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you're happy, darling, I'm content."
    "Then rest easy, Papa. My life is perfection."
    They spoke then of more mundane matters, discussing the number of horses they planned to purchase from Adam, debating whether to send some back to England for the hunt season.
    "Adam's jumper bloodstock reminds me of the German hunters out of Schleswig-Holstein," George Bonham remarked. "Their quality is superb."
    "I like that huge bay best Lucie tells me she can go over a six-foot jump without breathing hard." Flora smiled. "For a three-year-old, Lucie's amazingly knowledgeable about horses."
    "Not so amazing considering her father's primary interest He's been seriously breeding horses for almost ten years, I'm told." Lifting his glass, the earl pointed at a rising dust cloud on the horizon. Shimmering in the remnants of the sunset, the filmy haze expanded, drifting westward. "Someone's riding fast in mis direction," George Bonham said, emptying his glass before setting it aside. He rose to gain a better view.
    "A large party, from the amount of dust they're kicking up." Flora's gaze was trained on the approaching riders.
    As they watched, the moving pale vapor slowly drew near until mounted men could be distinguished from riderless horses against the yellow sky, and as they advanced closer, it became possible to distinguish their Indian rega-lia. Twenty-some riders were galloping toward the ranch, leading several strings of horses in their wake, the staccato rhythm of hoofs audible now.
    The party didn't slow as it rode up the long hill to the gate, its progress a steady, pounding flow over the last rise, like an inexorable pulsing stream. Flora stood up in a reflexive startle reaction at the excessive speed of the advancing horsemen, gauging the diminishing distance between herself and the thundering mounts.
    Their leader rode full out toward the green lawn bordering the terrace as if he'd misjudged the distance and the position of the small group of servants assembling where the lawn met the gravel drive.
    "He's going to ride over those servants!" Flora exclaimed in a suppressed whisper.
    But the lead warrior painted fearsomely in black and green hauled his horse to a plunging stop with breathless precision just short of the motionless group of servants, his men following him in perfect drill. And when the dust settled, with a small shock of recognition, Flora distinguished Adam beneath the dark, spectral war paint. Laughing in the midst of his men, he was exchanging genial congratulations with them and jovially greeting his servants as though war parties were no more than a casual country ride.
    His fierce image of war precluded such a prosaic activity, however, Flora thought, gazing at his forbidding appearance. His powerful body was nude above his leggings and fully painted, his face and form vivid with alternate areas of black and green, accented by red stripes across his forehead and nose, by red hash marks descending symmetrically down his chest and arms. His long hair swirled loose on his shoulders as he turned to talk to one man and then another, his smile starkly white against the black paint on his face. A rifle and bandoliers slung over his bare chest and back gave evidence of the seriousness of the raiding party. This wasn't the charming Comte de Chastellux she'd met in Virginia City.
    In the animated flurry of the celebrating troop one war-nor first noticed Flora standing on the shadowed veranda—her pale gown and fair skin luminous in the darkening gloom. His arrested glance drew attention, and as others in turn regarded the ethereal sight, a gradual silence descended over the bantering camaraderie, like ripples moving across the surface, of a pond.
    Engrossed in conversation, Adam didn't notice the growing quiet until a companion called his attention to the visitors. When he saw her, his smile instantly vanished. What was she doing here? He was expecting the earl, not Flora. As he gazed at her across the deepening twilight,