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old Careful was only a small part of it. He had known how much Lacey loved the animal, and how important a part the small burro had played in her survival on that last, desperate day. He had wanted to spare that beautiful, dear little girl as much grief as he could. He had instinctively sought to maintain her connection to Weaver any way he could.
    He had made arrangements to have the burro stabled with his own horse over the years. He had taken Careful out with him on frequent overnight trips; and the truth was, he had grown as fond of the feisty little critter as he was of his own mount. Yet, the moment when Lacey and the burro were reunited had been more than he had ever hoped for.
    He would never forget it, the way that reunion had made him feel.
    Yes, he was committed to Lacey, with all that word entailed.
    Aware that Lacey awaited a response to her question, he said, “What do I have in mind? Just put the riding clothes on. You’ll see.”
    “I don’t like mysteries.”
    Scully dismissed her reply with a glance. “Just put the clothes on. I’ll be outside waiting.”

    The sun was hot and steady as the morning hours advanced. The terrain was flat as they traveled toward the distant mountains, and an inexplicable tension began assuming control of Lacey’s senses.
    Traces of her vexation still remaining, Lacey looked at Scully, who rode at her right. She had been upset at his attitude in the restaurant when Doc Mayberry and Reverend Sykes introduced themselves earlier, but she had gotten truly angry when he explained the reasoning behind his behavior. The thought that he might’ve believed for a moment that anyone could influence her against him had stunned her. He was her lifeline to a past she hoped to reclaim, her stability in the present and a stalwart presence as she looked toward an uncertain future. She considered the bond between them to be impervious to assault of any kind. The thought that Scully possibly did not feel the same had shaken her.
    Those thoughts had deluged her as she had dressed in the riding clothes he had brought. When she opened the door, she had found him waiting, his dark suit exchanged for more common western wear. It had not escaped her notice that the ordinary shirt and trousers he wore somehow emphasized his superior height and breadth of shoulder, which set him apart from the average fellow on the street, or that the brim of the weathered hat he wore pulled down low on his forehead added a new element of determination to the strength of his compelling features. She had frowned at her certainty that the gun belt he wore strapped around his hips was not for adornment.
    Scully did not smile when they reached the street and approached the two mounts waiting for them at the rail. He said, “You do remember how to ride astride, don’t you? We don’t have sidesaddles in Weaver, and the trails are a bit rough for a buggy.”
    She had responded by mounting up in a fluid movement that had surprised even herself—a prideful display for which she now silently suffered stiff, aching muscles.
    Her eyes straight forward, Lacey heard Scully say, “It’s getting hot. You have water in your canteen if you’re thirsty.”
    Lacey turned toward him, a tart response on her lips, only to have it fade at first contact with Scully’s concerned gaze. In a flash of insight, it was suddenly clear to her that both she and Scully had gotten angry for the same reason—because, in one way or another, the bond between them had been questioned. She wondered why she hadn’t realized that before, then silently thanked the Lord for relieving her distress by imparting a bit of wisdom that had escaped her.
    Lacey responded, “I’m not thirsty, but I would like to know where we’re going, Scully.”
    The shadows in Scully’s eyes darkened with uncertainty as he replied, “Surely you realize where we’re going by now.”
    A cold chill raced down Lacey’s spine at his response. Her mounting tension