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alone. Sometimes the snow came up to my knees and I’d be frozen by the time I got home. I envied those guys in their warm bunkhouse, the jolly smoky camaraderie, their shared interests, their easy chat. Home for me was just my dad and me and the housekeeper—some old guy recruited from the cowboys because he was too old to ride out anymore.”
    It had begun to snow again and I shivered. “You must miss it,” I said.
    “Not a bit. I’m a city dude now. Want to make snow angels?” he asked with a grin.
    “Absolutely not, I’m already frozen.” With him holding my arm we set off across the courtyard. The deep snow forced us to lift each foot then place it carefully down again, making for slow progress. When we finally reached the back door my face was layered with snow and I was panting with the effort and the cold.
    Warm yellow light spilled from the windows and we stumbled thankfully inside, casting off our soggy jackets, both of us hopping on one foot as we pulled off each of our wellies, laughing at how silly we looked. Mrs. Wainwright met us as we emerged into the hall, telling us that dinner would be ready in an hour.
    “Just time for a hot bath and some dry clothes,” I said.Then, remembering my guest had no luggage, I told him Bob’s things would certainly be too big for him so he was stuck with what he had on.
    Montana picked up the laptop case, and we walked together up the wide shallow stairs to the galleried hallway. Rooms led off on either side. Bob’s was the main one, over the portico with the view across the village to the Yorkshire dales, rolling gently into infinity and still, in summer, dotted with sheep. I turned left and showed Montana to the Red Room and he said it lived up to its name, all red brocade with a big carved Jacobean four-poster swathed in red silk. Bob had chosen the furnishings himself and I’d told him in my opinion it looked like an Indian restaurant. He said no it didn’t, it looked like a Bombay whorehouse, which was exactly what he’d wanted. I said I hoped Montana wouldn’t feel too out of place sleeping in the red whorehouse and he laughed.
    Then I showed him the attached dark-paneled bathroom with the white cast-iron claw-foot tub, left him to it and went to my own sanctuary at the opposite corner of the house.

5

Harry Montana
    Montana stood under the hard hot shower for a long time until he felt his bones begin to thaw out. He hadn’t been this cold since he was a kid. He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his haunches, and stood in front of the mirror, running his hand over his stubbled chin. He wasn’t thinking about the way he looked; he was thinking about the woman he’d just met and her relationship with Sir Robert Hardwick.
    Daisy Keane was attractive, chic with that severe modern look many women adopted as the easy way out when they were not too sure of their own personal style. It didn’t marry too well with her appealing country-girl freckles and mane of glossy red hair and her full, sweet mouth. Nor with her husky, low, sweet voice. He’d expected a hard-faced money hunter out to take Bob for all she could get; instead there was a hesitancy about her, an uncertainness, an air of vulnerability. Either she was a good actress or she really cared about Hardwick. Heshrugged. Who knew? With Hardwick’s kind of money at stake, anything could happen. He’d liked the way she behaved with the dog, though. There was hope for her yet. And he’d bet she hadn’t expected to meet anyone like himself at the funeral either. They were poles apart, together tonight only because of Bob Hardwick and a snowstorm, and because he had a letter for her. He’d intended to drop it off at the Hall after the funeral but she had invited him anyway.
    He put on his clothes, checking the bracelet that never left his wrist, zipping up his jeans, buckling the silver-studded belt, sliding his feet into the black boots. Still chilled, he would have killed for a bourbon.