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shame.
    “Mr. Sinclair, two years ago, my father wrote his brother—my uncle—all about his wonderful ranch. He never mentioned this.” She spoke so softly. “Two years! He lied to us. My uncle thought things were better, and he sent me to this wonderful ranch that now belongs to you.”
    She looked away, and he felt the hot embarrassment for someone else that was somehow worse than almost any other emotion. This English lady was pawning her dignity, and it ripped at his insides. He didn’t know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut.
    “Let’s see it, then,” she said after a long pause. She put her hand up to shade her forehead and take a better look. “Right now at least, I’m not feeling too sorry for myself.”
    It was an interesting comment, spoken clearly and with no tears in her voice. He knew then that he was looking at a lady with no expectations, and it pained him. Some chivalrous part of him wished that ladies had an easier time of it in this vale of tears than men did. Generally, woman’s lot was worse, or so he had observed.
    When they came to the ranch gate, he got off, and with a certain easy-walking pride, opened the gate. To his surprise, Miss Carteret slid over, took the reins, and clucked the horses through, so he could close the gate behind him. She pulled up a little shortly, but the horses didn’t mind.
    “Thanks for that. Didn’t know you knew horses,” he said as he climbed up again and took the reins from her.
    “I don’t know teams, but I’ve been watching you.” She placed her hands placidly in her lap again, as if daring him to make anything of such a simple act of kindness.
    The buildings weren’t far from the gate, down a sheltering slope. The sodbuster or would-be rancher who had first owned the property that her father bought had known something about wind, tucking his shack a little below the constant breeze. The barn was close by. He had already told Manuel to string a rope between the two buildings, even though the Mexican had laughed. Just you wait , Jack thought, feeling grim again. You’ll be glad you listened to me .
    Wiping his hands on a towel, Manuel came into the yard. He was just a little Mexican, too old now for hard ranch work, but willing to sign on to watch one bull and a couple of cows and not laugh about it, as everyone else did.
    “Manuel Ortega, this is Miss Carteret,” Jack said, remembering the proper way to introduce a lady. “She’s going to stay on the Bar Dot with her father. How’s Bismarck?”
    “Fat and king of the pasture,” Manuel said. With a courtly little bow, he held out his hand to Lily Carteret and helped her from the wagon. “All I have inside is cold coffee, and I don’t recommend it,” he told her.
    She laughed. “I’ll settle for a glass of water, if you have one.”
    The three of them went into the shack, two rooms and a kitchen lean-to. There was only one tin cup, but Manuel graciously wiped off the rim with the same cloth he had used on his hands, and dipped Lily a drink from a bucket. She accepted it just as graciously and looked around the room.
    She focused her attention on the wallpaper, roses on a shiny background.
    “My father’s home improvement.”
    “Yes. He also left this funny couch . . .”
    “A chaise lounge.”
    “. . . and Manuel has a really nice pitcher and basin with roses.”
    He couldn’t help but watch her expressive face, wondering if this information would break through the steely resolve she seemed so capable of, but no. She took it all in stride, though, and just glanced into the other room, which held an ornate brass bed. Manuel had just thrown his bedroll there, but she made no comment, beyond observing a whiter portion of the wall and asking if there were photographs.
    Jack felt his own discomfort now. “Yes’m, two,” he mumbled. “I took them down and tried to give them to Mr. Carteret, but he just gave me a strange sort of smile and reminded me that I had won the whole