Valley at Merrymount Estate? . . ."

The noon-high sun could not thaw the chill that sprang from the pit of my stomach and spread rapidly to my hands and feet.

"I'm not sure I like your tone of voice, Erskine," Rafe said in a dangerously soft one.

I caught Rafe's hand, his fingers contracting around mine, instead of into a fist. I wouldn't let his hand go.

"I was Irene Nialla Donnelly, and I have used the name Nialla Dunn in the show ring," I said quickly. The cold receded rapidly before the anger I felt toward this paunchy bully, sweating in the hot sun. "I did reside in San Fernando. Why?" I felt Rafe relax at the crispness of my counter question.

"Seems like you left without notifying the authorities in charge of investigating a murder."

"I did leave California after my father's murder, that's true. But I also had been thoroughly interrogated by the police and left a signed statement with them. No one told me I couldn't leave the state, and so I'd no idea I was committing any kind of crime or misdemeanor."

"I didn't say you was—"

"You didn't say it," I replied, grabbing Rafe's hand again, and staring back at Erskine without wavering. "But your 'questions' imply it. I know that Detective Lieutenant Michaels has been in touch with you, so you must be aware of the facts."

"Now, there's no reason to get—"

"Isn't there?" I demanded, imbued with unexpected confidence and cool. This man was not one whit different from the disagreeable bullies who had harassed me in California. Only I wasn't a fool any longer. "When you accost me here, at a sports event? If you knew I was Mrs. Clery, then you knew the rest, Sheriff Erskine. Believe me, I am quite willing to cooperate with the authorities. Ask Detective Lieutenant Michaels. But I really do not think that this is the time or the place."

"Doesn't that about cover it, Erskine?" Rafe asked, using that soft dangerous tone. "Or should I ask Korlin to step over here a moment? He's right over there." And Rafe jerked his head back toward Ring 1, where the next class was lined up to enter. "You have more official questions? My wife will answer them, but since she has not broken any law by being the victim of planned accidents and an extortion attempt, the time will be convenient to her and her attorney. Now, good afternoon."

Rafe swung me back toward the ringside and began to comment on the form of the rider then approaching the stone fence in the far corner. I could feel fury in the shadow the Sheriff cast over us. It seemed an age before we heard the car door slam and the squawking of power steering as the auto backed around and bounced away over the rough ground.

"Rafe..."

"Nialla"—and for the first time he sounded impatient with me—"Bob Erskine is an officious oaf, hanging on to his office by the tips of his hairy fingers. Half his precinct is drug-ridden, from the college kids experimenting with electric punch to the upper-income brackets tripping on esoteric compounds. He can't touch the one because the campus goes up like a rocket. He can't touch the others because they consistently buy either him or the judge off. All the fervent puritans in the township and the narks in Mineola are breathing down his neck. But he can't pull that kind of a law-and-order arrogance with me—or you." Then he smiled at me. "You couldn't have answered him better."

"Those answers I have."

I'd felt unusually secure (for me) while I was actually confronting the Sheriff, but now, in reaction to the tension, I needed to find a ladies' room fast.

"The house isn't open," Rafe told me when I asked, "but I know there's a John in the stable. I'll show you."

We were halfway there when Rafe was hailed by the McCormacks. He urged me to go along to the stable—it was only a couple of hundred yards farther up the track.

I found a gay-nineties-style sign of a hand, the index finger pointed toward an open door at the back of the stable. The whimsy amused me. I entered a wide, cobbled passageway with six loose boxes along the right. On the left a double-barn door was barred from the inside, but at the end of the corridor was a second hand-sign pointing to the L of the stable. Two horses stuck their heads out of the stalls to investigate me: a rangy bay and a timorous gray. I made my duties to them, and they whiffled in response.

The John itself was a long narrow room, undoubtedly constructed for another use entirely but now serving as lavatory, kitchenette, and animal dispensary. The toilet was an original, same vintage as the hand signs, complete with upper water tank, pull chain, and golden oak trimmings. I had, as a matter of habit, thrown the bolt on the door, so when the handle rattled, I called out that I'd be only a minute. There was no reply, and I guiltily remembered monopolizing the one good toilet at Sunbury. I completed my use of the facilities and opened the door. To my chagrin, there was no one waiting in the passage way. It might have been a child with a far more urgent need...

Hands grabbed me from behind, fingers pressing into my windpipe with brutal strength, shaking me off my feet so that I fell to my knees, too startled to cry out with what breath remained, too terrified to do more than claw at the hands that were choking me.

"High and mighty, are you?" The words were no more than an anonymous hiss on a garlicky repellent breath. "Think you're safe with high gates and dogs? Too big, are you? Unless you pay up, you'll never be safe!"

I heard another voice, someone calling—calling me?—just as I passed out.

When I came to, I was propped in Bess Tomlinson's lap, her bracelets jangling in my face. Rafe was bending over me; he looked white and strained. My throat felt as if it was torn out, and hurt enough to make me wish it were. I couldn't swallow, and even air hurt in my throat, and I wanted to cry, and the air was stifling.

"Easy, darling." Rafe's fingers curled around my wrist, firm and gentle. "You'll be all right. Don't try to talk."

Which was fine by me. Bess Tomlinson's hand kept smoothing my hair back from my forehead, her charms jingling in an oddly comforting fashion. Her hand was very soft and cool. She used Ma Griffe perfume, and that reminded me of the sour-hay smell, the acrid odor of wool and sweat I'd smelled as my assailant was strangling me.

Someone came along the passageway at a run, followed by others moving with equal haste.

"The guy got away, Rafe," a man said, gasping for breath.

"Get a good look at him?" "At his back, yes, but nothing I could swear to." "Was he wearing a cap?" "Huh?"

"Think, man! Was he wearing a cap or a hat?" 

"Hell, I didn't see. I was running!"

 "Here, move away now. You, too, Rafe!" I stared up at Dr. Bauman's worried face. He was sweating under a patina, of tanning oil. His hands were considerably more gentle with me than they'd been with Lou Marchmount or Bob Wellesley.

"I've been summoned in many ways, but not by a Paul Revere before," he said wryly as he turned my head very carefully from side to side, running fingertips lightly along my neck. "It'll hurt, but can you swallow, Mrs. Clery?"

I could, but the effort brought tears to my eyes. He patted my shoulder.

"No obvious damage to the thorax that I can tell, Rafe, but she's going to have a sore, bruised throat for a few days. Let's get her out of here." He rose, and his shirttails extended down thin hairy legs. As he gestured people out of the way, I realized that he did have on a bathing suit, but the total effect gave me the urge to laugh, which hurt, and the tears just flowed down my cheeks. “Here," the doctor said, "you two muscle boys, give us a hand."

I grabbed for Rafe's hand, and he had me up in his arms before the doctor could finish organizing assistance.

"Here, now, just a moment. What's going on here?" the rasping voice of Sheriff Erskine demanded.

"Someone just tried to strangle Nialla Clery," Bess Tomlinson replied in a disgusted tone. She stepped forward, an arm outstretched to make room for Rafe and me, but the Sheriff blocked the way.

"Now, just a moment. Where are you taking her?"

"Home, you damned fool," Bess answered.

"Not before I hear what happened," Erskine said, taking a stance.

"Out of the way, Bob," Rafe said in that very quiet voice that made Erskine shift his feet.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bob," Dr. Bauman exclaimed with exasperation. "Look at her throat? She's been strangled half to death. She damned well can't talk. Bess probably saw more than Mrs. Clery did, anyhow. Fellow grabbed her from behind ..."

"Grabbed Mrs. Tomlinson?" the Sheriff asked.

*No, you idiot, Mrs. Clery! She's the one got strangled."

I clung to Rafe, burying my face in his neck.

"I had to use the loo," Bess said in a rapid voice, but she was furious with Erskine. "When I got inside, I heard odd scuffing, and someone choking, so I called out. Some of the kids eat too much junk from that snack truck. I thought someone was sick. Then I heard someone slamming through the other door, and by then I'd seen Nialla."

"And yelled bloody blue murder," a young man spoke up. "I was coming up the road, so I took off after him. Only I thought it was just a purse-snatcher or something. I'd've run faster if I'd known, but God, in this heat . . ."

"I'm taking Nialla home," Rafe said, and angling my feet past the Sheriff, carried me out of the stable, through the small crowd that had gathered.

"My car's here, Rafe," Bauman said.

"Fine by me," Rafe answered in a grim tone. "Keep your head down, Nialla," he added as he bent to slide into the front seat. It was a big car, so there wasn't much bending necessary.

It was also air-conditioned, for which I was intensely grateful. The cooled air was easier to breathe. I clutched Rafe, knowing a desperation I hadn't felt since the day after Dad had been killed and the police had ruthlessly questioned me, trying to find a motive and suggesting reasons, each more infamous than the last.

Would I ever live normally again? Could I ever be alone without being terrified—even in such a simple act as going to a John?

I felt Rafe's lips on my cheek; then he raised my hand to his mouth, the arm around my shoulders tightening reassuringly. What had he got himself in for when he married me? A lifetime job as a bodyguard?

The way the trees and telephone lines flashed by, the doctor must drive like an acid-head, but there was very little motion to be felt inside the big Lincoln, and the air-conditioning muffled exterior noise.

We were facing the gate in next to no time. The doctor cursed modern technology, and a blast of hot air hit me before the gate was swung open and the doctor had driven us inside. Safe! "Safe behind high gates and dogs?"

The sneering whisper made me squirm in Rafe's arms. He tightened his grip, and I relaxed. I was safe behind high gates and dogs. I was!

There was a minimum of protest from Garry after her initial outburst, but her face was very angry as she and Rafe bundled me into bed. Then the doctor was swabbing my arm, and I tried to protest. Because suddenly I didn't want to be asleep, unconscious, absolutely vulnerable behind high gates and with dogs!

"I'm not leaving this room," Rafe said, holding my free hand.

I started to shake my head, but it hurt. I tried releasing his grip. He mustn't feel he was tied to me. I was safe. I'd make myself believe I was safe, but whatever existed between us would sour if Rafe felt tied to me.

More coherent thought, not that I was thinking straight then, was impossible, for whatever the doctor had pumped into my arm worked with speed.

I woke, my throat parched, my tongue swollen, my neck a band of sore fire. There was a weight across my chest, and another at my feet. I cried out, or rather, a strangled sound left me. There was a grunt in my ear and a prrroww at my feet.

"What's wrong, Nialla?"

The weight across my chest moved, and Rafe propped himself up on his elbow, smoothing hair from my face.

"Thirsty." How he could understand that croak, I don't know. Perhaps it was only logical I'd be thirsty. At any rate, a sliver of ice was popped into my mouth.

"It'll hurt to swallow, love; let the ice melt in your mouth and trickle down your throat." He gently adjusted the pillow under my head so I was higher.

The lump across my feet stirred, and Dice's eyes glowed as he queried me again.

"Damned cat sat and pounded on the living-room window—with his nose, no less—until Garry heard and let him in. How in hell did he know?" Rafe's low voice was rippling with laughter. Another ice sliver was poked through my lips. The first had gone too fast to do any good, but the cool and the wet of the second began to relieve the awful desert of my mouth. Then a cold moist cloth was laid gently on my neck. I exclaimed at the contact, but held it there when Rafe tried to remove it. It felt good after the initial shock.

My eyes were used to the dark now, and I could see Rafe shaking his head, his lips in a grim line.

"Don't try to talk, Nialla. See, Dice? She's all right," he told the cat, who walked up to check anyhow, his cold nose touching my ear. He sniffled at my eyebrow (I never have figured out why my brows fascinate Dice), gave it a lick with his rough tongue, and sat down at my shoulder, purring like some mad motor. I tickled him under the chin, and the purr went up three decibels.

"You approve, sir?" Rafe asked, and snorted when Dice meowed, a raucous noise in the quiet of the room. "Damned cat all but speaks English."

I opened my mouth, but Rafe popped more ice in before I could get throat to work on making a sound.

"I told you, no talking, Nialla, that's an order." He gave the tip of my nose an admonitory push. "However, I can appreciate your thirst for information. No, we have not caught the assailant. Yes, you'll be all right in a day or two. Nothing in your throat broken, though I don't imagine you believe me." Then he chuckled, only it wasn't his usual amused chuckle: it was a nasty one. "You'll be interested to hear that Bob Erskine is furious that you could be attacked while he was still on the premises, so to speak. He had half a dozen men there in record time, searching the woods for the intruder. They didn't find anyone, of course." Rafe's voice conveyed contempt and anger. "Goddamnit." And he gave the mattress a closed-fist pound. "I'm right there, and you nearly get killed."

I shook him by the shoulder, and when he turned to me, pulled his head so I could whisper in his ear.

"Blackmailer. Wanted to scare me. Wants to be paid! I'm safe here, behind the fence, with the dogs."

I had to repeat some of it twice, but when Rafe did understand, he was madder than ever.

"Pay? He'll pay! He'll pay for every moment he's made you miserable. Just wait till I get my hands on him! We'll see who pays! It was Caps Galvano, wasn't it?"

"Who else could it be?" I whispered. "His breath was horrible!"

I wanted to laugh at Rafe's rejoinder, but I couldn't. Dice was rubbing his head into my cheek sympathetically, and then, prrrowwing earnestly, jumped down and made his way to the door, where he stopped and prrrowwed more quizzically.

"And you expect me to get up and let you out?" Rafe asked. "You've got one helluva lot of gall, cat."

Dice agreed affably, making an umbrella hook of his tail as he waited for action. His prrroww turned more acid, and his tail switched impatiently when Rafe refused to move.

"He wants to get back to Orfeo," I whispered, pushing at Rafe.

"I am not a cat butler," Rafe cried, even as his feet hit the floor. Dice bounced away, ahead of him, down the stairs. I heard the door slam as Rafe emphasized his disgruntlement with the exercise. His heels pounded on the bare floor as he stalked back to bed. But he was chuckling as he resettled himself beside me.

"Wish that damned cat did speak English. His conversation is more to the point than most people's. More ice, Nialla?"

I shook my head, and then he pulled me into the curve of his shoulder.

"Get some more sleep, dear heart; it's only two." A huge yawn interrupted him. "God, you're getting old, Clery," he told himself.

I tapped his chest to indicate disagreement, and felt the chuckle deep in his chest as he turned to look at me.

"I'm not getting old?" He kissed my fingers. "Not with you in my bed, at any rate." He shifted his body slightly and closed his eyes.

It wasn't very long, it seemed to me, before he was asleep, for the arm around me got heavy as the muscles relaxed completely, and his breathing was slow and shallow.

9

I was managing to swallow soft scrambled egg at brunch (we got up at a scandalous ten o'clock) when Dennis phoned on the intercom to say that a Mr. Michaels was at the gate, and could he come in?

Jim Michaels did have another suit—or rather a second pair of pants and a seersucker jacket. He got far enough inside the house to feel the air-conditioning, and sighed with relief. Then he exhibited real dismay at interrupting our meal.

"It is Sunday," Rafe said, ushering him to a chair and urging him to try the cornbread with his coffee.

He accepted with a grin, which faded when he saw my throat.

"I'm a walking fingerprint gallery," I said in the un-projected tone that put no strain on my throat.

He nodded, but his expression was a little fierce.

"Can you identify the assailant?"

"It has to be Caps Galvano."

His eyelids dropped briefly, and he sighed again. "Which means, Mrs. Clery, that you didn't see his face?"

"Who else could it be?" Rafe asked caustically.

Michaels shrugged. "A would-be rapist, a purse-snatcher, take your choice."

"It was him," I said. "He said if I thought I was safe behind a high fence with dogs, I was wrong. He said I'd never be safe unless I paid him. His breath was concentrated garlic."

"It was Galvano, Michaels, because Galvano is the only one who knows what the blackmailer told Nialla." Rafe was becoming impatient with the detective's caution. "For Christ's sake, Michaels, does she have to be murdered before the cops take action?"

Michaels looked uncomfortable and smoothed back his already well-groomed hair.

"You ought to know the handicaps under which police operate these days, Mr. Clery. However, Galvano has been positively identified by half a dozen people. He was definitely at the Sunbury fairgrounds. He also forgot to wipe all his fingerprints off the station wagon when he tried to frighten Mrs. Clery's gelding. It's a blurred print, but it's his."

"Then you believe me?"

"I always have believed you, Mrs. Clery," Michaels replied in a rather grim voice, "but belief is not admissible evidence. And it doesn't help me find the guy. He's at an advantage there. You're stationary, he's not. We've got to catch him, and we've either got to have proof positive—like fingerprints on the blunt instrument used on Pete Sankey—or Galvano's confession."

"Speaking of being stationary, Lieutenant, Louis Marchmount has been on the run, with a bodyguard. A Stephen Urscoll admitted to us that Louis Marchmount has been paying extortion. To Caps Galvano."

Michaels nodded. "Some eighty thousand dollars, to be precise. I keep busy."

Rafe whistled in surprise at the sum involved, and then almost pounced. "Then why in hell is Galvano threatening Nialla? With eighty thousand dollars, he ought to have skipped to one of the Latin-American countries by now! Particularly when he has very carefully arranged his own death to get the grass ring off his back."

"I admit that baffles us, too, Mr. Clery. Eighty thou for a man like Galvano is good bread. Enough to buy a fake passport for a dead man. He certainly can't afford to spend freely, because that would attract notice. And he can't afford to do that."

"He does attract attention," I whispered. "He stinks as if he hadn't changed clothes in weeks, and his breath is vile."

"That's not a criminal offense, Mrs. Clery," Michaels said with a glint in his eyes. "Were you aware, Mrs. Clery, that Mr. Marchmount was visiting near Sunbury?"

I shook my head too hard; it hurt my neck.

"We saw him first Monday night, at a distance, in the Charcoal Grill at Sunbury," Rafe said, "but that was the first we knew he was there."

"So it is conceivable that Galvano had been tracking Marchmount and then saw Mrs. Clery . . ." Michaels paused, rubbing his lower lip thoughtfully. "However, this is where motive falters. Mrs. Clery was not Mrs. Clery then, I understand, and candidly in no position to pay any extortion. ..."

"If he'd take peanut butter," Rafe said with such a bland face I wanted to smack him.

Michaels gave a fleeting grin. "I suppose we have to assume that Galvano indulged in malicious mischief while waiting to nail Marchmount, then."

"Whatever the reason, Michaels"—and all humor vanished from Rafe's face—"we've had enough of this kind of trick or treat. Marchmount has, too. Will you kindly arrest that bastard before there's a third death? Marchmount's or . . . Galvano's."

"There is a third death, Mr. Clery. Whoever was in that car in California. But as I said, we have to find him first, Mr. Clery," Michaels said wearily. "If he hadn't broken with all previous associations, that wouldn't be so difficult."

"Apply to the nearest racetrack and ask?"

"Quite. But unless we can force him into the open . . ," Michaels raised his hands, palms up, expressively.

"He'll have to, to collect," Rafe said. "He's got two possible sources of income—Louis Marchmount and Nialla. True, we've told him to shove it, and so, in effect, has Louis Marchmount. But Lou collapsed last night"—Michaels nodded, as if this were not new to him—"You know? Good. So that rules him out as a source of revenue for the greedy Galvano. And leaves us—Nialla."

"As you said, Rafe, I've had about enough of trick or treat." My voice came out in squeaks, and my incautious vocalizing hurt. I put my hands to my throat, a little scared and more than a little angry at the trend of their talk.

"Understandably, Mrs. Clery, but this time we can control the action."

"Nialla, honey, he may come near you, but he won't ever touch you again!"

I looked from one man to the other, not knowing which I despised more, and in that silence we all heard a car braking to a tire-stripping halt. A shrill voice was raised in vituperation, and then two people came clattering up the stairs. The door was flung open, and there stood Wendy Madison, her eyes round with anger, her face suffused with blood, and every inch of her thin body involved with her fury. Dennis, his face white and scared, stood behind her.

"Tell this . . . this . . . effing bastard that he's fired," she demanded. "Tell him right now, Ralph Clery!" She whirled and slapped Dennis across the mouth. It wasn't the first time: I now saw other marks on the boy's face. "There, you effing bastard. You'll never disobey an order from me again."

"That's enough, Madam, and Dennis is not fired. He was acting under my orders. No one was to pass that gate without checking here."

Wendy Madison stalked into the room, trembling with fury, straight up to Rafe, as if she meant to slap his face, too. Then she saw me, and before I knew what she meant, she'd swooped down, waving something wildly above her head, and slapped me with stunning force across my face.

"You bitch, you little gutter whore! I'll have you—Owww!"

Her hand was sweeping back to strike me again when Rafe caught it and twisted it behind her back so swiftly that she let go what she was clutching, and glossy photographs rained on the floor.

"Madam, I'll break your arm, mother or not, if you don't control yourself." He had her pinned in a chair. She writhed and tried to hit at him, until he gave her arm another little wrench. With a cry she bit her lip and sat, her back arching to ease the strain on her arm. "No one speaks to my wife that way. No one. Especially you."

"Just wait, Ralph Clery. Just wait until you've seen those photos. Then we'll see how we speak to your wife."

Rafe didn't ease his hold on her an inch, but he craned his neck to look at the photo nearest him. I knew what they must be! I think I knew the moment I saw her waving them as she entered. I wanted to die!

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Rafe said with utter disgust and annoyance, letting his mother go. "And you fell for them?"

Wendy Madison's jaw dropped. His reaction took away all her impetus.

"Fell for them?" A glance at me stoked her anger again. "I'm supposed to pay twenty thousand dollars to keep them from being circulated. I'm supposed to pay because you . . . you horny dwarf . . . married some cheap..."

Rafe's hand curled on her shoulder so fiercely that she cried out and shot him a glance full of fear and surprise.

"Madam, if you ever even think of my wife in those terms . . ."

"Ralph, you're hurting me." And tears began to fall from her brimming eyes. She was very sincere. Then her attitude changed to misunderstood and abused innocence. "You're brutal and unfeeling. I'm being blackmailed! Forced to protect the family name, all on account of your . . . latest wife." She didn't need to use foul language when she could inject such venom into a simple noun.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Michaels shift, and Rafe gestured him curtly to be quiet.

"Exactly what happened?" Rafe demanded in a cold, hard voice.

"These . . ." She gestured to the strewn photos. I couldn't eyen look to see how many had fallen face up. . . . came special delivery . . . through the mails"—and that obviously doubled the outrage—"with a note. If I didn't wish to have them circulated, I must be prepared to pay twenty thousand dollars."

"Where's the note?"

Wendy Madison's eyes flashed. "That won't tell you anything. Block printing on cheap pad paper." Then her face crumbled again. "Ralph, I can't have my name linked with your . . . wife's ... in this sordid manner. I'd be ruined socially. Give me the twenty thousand dollars"—her eyes blazed as anger overcame fear of disgrace—"because I most certainly am not going . . ."

"Madam ..."

She winced as his fingers dug into her shoulder again.

"Really, Ralph"—and I winced to hear the whine in her cultivated voice—"she's your wife. You married her. I didn't. I didn't even know about it, and then, when I try to put a good face on it, give a reception for her, introduce her to my closest friends . . ." She dabbed at her eyes again, emulating distressed virtue.

"If you really need a scapegoat, Madam," Rafe said, and scooping up the photos, shoved them under her nose again, "look at the man involved. Because I can assure you, Nialla is blameless."

I wanted to die. We should have paid the man yesterday. How could Rafe do this to me?

But when I heard Wendy Madison's gasp of stunned and incredulous horror, heard her moan and knew that there was nothing feigned in that piteous cry, I was almost glad.

"Oh, no," she cried, half-doubled in anguish. "Oh, no, it couldn't be. It just couldn't be. Oh, no. Lou wouldn't." Suddenly she straightened, her face wiped clear of expression. She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. "They're fakes," she said with the absolute certainty and fantastic dignity of one who has perceived a truth. "Obviously retouched fakes." She rose, in regal dismissal.

"Burn them."

"Hold it," Rafe said, standing in her way. "You're not going anywhere yet. First you will make Nialla profound apology for your insults."

I couldn't see her face, but even the muscles in her slender legs tensed. Rafe just kept looking at her. If he ever looked at me that way . . . She turned slowly, like an automaton not wound tightly enough, and her face was a strained caricature of the courtesy she was forced to perform. "I apologize for my hasty words."

I nodded my head once, twice, my slapped cheek stinging as if her reluctant words physically impacted on me.

She turned again, desperate to leave, but now Rafe took her by the arm and escorted her, willy-nilly, back to the chair.

"Now, Lieutenant Michaels, here's your opportunity to catch a murdering blackmailer."

"Lieutenant Michaels?" Her voice was no more than a whisper, as pained a whisper as I'd been forced to use. This second shock sent color flaming to the roots of her blonde hair. One hand on her throat, the other clutching the chair arm, she slowly turned her head toward Jim Michaels.

"Your precipitate arrival, Madam, prevented me from making an introduction. May I now present Lieutenant Detective James Michaels of the Sunbury Police."

"Police. Oh, my God, Ralph, the police mustn't know."

Michaels inclined his head in silent apology for the fact that he already did know.

"Extortion threats are best handled with police assistance, ma'am," he said in a quiet voice. The woman looked absolutely shattered.

"The police! Oh, my God."

Rafe strode to the bar cabinet and poured a stiff drink, which he gave her. She knocked it back in a dazed fashion and then seemed to get a second grip on herself.

"Mrs. Madison, if you will cooperate with us, we will see that ..."

"But he's threatened to send the negatives to the newspapers and Vogue and Harper's Bazaar . . ." And she began to rock back and forth in the chair.

"Mrs. Madison," James Michaels went on, still in that quiet calm voice, "those negatives would never be printed even if they did reach a publisher's office. The newspapers and magazines are very cooperative in these instances, believe me. What is more important is to apprehend this man before he victimizes anyone else. Before he does more harm." Michaels gestured toward me, and for the first time, I think, Wendy Madison saw the marks on my throat, and her eyes widened.

"He attacked her?"

"Yes, Madam. He tried to kill Nialla at Charlie's place yesterday."

Her hands went out to Rafe appealingly. "I need protection," she said in a breathless whimper. "Ralph. I'm totally unprotected up there. There's only John and Pres. You've got to let me stay here. You've got the fence, the dogs."

Rafe took her hands down. His face ... his face showed the most awful lack of expression. "You'll have ample police protection." He moved back, away from her outstretched hand.

Michaels quickly started to assure her that she would be guarded night and day, but she didn't seem to hear him, still begging Rafe silently for sanctuary in this house.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay in your own home, Mrs. Madison," Michaels told her.He could afford to be kinder. He wasn't related to her. "The extortionist will be calling you now that his little . . . bombshell has been delivered. You'll have to stay home. We'll arrange for a wire tap to trace the call, have men guarding you night and day . , ." He noticed the rise of her eyebrow as his words and meaning penetrated her fear. ". . . and a policewoman in your room. There won't be any chance of your being—ah-hem—having any personal dealings with him."

"A burglar-alarm system was installed in the house sometime ago, Lieutenant," Rafe said, disregarding any attempt of his mother to get his attention. "There's also a trained private investigator."

"This Urscoll fellow?"

"Ralph, how could you?" Her protest was a shocked wail.

"You can dispense with the nose of outrage, Madam. Two . . . three . . . men have already been murdered, my wife has been physically attacked, and Lou Marchmount driven to the edge of insanity. If . . ."

"Lou? You mean, that man has already approached Lou?"

Rafe stared at her with incredulity. "Why did you think Marchmount hired Urscoll?"

"Why, to keep his second wife—that awful Lorette person—from besieging him with her hypochondriacal demands."

"And you believed him?"

"Of course, I'd believe Louis Marchmount. Why should I ever doubt his word?"

"You were quick enough to doubt my wife's honor," Rafe replied harshly. For the first time fury broke through the icy coldness with which he had been treating her. "And quick enough to call those pictures 'fakes' when you thought Lou was involved. For God's sake, Madam, don't be so naive. You know Marchmount's reputation . . ."

"You mean, those photos were real?"

"No, ma'am, they're not," Michaels said rather forcefully. "Good fakes, yes, but fakes they are. Our lab can blow them up and show where the heads were stripped in. Clever, but the joins are there."

"As I said earlier, Wendy"—and Rafe made her name into a cold, hard epithet—"Nialla is not to blame for the insidious position in which you now find yourself."

"Then all his talk about ruin and persecution wasn't. . ." Wendy Madison shut her mouth with sudden discretion. She rose again. "I want to get out of this ridiculous position. How do I cooperate with you, Lieutenant? Ralph, you will have the courtesy to call your brother Michael instantly and tell him to come at once. Lieutenant, I want these photos destroyed. I don't want everyone gawking ..."

"I can't destroy evidence, Mrs. Madison, but I assure you that all discretion will be used to protect Mrs. Clery."

"Mrs. Clery?" She was stunned, and looked around at me as if I'd no right to be discussed at all.

"And Mr. Marchmount," the lieutenant added diplomatically. But as he escorted her to the door, his attitude toward her had changed. Rafe was gathering up the photos quickly.

Dennis, I realized, had disappeared some time ago. I wondered in a sick fashion if he'd had a good look at those poses when she'd been brandishing them about. But Michaels had said they were obvious fakes. How had he known? How obvious? Had he just said that? I wished— no, I didn't wish. No! I didn't ever want to see them.

"Nialla," Rafe's voice recalled me from the grotesque push-pull. "I won't be long."

I numbly gestured acceptance, but the moment he was out the door, I wanted to cry out to him to come back. He was leaving me alone.

"Get a grip on yourself, Nialla," I whispered out loud. Garry's in the house. I could hear her quick steps, and then she started down the stairs, moving more slowly then, as heavy people do. When I saw her face, her brows puckered in an angry frown, I realized that she'd heard everything, and I looked away, anywhere but at her.

"I can't pretend I'm deaf and didn't hear a thing, Miss Nialla." Her voice reached me because I couldn't unhear. "Madam's gone too far this time. Storming in here like it was all your fault and speaking to you in such a way. It was all I could do to keep quiet. Anyone'd think you'd arranged the whole thing to put shame on her. Now, you just sit quiet till Mr. Rafe gets back. Imagine, someone with spit enough to try blackmailing the Madam. No wonder that poor Mr. Marchmount took to drugs with that hanging over his head. Well, Madam won't see his heels fast enough, I reckon. Good thing, too. I only hope Dennis didn't stay?" I shook my head. "There, there, you poor child. Why, you look dreadful. You're as white as a sheet. A cup of tea? No, maybe you need some of that brandy!"

I shook my head, pointing to my neck.

"Yes, of course. I was forgetting. I'll just make you something nice and cool. That'll make you feel better, and you can forget this whole terrible thing." With that she marched out of the room.

Just as if a drink or a cup of tea would, could, put everything to rights. I leaned my head back against the couch, feeling drawn and quartered and strengthless. Would to God Mrs. Garrison had some magical potion. I wished I'd been consumed in that barn fire. I wished I had been strangled the day before. I wished I'd never let Rafe talk me into going to dinner that first night. But I'd been so tired of peanut butter. ... If only I'd refused—even that second time—and just packed up and left the grounds, prize money forfeited and everything. Pete Sankey wouldn't be dead. ...

"If you're feeling sorry for yourself..."

I gave a convulsive leap, crying out in surprise before I realized it was Rafe. One look at the awful expression on his face, and self-pity was the furthest thing from my mind. He looked a hundred and two, every line in his well-used face graven deeply. His eyes lacked even a touch of blue.

"Anyone'd think you'd arranged the whole thing to put shame on her." Mrs. Garrison had pointed to the wrong woman.

"Actually, I was thinking that a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich would taste damned good about now," I said, taking a deep breath. "And trying to figure out how Lieutenant Michaels could sound so sure that those pictures were fakes."

Rafe blinked suddenly, a slight frown creasing his brows still more, but the color came back into his eyes and his jaw relaxed. I'd managed to surprise him, too.

"For one thing," he said, coming across the room, "the girl so lewdly portrayed was very gaudy. Not at all neat." There was even the faintest suspicion of a smile at his mouth. "Which the lieutenant wouldn't necessarily guess. But you are five-foot-four, my dear heart, and that girl was an Amazon."

I was suddenly consumed with fury. "Then how could anyone ..."

Rafe roared with laughter at my reaction. "Shock value. If Wendy Madison had thought twice, she'd have realized it, too. All she saw were the faces and the postures." He turned serious again and gathered me into his arms, his eyes blue and oddly sad. "You've been at the more serious disadvantage, my dear, because you knew Lou Marchmount had raped you and there was just the possibility that there had been a photograph taken."

"Oh, Rafe, if I should ever have to testify . . ."

He pulled my cheek against his and held me tightly, reassuringly. .  y

"If that should ever happen, you simply do not tell the whole truth. Lou Marchmount is in no condition to contradict you. And I sure as hell will gladly perjure myself on the score of your virtue."

He held me away, framing my face with his hands, looking deep into my eyes.

"Because, dear heart, you are." He gave me another long searching look and then lightly kissed my cheek—the one his mother had struck.

I wanted to say something, I knew I was supposed to say something, and it wasn't connected with his mother, but I didn't know what it was he expected of me. Then all of a sudden Mrs. Garrison came bustling in from the kitchen, and the moment was shattered.

"Don't you ever ask for peanut butter and jelly here, Nialla, or we'll lose the best cook in Nassau County," Rafe said in a hurried undertone.

Mrs. Garrison's notion of therapeutic food turned out to be raspberry sherbet, which went down easily, coolingly, and I could actually taste it.

Rafe filled a mug of coffee for himself and settled down to the Sunday papers with an air that clearly said, "At last!"

There appeared to be two copies of The New York Times, one each of lesser Sunday editions. For kicks I turned to the society pages. And there we were. Only it was just Rafe and me. I appeared to be hanging on his arm, the very model of the blushing bride, while Rafe was beaming directly into the camera with fatuous pride. He hadn't been, but that's the way the shot came out. There was only a caption with our names, listing Rafael Clery as noted sportsman and horse breeder. We weren't the only bridal couple who'd been feted, I noticed, glancing at the long columns headed by studio portraits of faces fresh or stern under misty veils. The datelines were all the "right" ones from East Hampton, south to Roanoke, north to Boston, with a few San Franciscos, Washingtons, and New Yorks to leaven the rise.

The group picture appeared in several of the Long Island papers: somehow the counterfeit grins looked genuine, and the general impression was of society enjoying its "in" tribal customs and rites, graciously consenting to make their festivities known to the lesser breeds.

The Long Island papers ran some background material on Rafe. (They bloody well had nothing to say about me, except to mention that my father was the late Russell Donnelly, noted trainer. Bess Tomlinson [Mrs. Augustus] was given as matron of honor, also the fact that I had used her family veil. A Gerald MacCrate, sportsman, had been the groom's best man. The ceremony had been private.) Rafe graduated from the University of Virginia? With honors, no less. And he'd been a captain in Korea? I hadn't known that either. Nor that he'd earned a DSC with a cluster.

Rafe evidently believed in reading every word of the news fit to print. He made a lot of noise, too, turning pages, but whenever I glanced around mine, it was an absentminded, not attention-getting-irritated rustling. At one point he got up, took some black bound books from the breakfront desk, and busied himself making notations.

This placid sabbatical scene was interrupted by the phone. I’d been so absorbed in an article on the emergence of pop art and its primary perpetrators that the sound lifted me up out of the sofa like an elevator.

"Hey, your nerves are shot," he said solicitously as he rose to answer it. "Sure, Dennis. You can let Michaels in anytime."

The detective refused coffee, even iced, when he arrived, but a few minutes in the air-conditioned house seemed to revive him. I was glad I didn't have to go outside today.

"I've got surveillance for your mother, Mr. Clery, and the phone tap is set up, so you don't have to worry about her."

"Thanks." Michaels grinned slightly at Rafe's caustic comment.

"I checked in at Nassau County Hospital, but Louis Marchmount is in no condition to be questioned. I've also arranged for a relief man for that private investigator, because"—and here Michaels exhaled deeply—"I'm not the only person who'd like to speak to Marchmount. Someone tried to get in to see him on Saturday morning. In fact, he was so adamant that the hospital guard had to assist him off the premises." Michaels grinned at me. "Both the guard and the nurses' aide at the desk remembered that he had a very bad case of halitosis."

"There!"

"More important. They identified the mug shot of Galvano."

"Saturday morning?" Rafe asked.

"Yes"—and Michaels was grim again—"with plenty of time for him to get to the show and attack Mrs. Clery. How he knew where to find you is not clear."

"The Austin-Healey is distinctive," Rafe remarked. "There're plenty of places on the main road for him to watch for it if that was his game."

"I had a talk with Urscoll."

"And?" Rafe urged politely, because something was troubling Michaels.

"Well, he confirmed what you told me. Said it's only a matter of time before Marchmount is carried off by a heart attack. The excitement of apprehending the extortionist might be the fatal stroke, which is the only reason why Urscoll's company went along with Marchmount's demand. Urscoll said he was awfully worried, because the man's memory is failing. He said he did all he could to prevent Marchmount from becoming excited and getting hold of any drugs. But . . ." Michaels shrugged.

"What I don't understand," Rafe said, "is how, if Urscoll was so eager to guard Marchmount, Galvano could have picked him for eighty thousand dollars?"

"One man can't guard another every minute of the day," Michaels said, rising. "I've got to get back."

"Don't envy you the trip in this heat."

"Oh, it's not so bad." Michaels grinned smugly. "I borrowed one of the traffic helicopters. That's why I have to get back before the millions swarm back into the city."

"So, how do things stand?"

"We . . . you . . . wait, I'm afraid."

"With Erskine handling the local protection?"

Michaels nodded, an odd gleam in his eyes. "He seems very keen on helping."

"Yes, the good, jovial, up-for-reelection Sheriff Erskine would."

"I really have to work through the local authorities at this juncture, Mr. Clery."

Rafe gestured, absolving Michaels. "Standing guard is one thing Erskine's men ought to do well. They even went to college on it."

Michaels stared at Rafe a moment and then guffawed heartily.

"We've only to wait until the blackmailer gets in touch with Mrs. Madison, now. And if he's as desperate as he acts, that oughtn't to be too long," he said as he reached the door.

I wished I could feel as confident as Michaels sounded. But I did trust him.

The hot air was like a furnace blast as the door closed. Helicopter or not, I didn't envy the weary detective his trip.

Rafe snatched up his paper and settled in the couch, beside me, our thighs touching lightly, our shoulders brushing now and then as Rafe turned the pages of his newspaper. The light contact had the effect of . . . of what? Not possession, really. More. "I'm here because I want to be."

I sneaked a sideways glance at my husband's profile. He was too absorbed in his article to be aware of my scrutiny. I hadn't had too much opportunity to really look at him, what with his habit of being attached to me all the time. He wasn't handsome, certainly; he didn't have to be, with those compelling blue eyes. There was character in the straight sweep of his jaw, the firm chin, the well-shaped wide lips, the aquiline nose, the slight bulge of the brow; he'd be even handsomer in a few years. I was close enough to notice the fine lines under and at the corner of his eye, the few bristles his razor had missed that morning, and the fact that his sideburns needed trimming. Would he let me do it?

This Sunday's quiet, read-the-paper routine was so "married" to me—something I remembered from childhood as part of a Sunday's inevitable order. Mother reading the papers beside Dad on the sofa, with the Sunday symphony rolling through an otherwise silent scene.

Suddenly Rafe swore under his breath and reached for the accounts books he'd abandoned when Michaels came in. He did some rough figuring on the margin of the newspaper and swore again. The numerals, written in a bold hand, were plain to read: $7,578.98. He swore again and closed the open book with a slap, tossing it negligently to the footstool.

Fragments of conversations on loss and margin, shares depreciating, came back to me, coordinated with Rafe's continuous interest in news items and stock-market pages. And I correlated a few other facts—like this comfortable house, Mrs. Garrison, three men in the stables, new horse trailers, and such. $7,578.98 was a lot of money. "Did you lose that much on stocks in this recession?" Rafe regarded me with mild surprise. "Oh, the seven thousand? That's that electronic company Paddy Skerrit's touting. There's a piece here about a copyright-infringement action they've launched against a rival company that got the government contract they were hoping for. The stock's down now, and it may drop further."

"Can you afford to lose that much money?" "Dear heart, I haven't 'lost' it yet. The company's sound. I've generally had good luck in the electronics field. Bought into Xerox when it first went public"—and there was a twinkle in his eyes—"despite what I was told. Why?" He looked at me squarely, a sort of waiting look.

"Well, it's just that . . . well, there's that insurance money, and the rest of the funds, if you were at all worried. . . ."

"God bless you, Nialla darling," and he gathered me into his arms, pressing his face into my hair, even then remembering to be careful of my neck.

I've heard of "heart swelling," and mine certainly did then.

"Dear heart, you simply haven't got a clue, have you?" Something amused him; laughter rippled in his voice as he rocked me back and forth in his arms.

"A clue about what?" I didn't want him laughing right then. I wanted him as serious as I felt.

He held me a little from him so he could look down into my eyes. His were dancing with devilment.

"Maybe it's just as well you don't know."

"Know what? I guess ten thousand dollars doesn't seem like a lot to you. ..."

He realized what he'd done and hugged me tightly again. "It is a lot of money, Nialla, but I really don't need it. That's a paper loss and doesn't particularly affect my income."

"Income?"

"God love us, it is an innocent." He sighed and explained succinctly that, due to the perspicacity and ruthlessness of several ancestors, he had a large private income which, due to some equally perspicacious investing of his own, he had increased. "Money tends to beget money, Nialla, and I'm in the bracket where an occasional loss saves me taxes." He looked deep into my eyes again, the slight upturning smile of his lips engagingly boyish. "I do really appreciate your offer, dear heart, but I'd rather you"—and he kissed me lightly—"had money of your own."

"You're rich, then, aren't you?" (Gawd, that sounded like an accusation, didn't it?) "In spite of what you said about the acres being mortgaged?"

He frowned in surprise. "When did I say that?"

"Wednesday. Or did you mean"—I broke off and then realized I'd better continue—"a moral mortgage?"

"A moral mortgage?" He seemed startled. "Because Wendy Madison lives in the house next door? Yes." And a shadow of the awful expression I so hated crossed his face. "She has the right to live in that place until her death, but the property is mine. Grandfather Herrington stipulated it was to go to the first male issue of his three daughters." He looked beyond me to that desperate distance in his life which had been so bleak and miserable, and brutally lonely. "I wasn't exactly what Grandfather or Mother had in mind as Lord of the Mansion, so she's welcome to it."

"It isn't a mortgage she holds over you, Rafe, it's blackmail. Did you ever think of it in those terms?"

He looked at me suddenly, his hands sliding around me. "Not until this morning, dear heart. I guess that's what albatrosses are—blackmail by conscience."

Then he began kissing me, starting out with a sort of an apologetic pressure of lips on mine. But the gentleness quickly gave way to a mutual inflammation.

"Nialla?" His soft query was right in my ear as his hands began to caress my body urgently. I'd got mine under his shirt, caressing the warm smooth hide of him. He felt so good. But when I tried to disentangle us so we could go upstairs, he held me tightly. "We can't be seen. The couch is high-backed." He chuckled as he unbuttoned my shirt and released my breasts from the bra. "Mrs. Garrison?"

"Gone! I wanted you to myself for the rest of the day. Got any more objections?" He said it, half-teasing, half-irritated. Was I being coy?

I pulled him to me, slipping my hands inside his pants, inside the cotton briefs, all the time straining my breast against the exciting rough texture of his shirt. He turned rough suddenly, rousing me so deftly that my need of him was not a whit less than his. Rafe was unbuckling his belt when the sound of banging on the front door penetrated our absorption.

The language Rafe used as he hastily buckled his belt and yanked his shirt down appalled me, but I felt exactly the same way.

"I'll get rid of whoever it is," Rafe vowed as he pounded across the floor. Had he kept his shoes on all that time on the couch?

I made an effort to cover myself, just in case. And I glanced at the back of the couch to be sure I wasn't visible, but I couldn't even see the front door, so I relaxed, praying that the caller could be summarily dismissed and we could take up where we'd been so rudely interrupted.

"Dennis, if . . ."

"Mr. Clery, the west meadow's on fire!"

"Christ!" Rafe's single explosive curse was followed by an incoherent stream of invective.

"Jerry's called the fire department and gone on ahead with Albert."

"Where in hell were the dogs?" Rafe demanded, as he seemed to be wrecking a piece of furniture.

"They were loose, Mr. Clery, but in this heat, it could be spontaneous.".

"Spontaneous, my ..." I heard the unmistakable sound of a revolver chamber turning fast. "Okay, okay. Jerry bring shovels?"

"And brooms and wet blankets."

"Good. Nialla, just in case, don't you dare leave this house. I don't know how he could have got in, but don't you leave this house. Check all the doors and the windows. I'll throw the night latch on this. You go up to our room, stay by the phone. No one can get up those stairs without them creaking. First creak that doesn't call you in my voice, you pick up that phone and dial 999."

He was out of the house and then shaking the door handle. It was well and truly locked.

I was trembling, but not from lust anymore. I got my clothing reassembled, suddenly cold in the air-conditioned atmosphere. I checked the front door myself, and every window on the first floor, the back and side doors, and shoved chairs under the handles as an added precaution. I'd heard that worked.

Then I went upstairs and did those windows, peering out and not seeing much because of the trees that surrounded the house. There were black clouds far off to the west. It could rain.

By the time I got back to our room, I was exceedingly unhappy about this new development. I wished I'd gone with Rafe. Anything was preferable to sitting here, waiting, like a tied kid. The west meadow afire? The grass was dry and sere. But ...

I touched my bruised throat. Galvano was not supposed to be after me now. He was supposed to be phoning Wendy Madison and extorting from her for a change. And all the guards were up at the big house, protecting her.

I dialed 999 said asked for the police station.

"This is Mrs. Rafael Clery." (Gawd, I sounded like the cat's pajamas with that erratic break in my voice.) "Our west meadow is on fire." (That sounded even worse.)

"Then call the fire department, lady."

"I did, but the fire could have been deliberately set, and I'm alone in the house. You see, I was assaulted yesterday at ... at ..." (I couldn't very well say Charlie's place, could I?)

"Who is this?"

"This is Mrs. Rafael Clery, Nialla."

"Good God, lady, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

The connection went dead. I had told him who I was.

"Mrs. Clery . . ." Sheriff Erskine's unmistakable baritone leaped out of the earpiece and forced me to hold the phone a few inches from my deadened ear. "What's this about a fire at your place?"

"The west meadow's on fire. My husband and the men are there. But I thought you should know. . . ."

"But . . . but we've got the Herrington place staked out." He sounded aggrieved.

"I realize that, Sheriff, but, well, is it possible for you to investigate here?"

"Are you alone in the house?" He was furious now.

"Yes, but the place is tightly locked up. I checked all the doors and windows myself."

"Then you stay there. Forest, I want . . ." And the connection was broken.

Your kindly police force is mobilizing. Relax. Help is on the way!

Relax?

I sighed and thrust the ends of my shirt into my shorts. Damn it!

"This is Mrs. Rafael Clery."

That had a very satisfactory sound to it.

It wasn't a creaking I heard; it was a tapping. I froze so solid I could hear the pulse of the air-conditioner turning on in the basement. Did this house have a basement door? One I hadn't locked?

I crept to the staircase. Nothing! I went down a few steps, still hearing that tap-tapping, rhythmic, insistent, demanding. I got down far enough to see the front door and the porch. There wasn't anyone there. I went to the kitchen, but halfway across it I couldn't hear the tapping.

It was louder in the hallway, and louder still as I crept back up the stairs, over the creak.

As I came level with the second story, I saw Dice at the dormer window of our room, tapping the pane with his nose.

I rushed to throw open the sash. "Dice, you scared me to death!" One overhanging beech limb swayed up and down. He'd taken the upper route. He wouldn't come in. He weaved in and out, more garrulous than I'd ever heard him. I peered as far as I could over the roof, but the ground below was invisible. The air was suffocatingly sultry. "Rafe send you to keep watch? Come on in, boy. Come in."

He ran a few steps down the roof, prrrowwing agitatedly. He must have smelled the meadow fire. I glanced up now, but this room faced east, and the meadow fire was to the west. . . . Then why was I seeing a thin plume of smoke! A thin plume? From a meadow fire?

I wondered later that I hadn't tripped over Dice as we took those stairs in a mad plunge down. Dice's excited prancing didn't help as I fumbled with the double latch, double-hatched, double-damned door. The phone began to ring. I got the upper half open. To hell with the bottom, although I scratched my thigh on the brass weather-stripping as I vaulted over.

The pebbles of the drive made me excruciatingly aware that I had no shoes on, but I merely took to the grass, following Dice. He didn't need paths, and led me through the beeches and under-plantings to the back of the stable.

I could hear the sirens on the highway. I could hear, more acutely, the kicking and whinnying of fire-scared horses. And the dominant piercing note of Orfeo's bugling.

I remember grabbing a sheet from the drying rack, and I guess I grabbed the pitchfork as I raced past the manure pile. And stopped. Because the fire was not in the stable. It was outside. Someone had heaped hay and straw in the fifty-gallon oil can used as a water barrel for the roof drains. More smoke than fire. Not that it mattered to Orfeo, because the smoke, blowing in his window, was sufficient to start him going. The fire had been deliberately set to lure me here.

The meadow blaze had been started to draw the men from the house and the stable. How had Galvano got past the gate? The dogs? Where was he now?

Dice leaped to the small barred window at the back of Orfeo's box, wriggling to get his hips through the bars. The frantic gelding was plunging and kicking, shrieking with fear. The whole stable was in an uproar.

I shoveled manure into the barrel. The stench was incredible, but the sheer sopping wet mass would put out the fire.

I hefted the pitchfork, ready to commit a little mayhem myself with it when I found Galvano. I tried not to think of Orfeo's terror. He was in no present danger, whatever he thought.

Galvano'd got rid of the men, probably watched them leave so he could be sure I was alone in the house. Had he tried to enter and found it locked? Probably. But if he'd seen the windows locked and closed, how had he planned to lure me out with smoke? The phone! It'd been ringing as I climbed over the door hatch. He could've called from the stable phone in the tack room. The intercom dialing system was printed beside the receiver.

I picked my way back to the front of the stable, wishing I'd had wit enough to put sandals on. And there was no way for me to peek into the tack room from the outside of the stable rectangle. The windows were small and high and impossible to reach because of the dense foundation plantings. I started for the main archway and halted. That would be the route Galvano expected me to take.

I raced around the stable again, wincing as I passed Orfeo's stall. From the sound of it, he'd' angled his kicks at the stall door now. It wouldn't last long. The upper hatch was open, and the bottom was nowhere near as substantial as the doors in G-Barn.

I pressed myself against the wall of the pasture gate, easing my way carefully forward until I could see the tack-room door. He had to be in there. That was where the phone was. And he must be expecting me through the main arch. Or had he gone up to the house to check?

I had to catch him now. A sudden ripping of wood close by told me that very shortly the yard would be full of frightened horses! Horses. I glanced quickly at the tack-room door and darted around the corner, keeping low. I peeked at the first box. Bay heels lashed at the door. Which one was Sadie? I flipped the hatch lock free and ran on. Loose horses would bring Galvano out and the men back! Gray hooves battered the next door. Praying that this wasn't Maisie, I waited for the next kick and then slipped in as fast as I could move. The gray had her head down for another go when I grabbed the loose halter rope and jerked her head up. Flipping the end over her neck, I managed to jam it through the nose-band ring on the other side. This must be Sadie. She was calming with a human near her.

Wood was splintering all over the yard now. I turned the mare, vaulted to her back, nearly spiking her with the pitchfork, and then kicked her out of the stall, just as the bay in the first box erupted into the yard, with Maisie on my right charging to freedom a second later.

I had headed the excited Sadie toward the tack room when hell really broke loose. Orfeo splintered the last cross-piece of the hatch, banged hysterically about in the box a moment more, and tore into the yard just as the skinny figure of Caps Galvano emerged from the empty stall on the other side of him. He collided against the flank of the fire-crazed horse. Behind the gelding streaked the mighty Eurydice, his tail enormous, every hair of his spine as erect as a porcupine's fighting crest. I couldn't imagine what Dice thought he'd accomplish by chasing after Orfeo. But then, I wasn't all too sure what I was trying to do, having the devil's own time keeping my seat on Sadie's smooth bare back (how in hell had knights managed lances?) without skewering myself or the mare. The sweat pouring down my face half-blinded me as well.

As it was, the dogs made the "capture." Orfeo, witless as all horses are when fire-scared, came thundering back to his own stall in time to knock Galvano down again. Rafe and Dennis, legs pumping, arms flailing, narrowly missed the bay's stampeding exit as they came through the arch. Maisie had found her way out the pasture door, and Orfeo, Dice gamely a jump behind, crashed after her. I remember thinking that there was nothing impeding his use of that off-hind now.

Rafe and Dennis got to Galvano before the dogs were thoroughly roused by the blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Sadie kept rearing, and I got a round-about glimpse of Jerry's arrival, but Rafe bellowed at him to investigate the fire. Dennis appeared to be trying to protect Galvano from Rafe's flying fists when a bullhorn blasted the confusion. The staunch defenders of law and order had arrived, stopped by the electronically sealed gate.

Albert was now clinging to Sadie's bridle, yelling to me something about the pitchfork. I nearly skewered him, but he wrenched it from my hand. Then Dennis was shouting at me to get off so he could let the cops in.

And really, the whole scene was unbelievable. And got more so. There was Albert, like some diabolic gnome, holding a pitchfork inches from Galvano's chest as the man lay groaning in the dust; Dennis riding like a centaur out of the yard; and Jerry coping with the unwieldy bulk of a foam extinguisher, demanding to know where the goddamned fire was.

Rafe caught hold of my wrist, jerking me half off my feet and into Orfeo's stall. He flipped me over his knee. and proceeded to pound my bottom with a hard and merciless hand until I begged him to stop.

"I told you to stay in the house, Goddamnit, Nialla."

"You love me. You love me. You love me," I screamed at him from the straw, weeping with joy and pain.

He grabbed me up and began shaking me, his face a blur of soot-streaked white, his blazing eyes my point of focus.

"You ever, ever disobey me like that again, Nialla Clery, and I will wear the hide off your ass with a crop."

"You love me. Say it. You love me!"

He stopped shaking me, glaring ferociously.

"Of course I love you!" He roared it louder than the bullhorn. "Why in hell did you think I married you, you witless woman?"

He was dragging me out of the stall just as Sheriff Erskine heaved himself out of the first squad car.

"Mrs. Clery wasn't harmed, was she?"

"Harmed?" Rafe snapped the word out so violently Erskine backed up hastily. "No, she's not harmed!" Then Rafe took a deep breath and a tighter hold on my wrist, pulling me past Erskine to where two troopers were hauling the dazed and bleeding Galvano to his feet.

Before anyone could interfere, Rafe had grabbed Galvano by the jacket front.

"What in hell were you trying to do to my wife . . . you..."

Galvano started screaming for hell, the cops tried to peel Rafe's hand loose, stepping on my bare feet because Rafe had not let go of my wrist, and there were all these heavy bodies crushing me.

I'm not sure how everyone got untangled, but then Galvano was sobbing out that he hadn't been doing anything wrong. Rafe yelled louder that he was a murderer, a pyro. Only the troopers got Galvano into the police car and jack rabbited off.

"Now, just a goddamned minute there, Clery," Erskine started bellowing, because Rafe transferred his fury to Erskine, but Dennis and Jerry intervened. "You cool off or you'll get served with assaulting an officer."

"Berserk" was the only word for the expression on Rafe's face. I was sick with fear. And staggering, started to fall. Fainting!

I didn't, but it had the desired effect, Rafe even caught me before I hit the ground.

"Nialla! Nialla! Now, look what you've done, you goddamned fuzz head. Jerry, get Bauman here!"

Rafe practically raced to the house with me, all the time Erskine bellowing his ineffectual, "Now, just a minute there, Clery," in our wake.

It seemed advisable to come to my senses the moment Rafe laid me on the couch so he'd think of something else besides his quarrel with the Sheriff. I groaned and waggled my head, but I couldn't look Rafe in the eye after pulling such a stunt. I caught glimpses of Erskine's pale face, though. Was he scared of swooning women, or had he just realized what a beating I'd saved him?

At any rate, by the time Bauman arrived, everyone had calmed down, and sane conversation was possible.

I was one mass of bruises and lacerations. I wasn't very comfortable lying down either, but I could hardly explain that to the doctor. However, he did bandage the worst cuts on my feet and put something aromatic on my incipient bruises, all the time scolding me for being such a goddamned fool. I couldn't defend myself at all because the screaming excitement earlier had rendered me mute. So I lay wan, tired, and disgustingly smug while the others hashed over the events.

Michaels was contacted and had advised us he was returning immediately. Suddenly a stickler for the forms of law, Erskine said he could charge Galvano only with trespass, arson, and assault and battery. I had perjured myself with a nod to the fact that J recognized him as my attacker in the stable.

How he got on the property was a trifle embarrassing for Rafe, because in an effort to get Wendy Madison back in her own house quickly, Rafe had unlocked the side gate, leaving it unlocked while he and Michaels drove her home. Galvano had evidently been hiding on the grounds, seen his opportunity, and taken it. He'd made it to the west meadow and set the dry grass afire. When Rafe and the others arrived, with the dogs, he'd hightailed it up to the house. Only it was locked. So he'd set the barrel fire and phoned me to be sure I knew the peril in which my horse was. What he intended to do when he'd captured me, we never knew. I don't like to speculate.

Michaels landed in the charred west meadow, and his arrival cleared everyone out of the house. The thunder I could hear outside was nothing to the storm in my husband's face. My fanny began to smart, and I slipped my hands over it protectingly, trying to make myself very small in the couch as he loomed, Big Chief Lightning Eyes, over me.

"All right, Nialla Donnelly, you've been getting away with murder, but the crisis is now over, and you, young lady, are going to behave yourself. If you ever disobey a direct and reasonable order from me again, and if you ever pull another stunt like that stagy faint . . ." Then his grim expression softened, and he was sitting on the couch and pulling me into his arms, his hands roughly tender. "Of course I love you, Nialla Clery."

"But you never said it."

"Did I have to?" he demanded fiercely, looking deeply into my eyes. "It's so easy to say." His lips twisted bitterly.

I thought of two discarded wives, Amazons who'd been anything but economical. I thought of his mother, and I wanted to kill her and them. Instead I held his soot-smeared face in my hands and tried to iron out the bitter lines with my fingertips.

"No, it's not easy to say, Rafe Clery. If you mean it and it's all you have to offer."

"All you have . ."." The twist in his smile straightened out. "If you do mean it, Nialla, say it?"

In his eyes was that unexpected vulnerability and wariness that I'd glimpsed before, and an intense yearning that had nothing whatever to do with physical lust. In the second I had this clear view to the core of a complex personality, I experienced an elation, a humility, and a womanly wisdom that made me simultaneously maternal, wanton, and sad.

"I love you, Rafe Clery. I love you very much in many ways I didn't know a woman could love a man. I fell in love with you when you walked into the stall beside Orfeo. I hated every woman who had ever ridden in that car and worn your scarves. I nearly cried when you walked out of the stable after dinner like an operatic Prussian. And after we rode together that morning—as if we'd done it all our lives—I hated myself because I was so damned inadequate for you. No,, you shut up and listen. It was absolutely indecent of you to appear in that excuse of a bathing suit you wear. It was a dirty, dirty trick, Rafael Clery, and I only just realized that you knew exactly what you were doing to me, even then. ..."

The smile in his eyes, on his lips, was real, and his hands seemed to move with joy on my body as he swung me around, cradling my head on his chest in the crook of his arm. My voice was coming back, but still breaking now and then, and he cuddled me, with this idiotic smile on his face.

"I damn near flipped," he said, low-voiced, "when I realized you'd been raped. I thought I'd do something wrong and spoil any chance of waking you up again."

I laughed, suddenly very sure of myself with this man for the first time.

"Then you didn't realize I gave up the moment you sat down on that lounge like some damp eunuch?"

He threw his head back, laughing. "Damp eunuch? I'll eunuch you," he said with a growl, but I held him off. "You will have the courtesy to hear my declaration of love and affection all the way through."

His eyes remained brilliant with laughter and love, but his face was a mixture of astonished delight.

"Then you waltzed up to me with that girth, and that clinched it! Ooops, I'm doing it now!"

"I love you, I love, love you, Nialla," he crowed. "I was so afraid that it was only gratitude you felt. . . ."

"Gratitude?" I sat up so fast I almost clobbered him under the chin. "For the misery you've put me through the last few days, wondering if you married me only because you felt some responsibility for Russ Donnelly's orphaned kid, or because you wanted to own Orfeo."

His face was abruptly grave. "When I saw you from the stands in Sunbury, Nialla, on that sorrel, I was positive I knew you. And I couldn't imagine who I knew who rode like that or who owned that gorgeous sorrel mare. That's why I came to G-Barn. I had to find out who you were." His smile was ineffably tender as he stroked my cheek. "I didn't know it, but I was hoping to find a gawky redheaded tomboy I'd seen on an old show horse in Agnes du Maurier's pasture. She told me to keep my cotton-pickin' hands off her trainer's daughter for at least ten years. I was pretty bitter right then—I'd just paid through the nose to get rid of Amazon Number Two. You know how Agnes talked, blunt and to the point. She'd a few choice remarks to make about my life and habits, and wound up giving me some stringent advice. I've never been sorry I took it. Her final words went something like this: 'And the next time you pick a wife, pick one who rides, one you can mount without a ladder. Don't pick a shower, pick a winner. Like that nice kid down there.' And she pointed toward you."

"You mean, you didn't make that up . . . about waiting for me to grow up?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't bother with social lies."

"You mean, you knew who I was all along?"

He shook his head again, ruffling my hair. "No. I was looking for red hair, remember? But after we rode that morning, I had my suspicions. Your father taught you a lot of his distinctive style, Nialla. I almost asked you flat out, the morning after the fire, only . . ." He hugged me very hard, his lips moving softly against my cheek. "God, Nialla, I can't believe my luck."

It was so very magical to be held close, knowing I was really safe, with his arms locked around me, our tired bodies comfortable, our minds attuned. I've no idea how long we might have stayed that way if Jerry hadn't come running up the front stairs, knocked urgently on the front door.

"Jesus, can't I ever have you to myself?" Rafe released me reluctantly.

"Boss, we've caught all the lose stock but . . . Orfeo. And, boss, he's in such a state I can't get near him. You know damned well Albert won't help, and Dennis . . . well..."

"Have you located him?" I asked, amazed at how revived I was when I got to my feet.

"In the jump pasture, ma'am, and we can't get near him."

"He hasn't hurt himself?"

"Gawd, no." Jerry sounded disgusted.

"And the cat?" Rafe asked.

Jerry swore under his breath. "He's sitting on the stone fence laughing. Honest, boss, he's sitting there laughing!"

He probably was, if I knew Dice. But that meant that Orfeo was really okay.

"Rafe, we really ought to get him in."

"I brought the hackamore and a rope," Jerry said, holding them out helpfully. "There's one helluva storm ready to break, too."

"Get your shoes on this time, Nialla."

One was under the couch, and I finally located the other under the end cushion.

By the time we started for the jump pasture, the sky was completely black with thunderheads, roiling and growing if you glanced up at them. Orfeo wasn't usually bothered by thunderstorms, but . . .

"We can put him in the orchard pasture shed overnight, Nialla," Rafe said as we half-trotted, half-walked along. "Jerry says the smoke smell in his stall is very noticeable. The rain may wash it away, but a night in the orchard shed won't hurt him. A night in a smoke-filled stall might."

Lightning crackled open the sky above us; thunder rolled a peal a few heartbeats later. But we were at the jump pasture, and the flare outlined Orfeo midfield. When the thunder died away, I called him and saw the magnificent head turn. A cat's complaint wafted across the storm-silenced field. I called again, and almost cried out with relief as the horse began to move toward us.

"Now, if that thunder'll shut up . . ." Rafe said as we ducked under the fence slats.

I kept calling encouragingly to Orfeo, walking slowly to meet him, Rafe at my side. Thunder rumbled much too near, and the black gelding tossed his head, whinnying sharply. He began to trot, Dice veering to run beside him, and Orfeo bent his head briefly to check on the cat. Fifty feet from us another clap of thunder sent him shying away, galloping off at a tangent.

I waited until the thunder died and called him again. Almost as if he recognized that I was the only safety in this darkening, terrible-noised world, Orfeo wheeled back, racing to me, showering my legs with cut turf as he slid to a halt.

For a horrible instant I thought Rafe might move too swiftly to secure the gelding. I ought to have known better. Rafe still considered Orfeo my horse, and only I had the right to manage him.

I got the hackamore over the gelding's nose, up over his ears, talking to him quietly. Orfeo snorted restlessly, the pre-storm tension swirling around us.

"You'd best ride him back, Nialla," Rafe said, and laced his fingers to give me a leg up.

On sudden impulse I shoved the bunched reins at Rafe.

"I can't sit. On him or anything, you damned sadistic wife-beater. You ride him."

Rafe gave me such a look I shall never forget, and then, as if he was afraid I'd change my mind or something, vaulted to the gelding's back like a circus rider. Instantly he was stroking the startled gelding's neck, crooning to him, letting him accept the weight of an unfamiliar rider. Cautiously he took the reins, making contact with Orfeo.

Thunder boomed, lightning crashed, illuminating Rafe's exultant face. Orfeo pivoted, not from the unaccustomed rider, but away from the sound. Rain pelted down, huge, heavy globbets of water.

I stepped back. "Go on, Rafe. I'll follow." Dice brushed against my legs, meowing with distaste for the rain, and then plunged in mad leaps across the pasture to the fence.

"The gate's over to the right, Nialla. About ten feet."

"Gate?" I demanded, laughing. " 'Fraid of a little bitty fence, steeplechaser?"

"I love you, Nialla," Rafe shouted above the thunder.

I saw him lean forward, watched Orfeo move out, lift into a canter in a few strides.

There was more than one fence in the path Rafe took to the perimeter of that pasture. And lightning obliged as they took the double hurdle. They were dark shapes across the storm-black field at the broad water jump. I could feel the beat of speeding hooves through the soles of my sandals as Rafe headed Orfeo toward the pasture fence. Orfeo squealed as he tucked his hooves under him and soared over. It was an expression of surprise, not fear or fright, as if he approved of the fearlessness of his rider -as much as I did.

I trotted after them, lifting my face to the sky to be washed in the torrents that fell, warm and soft.

Dice reached the shed before me and was already ensconced on the rafter above the two straight stalls. He was licking himself furiously, growling displeasure at the soaking.

Rafe was wiping Orfeo down with clean straw as the gelding lipped hay from the manger as placidly as if he hadn't been hysterically insane with fear a scant hour before. I arrived in the shed's open end just as lighting flashed and thunder cracked.

"Easy, lad," Rafe soothed Orfeo's restless dancing. "My God, look what swam in!" And he went right on tending the gelding.

Well, I couldn't fight that. Didn't want to. I got into the shed and began to wipe rain from my arms and legs, wringing out my shirttails before I sagged wearily into the bedding of the other stall.  And rose up with a pain-filled gasp. I really couldn't sit on anything, especially straw. 

"What's the matter?" Rafe asked. 

"You wife-beater. You miserable sadistic brute." 

A bunched horse sheet was launched at me,  accompanied by his pleased (damn him) chuckle. "Try this!"

I spread the sheet, doubled it after a moment's close thought, and then carefully settled down again.

"Did you see how he took that pasture fence, Nialla?" Rafe asked, his voice excited, as he couldn't restrain his enthusiasm any longer. "He’s fantastic. He’s incredible. And you're right about the speed in him. Good thing I know every inch of this farm, or we'd've come a cropper. And responsive? No wonder you can ride him with a hackamore. He's like a goddamn cutting horse. And I knew it! Ask Ted or Steve. I kept telling them all this horse needed was the right handling. You are a white witch, my dearest. A proper white witch."

A gust of wind whipped rain on my legs, so I scooted back into the stall. Lightning outlined Rafe coming toward me.

"Where are you?" His hand connected with my ankle, and then he flopped over on his back beside me, tiredly, reaching for my hand. "That's some storm. Well," and he exhaled deeply—"no possibility of that meadow fire smoldering with that drenching. Probably clear the stench from the stable, too. Couldn't you have found anything better than manure to douse that fire with, Nialla?"

"No." I couldn't have cared less. I was tired, my feet stung, my butt smarted, my throat throbbed; but Rafe was lying beside me, and all I could feel was his hand on mine.

"Did I really hurt you?" Rafe asked suddenly in a penitent voice.

"Yes. No."

He propped himself up on his elbow, grinning down at me in the gloom, and lifted my hand to his lips.

"Yes and no?"

"Yes, because it did hurt. No, because the hurt didn't matter because I knew you wouldn't have whaled me so if you didn't love me."

His eyes glittered as his hand dropped to my breast, slid inside the wet blouse and bra, gently exciting me.

"A good thing I admitted my fatal passion for you before I rode Orfeo, huh?"

"Mmmmm." I turned toward him eagerly.

He made an abrupt movement upward. "Let's get back to . . . No!" And he was back beside me again. "No one can interrupt us here, by God, and I've been aching for you all day." His hands were busy with my shirt, but no busier than mine. The wet shorts tore, and I giggled, struggling with his. But our wet skins were touching at last, and I could rub my palms up and down the smooth hard muscles of his back, down to his waist and around. Suddenly his fingers dug into my buttocks. I gasped, and he gave me several sharp little slaps. Incredibly aroused by that, I seemed to go mad, desperate for him, infuriated by his delighted chuckle for my wanton response. He was slapping me again, but now he was within, his lips fastened on one breast as I arched my back, straining to him.

Thunder and lightning were all around us, and in us. Fire and noise were part of the storm that seized us both and drowned individuality into one single, fused entity.

Epilogue

We were sitting down to a perfectly normal, every-Monday-morning-type breakfast when James Michaels knocked on the door.

"Well, the honeymoon is over," Rafe remarked, shoving back his chair, but the grin in his eyes was positively lecherous as he rose to greet the detective. "My God, man, you look ghastly. Get him some coffee, Mrs. Garrison. Better still, get him a steak."

One look at the man's face, and I shooed Mrs. Garrison to the stove for the steak and poured the coffee myself.

"I've been up all night."

"We wouldn't have guessed," Rafe said, but our eyes caught over his head, and I could feel myself blushing. We hadn't got back to the house ourselves until nearly five. Our occupation had at least been . . . well . . .

"What happened? Besides Galvano denying everything?" Rafe asked.

Michaels grimaced, sipping eagerly at the coffee. "I expected that. But what I didn't expect was that he was telling the truth part of the time."

"Ah, come on, Michaels."

"This turned out to be a bit more complicated than any of us could have foreseen, Mr. Clery."

"Explain."

"Please," I added, and Michaels gave me a very weary smile.

"John, alias Caps, Galvano did murder your father, Mrs. Clery. And he confessed to it this morning, but only because we threatened to charge him with the murder of an unidentified man in a car registered in his name."

Rafe whistled tonelessly through his teeth.

"And it was as you suggested, Mr. Clery, Galvano found out that Russell Donnelly had discovered the hidden kilos of grass in the unused bales of hay. Galvano said he didn't mean to kill your father ..."

"Kind of him!"

Michaels flushed at Rafe's sarcasm. "I'm not defending him, Mr. Clery, but it is one thing to kill in a cold, premeditated way, another to . . . Well, all Galvano wanted was to recover the grass. Your father rushed at him, and he grabbed up the pitchfork and . . ." Michaels' eyes asked me to accept the confession.

I nodded. Michaels didn't need any lumps for telling me.

"Galvano got back to Mexico without anyone being aware he'd left, because he'd paid a cousin to circulate the track wearing his clothes. And no, he did not bump off the cousin to keep him from talking," Michaels said, holding up a hand to forestall Rafe's protest. "You'd better let me tell it my way, Mr. Clery. It's rather complicated, you see." Rafe settled back, resigned to listening. "Galvano, having established an alibi, was still not certain whether you'd seen him, Mrs. Clery. And he also had to produce either the money or the marihuana. When he was questioned by the police, along with anyone else connected with the Marchmount stables and your father, Galvano realized that you hadn't seen him leaving the loft. But he was still in grave trouble with the grass ring.

"I gathered"—and Michaels grinned sardonically—"that Marchmount had more or less dispensed with Galvano's auxiliary services over the few months preceding your father's death. In fact, that was what drove Galvano to venture into drug-running. Now, he had some time before the drug contact would want payment, but he had to find money. Bizarre as it seems, Mrs. Clery, it was Marchmount himself who gave Galvano the idea of extorting money from you. He contacted Galvano and paid him one thousand dollars—in expense money—to do some quiet investigating, for the purpose of clearing the good name of Marchmount; not, I'm afraid, Russell Donnelly."

Rafe swore under his breath and stroked my arm soothingly. I nodded in a sort of numbed way, remembering now how startled and furious Marchmount had been when I stammered out the reason for my need of money.

"So Galvano approached you, Mrs. Clery. He knew your father wasn't poor, but he didn't count on the probate delay. You gave him five hundred dollars the first time, I understand."

Michaels' eyes met mine squarely. I nodded.

"And I presume that Marchmount refused to give you anything because he realized the source of the suggestion?"

Rafe squeezed my hand imperceptibly.

"I didn't get any money from Marchmount, Mr. Michaels."

"And you left the state that night?" There was no shadow of blame or cynicism in Michaels' tired eyes, merely the expectation of an answer to a calm question.

"There seemed nothing left for me to do under the circumstances," I replied as calmly.

Michaels sat back a little. "Galvano underestimated both you and Marchmount, Mrs. Clery. But he was essentially a stupid man, scared enough to try anything to get the grass ring off his neck."

"Including faking his own death?" asked Rafe.

Michaels shook his head, taking another swallow of coffee. He kept the cup cradled in one hand, as if the warmth of the coffee helped.

"He didn't. The grass ring"—Michaels grimaced— "obliged. Or so Galvano assumes. Which I'll buy. The man killed was the same cousin who stood in for him at Mexico. Who felt he could borrow Galvano's Pontiac without permission. Only someone had thoughtfully drained the brake fluid. Galvano was so furious remembering the loss of the car he'd planned to use to leave the state, that I believe he's telling the truth. Of course, draining brake fluid suggests premeditation in homicide, which was why he was quite willing to confess to the second-degree-murder charge."

"Hey, just a minute," Rafe demanded, half-rising from his chair. "What do you mean, second-degree murder? And what about Pete Sankey, too? And..."

"Galvano did not kill Pete Sankey," Michaels said so firmly that Rafe was momentarily silenced. "I hope you don't think me callous, Mrs. Clery, but we had to force the truth from Galvano. He will have to stand trial for your father's murder."

I put my hand on Michaels', understanding what he was unable to come out and say. I no longer wanted a death for a death, even if Rafe was still out for vengeance for my sake. I wanted only that the trial cleared my father's name. And I did not want the trial to ruin mine. Therefore I had to practice compassion or expect none myself. "Rafe, that's what I want. That's all I want." The anger faded from my husband's face, and he nodded slowly.

"All right, how come Galvano didn't kill Pete Sankey?"

"In a moment. He did admit that he slit the girth and tried to spook the black, Mrs. Clery. He was motivated by sheer malice. He recognized the sorrel mare, found out you owned the gelding, and decided he owed you a thing or two because your father had ruined him. But he was rather . . . incensed ... to be charged with barn-burning."

"What? Who else could it have been? And why?"

"Someone else who knew a great deal about Nialla and Russ Donnelly, Caps Galvano, and Marchmount was in Sunbury that weekend."

"You must mean Marchmount?"

"No, I don't." And the faintest suspicion of satisfaction in stumping Rafe crossed the lieutenant's face. "Remember that Galvano had to go into hiding after his 'death,' and all he had was the thousand dollars from Marchmount and the five hundred from Mrs. Clery. That wasn't enough to get him out of the country, although he was now beyond the grass ring. He had plenty on Marchmount and had those photos faked. He had Nialla's face stripped in because he felt he could use that as a further lever against Marchmount. And then, as he tells it, he got to wondering why Marchmount was so eager to clear his own name. He knew all Marchmount's haunts, and with a little discreet phoning, found out that Marchmount had been in San Fernando at the time of Russell Donnelly's murder, and not at the hotel in Tijuana as he claimed. So Galvano pretended to be his cousin, the one so conveniently murdered in his place, who had come across some photos in Galvano's effects which would give a very good motive for Russell Donnelly's death. He asked for five thousand dollars and got it so fast, he realized he could have got much more. Marchmount was scared to death. He waited a week and called again, but that was when Marchmount had the first heart attack. So Galvano was forced to wait until Marchmount was out of the hospital. By then, Marchmount had applied to the Secrest Agency, a very reputable firm, by the way."

"Urscoll!" Rafe pounded the table so hard, everything jumped but the coffee cup Michaels was holding.

"Right!"

Rafe's face went through a variety of changes, from surprise, awe, disappointment, to tight-lipped fury.

"Why, that bastard!"

"Yes, he had found a unique situation and was exploiting it all he could."

Rafe angrily waved his hand. "Pete Sankey was worth four of Marchmount. And burning a barn around horses! Bastard!"

Michaels nodded sadly. "Urscoll spotted Galvano at the fairgrounds when he was leaving the station wagon. He'd been well briefed, of course, on the case, and had seen the mug shots I showed you, Mrs. Cleary. He also knew exactly how Galvano was blackmailing Marchmount, and applied his knowledge. However, if he were going to cover his tracks, there was his chance. By getting Galvano to bear all the suspicion, he'd be blameless. So he burned the barn, an act aimed completely at you, Nialla Donnelly Clery, because it didn't take long for Urscoll to figure out why there'd been two attempts on your life. He also knew that Marchmount wouldn't last much longer. Then, when Mrs. Madison drove Marchmount down here, he followed in Marchmount's car . . . and gave a certain hitchhiker a ride all the way from Sunbury to Locust Valley, even pointed out the various estates to his passenger."

"How do you know this?"

Michaels looked at Rafe a long moment after the quiet, deadly question.

"Urscoll told us. We caught him." Michaels gave a sigh of justifiable satisfaction. "At the airport, during a routine preflight inspection. He had a thirty-eight on him, for which he produced his license, but he also had fifty thousand dollars in cash he couldn't explain so easily."

"But the phone call . . . and . . . those awful photos . . ." My hand went to my throat.

"Oh, that was Galvano, He couldn't reach Marchmount in a terminal coma—he died this morning—and he was desperate. You'd married money, he had incriminating photos. Twenty thousand dollars would set him up nicely in Canada."

"And he never knew that Urscoll had raked in all that money?"

"How would he? Urscoll had cleverly been keeping Marchmount on the move. Galvano was following, yes, because he could guess where Marchmount might go, but he didn't really catch up until Sunbury."

"God, the colossal nerve of the man!"

"Except for the airlines' nervousness, he'd have got away."

"He didn't seem that kind of a man," I said, rather horrified. Who could you trust? "I mean, he seemed honestly worried about Mr. Marchmount.".

"He was," Rafe replied sardonically. "He had a bankroll at stake."

"How can people be that way?"

Rafe cocked an eyebrow at me, a cynical expression in his eyes.

"So," he asked Michaels, "what happens now?"

"Galvano stands trial in California, and Urscoll in New York State."

"And Nialla will have to appear in both?"

Michaels nodded unhappily. "But the cases are both open-and-shut, with signed confessions. Nothing to worry about." And he meant that.

Mrs. Garrison set down a sizzling steak platter in front of the startled man.	w

"My God, I thought you were joking," he said.

"Rafe rarely jokes about steaks," I told him, receiving my steak with a great deal of anticipation.

Michaels did look better when we'd finished breakfast, and he said he had to get back to Sunbury.

"Will you have a chance to rest now?" I asked, rather worried about him.

"With a little luck," he said, shaking the hand I offered him.

"You deserve a great deal."

He ducked his head with embarrassment and walked quickly toward the door, but Rafe got to it first and held it shut.

"Jim . . ." Rafe's hand was out, and he was displaying one of those fantastically winning smiles of his "... I have never bribed a policeman"—and the emphasis was complimentary—"before, but if a quiet cabin on a secluded lake in the Adirondacks would ensure a couple of weeks of rest and relaxation, there could be a first time."

There was the barest hesitation before Michaels shook his head.

"However," Rafe continued, as if Michaels had made no response at all, "since I never have bribed a policeman, I won't start now. But a close personal friend, Jim Michaels, is under no such restraint."

"Mis . . ."

"How's that again, Jim?"

Oh, Rafe can be . . . be . . . unswervable.

"You arrange some vacation time with the captain, Jim. Nialla and I won't take no for your answer."

"We'll see," Jim Michaels replied with a faint grin.

"Indeed we will." And Rafe accepted the challenge.

The storm the night before had cleared the air of humidity and noxious odors. Michaels kind of shook himself as he walk across the porch and down the stairs to the car. We stood, arms about each other, until he was out of sight.

"Okay, Mrs. Clery. Shall we go school some horses now?"

I answered the smile and the cocky gleam in those brilliant eyes the only way possible.

"Sure, Mr. Clery."