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“Well, perhaps another time would be best.”
    Ash watched them ride away, and when he could no longer see the wagon along the winding road, he closed his eyes for a moment. Peace. Quiet.
    When he opened his eyes he saw that Elmo had left the gate to the pigsty wide open. The ornery old boar had stepped into the barnyard, his beady eyes intent upon an unsuspecting chicken.
    Ash stepped forward. “Back where you belong, old man,” he said, waving his hands at the boar. “Let’s go.”
    In answer, the boar rushed past, his big body brushing against Ash’s leg. The hen squawked, flapped her wings, and headed for the safety of the chicken house. With his prey out of sight the boar stopped in his tracks, suddenly aloof as he surveyed his surroundings.
    Ash held the gate to the pigsty open in invitation. “Come on. The food’s in here, and this nice cool mud is just waiting for you. What do you want with a scrawny old hen, anyway?”
    The boar headed for the open gate, lumbering, his big body moving ponderously toward the pigsty. And then he stopped. He looked at Ash as if there was something he all of a sudden found offensive. He snorted, shook his big head, and rushed forward before Ash knew what the nasty old boar was thinking.
    Ash stepped back as the boar charged him, ready to sidestep the big, low body and slip out the gate. But the boar changed directions without warning, and knocked Ash’s legs out from under him. His arms automatically extended to break the fall, finding the slick mud and causing the muck to splash into his face. Ash’s hands slipped forward, and he landed face down in the pigsty.
    He snapped his head up quickly, but not before he got a good dose of cool mud up his nose.
    Once that was done, the boar was perfectly satisfied to roll happily in the mud beside the newest resident of the pigsty.
    â€œHam,” Ash muttered as he sat up and wiped the worst of the mud from his face. “If you weren’t such a tough old bastard, that’s just what you’d be.” The boar was not insulted. Now that the excitement was over, the other pigs joined in the fun, wallowing in the mud to their hearts’ content.
    Ash shook his hands and arms vigorously as he left the pigsty, closing the gate securely behind him and reminding himself that this was another strike against Elmo. Was it possible that he’d done this on purpose? That he’d known exactly what would happen?
    No. That required thinking a few minutes into the future, a task Elmo was incapable of.
    He lifted his head and saw her coming toward him. Before he knew she was there, she was almost upon him. For a moment he thought she was a vision — a ghost or an angel. Her horse was creamy white, her dress the same. Her hair was gold, the color of wheat, and she had a small hat perched on top. A white feather danced there with each step of her horse.
    It seemed the sunlight was drawn to her, and everything around her paled. As she came closer he saw that her eyes were brilliant blue, her features so delicate and fine they were surely not real. A strand of pale, straight hair brushed one cheek, there where it had fallen from its bun; an imperfection that made her all the more perfect. This was not a ghost or an angel, but a woman. The most extraordinary woman he had ever seen.
    She leaned slightly forward. “Hello,” she said in a pure, sweet greeting. “I’m looking for Ash Coleman.” It was the voice that gave her away, some inflection still there even though she was a woman now and not a child.
    â€œCharmaine Haley,” he said, and when he tasted mud he brushed his face and his mouth again. Mud fell in clumps small and large.
    She straightened quickly, obviously a little frightened. “Do I know you, sir? Are you one of Ash’s stepbrothers? As I said, I’m looking for Ash.”
    â€œYou found him.”
    It was impossible. This filthy, unshaven man