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time they both lapsed into silence.
There was no way to carry on a polite conversation with him. Melinda
fumed silently. She wasn't used to this kind of treatment. In fact, most men
happened to find her quite attractive. She heard the vexation in her voice when
she again spoke.
    "I don't suppose you happen to
have a mirror around here?"
    "Why?" he asked. Then, he
turned to look at her. "Oh, I see."
    That comment did nothing for her
self-confidence. He immediately got up and rummaged around in the kitchen area.
He returned with a piece of an old mirror he held outstretched in her
direction.
    "Will this do?"
    As he stood watching her, she took
it tentatively and looked at herself for the first time in days. She was
horrified at the reflection that stared back at her. One eye was black and
almost swollen together. Numerous cuts and abrasions marred her face. And
hanging down her shoulders were two braided pigtails tied with string around
the bottom.
    In a word, she was grotesque. She
felt shattered.
    "Not a pretty sight, is
it?" Michael asked, sounding genuinely sympathetic.
    Melinda was too rattled to reply
sensibly. Instead, she blurted out the first thought that popped into her head.
    "Why did you — how did you — braid
my hair?"
    She intended to imply that it made
her look hideous, like a mangy Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. But he responded
as though she had paid him a compliment.
    "Nothing to it, ma'am,"
he said in an exaggerated drawl. "I've been braiding horses' tails for
years."
    She somehow restrained her first
impulse to throw the mirror at him. She realized now what an unsavory sight she
was to him. But her companion with his shabby clothes and unshaven face wasn't
exactly appealing, either.
    Then, it dawned on her. He, too,
probably didn't look like this ordinarily. And by the skimpy accommodations in
this shack, she suspected he didn't even live here. This had to be some sort of
temporary shelter.
    And in that case, there was a lot
more to know about this man. She examined him with microscopic intensity as he
sauntered back to his usual chair. This time he turned it away from the window
and faced her. He sat down and raised an eyebrow in anticipation of her
questions.
    "You don't live here at all,
do you?" she asked.
    "Well, ma'am, I hate to ruin
the sterling impression you have of me, but — no, I don't. I'm a rancher. We
just use this place for some of the hands when they're out branding. Lucky for
you and me, it's kept stocked with food and water."
    "Then surely you have some
kind of vehicle. You can certainly use it to get me out of here," Melinda
said.
    "Oh no. Not that again."
He spoke slowly then, emphasizing each word. "I explained all this to you
once before, lady, and now I'm going to go over it again. In detail. We can't
leave. The canyons are still running water."
    "Then call someone."
    "There's no cell phone coverage
in this area, but my people know we're here. I have a radio in my jeep, and it
keeps me in touch with the main ranch. Besides, even if we could leave right
now, it'll be a day or two before you can travel. Fate has thrown us together,
like it or not. And, believe me, I don't like it any more than you do."
    There it was again — that
ambivalence, something he made sound like a personal dislike for her. Why? She
had done nothing to him.
    As if to ward off more questions,
he stood suddenly. "Tell you what. There's a deck of cards around here
somewhere. Let's make the best of a bad situation, and pass some time."
    He walked over to a kitchen drawer,
opened it, and pulled out some cards that he shuffled as he strolled back
towards her. He pulled up a chair to serve as a table between them, and
shuffled some more.
    "How about some poker? We'll
use matches for the ante."
    "I'd prefer gin rummy."
    "I don't know gin rummy. So
we'll have to play poker." He started dealing.
    With distaste, she picked up the
five grimy, dog-eared cards he dealt her. They were so thick she could
hardly spread them