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patted one hesitantly on the nose.
    “You never did care for horses, did you?” Dan asked.
    “You know why. My father died—killed himself—in the Yakima Suicide Race.” She winced at the memory. She had been ten years old. With a gang of other men from the reservation, he had joined the dangerous cross-country race on horseback, hurtling down almost vertical ravines, leaping streams and fallen trees. Her father had plunged off a ninety-foot cliff to his death.
    The next year, an animal-rights group had outlawed the use of horses in the race, and it was presently run on motorcycles. Of course, that was too late for her father—and also for her mother and Isabel.
    She stared at the big bay horse. “It wasn’t the horse’s fault any more than a car wreck is the car’s fault.”
    “The race is different now,” Dan said.
    “And how would you know?”
    “I know,” he said simply. “The local wineries are really big on sponsoring the race. It’s—” He broke off, as if he thought better of what he was going to say. “Come on.” He took her hand and continued the tour, showing her the best places to fish for salmon and trout, a shed where the white-water kayaks and rafts were stored, an equipment barn crammed with a tractor, an off-road motorcycle, a mower, a snowmobile, cross-country skis, fishing and rain gear.
    She studied him, leaning against the rough-cedar building, surrounded by soaring trees, and she couldn’t suppress a smile.
    “What?” he asked.
    “How does the saying go? ‘The difference between men and boys is the price of their toys.’ You have every toy.”
    He laughed. “No golf clubs yet.”
    “This all must have cost you a fortune.”
    He pushed away from the wall. “Everything I had. People are supposed to want to come here and play.”
    “So you’re counting on getting this contract with the team.”
    “It’d keep me out of debtors’ prison.” He sent her a devilish grin. “Do they still have debtors’ prison?”
    As they started back up toward the lodge, she thought, what an adventure this was. It made her plant nursery on Bainbridge seem dull.
    But safe. Very safe.
     
    Dan showed Isabel the beginnings of the garden Juanita had started for him. Tiny herb, flower and vegetable seedlings sprang from rows of damp black soil.Isabel surveyed the area, cordoned off from deer and rabbits with electrified wire. Here was something she knew, something quiet and orderly like the life she had made for herself.
    She walked along stepping stones between the rows, enchanted by the old-fashioned homeyness of the garden. The foxglove were the sort raised a century ago, antique strains she rarely saw these days.
    She stooped to pinch off a sprig of fragrant Yakima tea, used for brewing or making potpourri. “This is a little more familiar territory.”
    Dan leaned back against the garden gate. “How did you get into selling plants, anyway?”
    “The temp agency I was working for sent me to Bainbridge to set up work files for a nursery. I ended up staying on, eventually taking over the management of the whole business.”
    He moved toward her, plucking the tender cutting from her fingers and dropping it to the ground. “And you’re happy growing plants, selling them?”
    “Well, of course,” she said. His proximity raised a tingling awareness in her. She stepped back, feeling a little defensive. “I guess it doesn’t compare with grunge-rock tours and wild-man adventures, but it’s perfectly fine and I’m good at it.”
    “And your plans to marry?” A dangerous edge crept into Dan’s voice. “Also perfectly fine?”
    “Yes,” she said too quickly.
    “So you’re not looking for anything better than ‘fine.’”
    Somehow, without her realizing it, Dan had backed her against the garden gate. He was so close that shecould see him in sharp detail—the regal sweep of his cheekbones, his coal-black lashes like individual spears around bottomless dark eyes.
    Isabel had always