Rathe brusquely wiped a smal trickle of moisture away from his eyes. He hadn't cried; he would not cry. "Yeah, she would, but, damn, it's so hard."

For the first time, he looked at her. "First I've got some business to take care of."

Rathe began by rebuilding the church-this time, with a whole separate room attached for classes. Then he spent the next three weeks mounting a campaign to destroy the sheriff, the crux of which was the sailor Able Smith's death. He hired the Pinkerton Agency to investigate the suicide. Although the evidence against the sheriff was only circumstantial, Able Smith had been a white man, not a Negro, and many of the townspeople who supported the night riders were indignant and even outraged at his suspicious death.

Rathe wrote letters to the local papers and the Jackson Clarion and Aberdeen Examiner. It didn't matter that the press supported the night riders and their methods. Soon the sailor's questionable suicide became a public scandal. A smal group of local citizenry organized themselves to campaign for law, order, and justice-and against Ford. Sarah Bel sley's Temperance Union took part. Public indignation mounted, and Rathe fanned the fire through the press. It was only a matter of weeks before Ford came to him, furious.

"You're behind this," Ford snarled. "Do you think I don't know it? Do you think I'm gonna take this lyin' down?"

Rathe laughed. "I want you to know it, you sonuvabitch. I want you to know that I'm the agent of your destruction. You're finished in Natchez."

Ford was wavering, and Rathe knew he was afraid.

"You can't destroy me, boy," Ford said.

"No?" Rathe grinned.

"I stil got most of this town behind me," Ford spat. "An' you have any doubts, why, you come to Cross Creek tomorrow night and see."

Cross Creek. It didn't take much for Rathe to learn that the night riders were planning another episode of intimidation; they intended to whip a sharecropper who was behind in his payment of goods to his landlord. And Rathe understood that this time it was very important for Ford to make a show of power and strength.

Concurrently, it was crucial for Rathe to stop him. And although much of the town was disturbed at Smith's death, Rathe knew he could not count on them to stop Ford in his nocturnal terrorist activities against the coloreds. This was the showdown. Rathe could count on a few men like Farris. More importantly, he hired his own men, al Pinkerton's. It was a smal cavalry that rode out to stop the night riders that sweltering, moonless eve.

But there was no whipping. Ford and his men were not expecting an armed encounter with numbers superior to their own, and like the bul ies they were, they turned tail and fled. Rathe rode after Ford. He chased him halfway to Natchez. Nothing and no one could stop him now, not when he was so close to destroying the man who had become his blood enemy. "Stop and fight, Ford," he shouted into the night.

Ford kept running.

Rathe caught up to him, their horses gal oping neck and neck blindly in the darkness. He leapt at Ford. The two men went crashing onto the ground, rol ing, struggling. It was Rathe who wound up on top, and it was Rathe who pummeled Ford to within an inch of his life.

That was the last time Ford was ever seen in Natchez.

Yet for Rathe there was no satisfaction, no victory, only the hol ow emptiness of his heart and his soul.

"Hel o, Pa."

"Rathe!" Derek Bragg's amber eyes went wide, and an instant later a smile of delight swept across his features. The next second Rathe found himself enveloped in a hard, fierce hug. The two men were nearly identical except for the difference of thirty years. They were the same height, the same powerful build, their faces mirror replicas of each other, one young and unlined, the other weathered but stil unquestionably handsome. Derek released him and grinned.

Rathe smiled back. He watched his father's smile slowly fade, saw the quizzical look in his eyes, and knew Derek had already picked up on the sadness that wouldn't leave him. Don't ask, Rathe silently begged, averting his gaze. He missed the look of concern that swept Derek's face, and it was gone by the time he raised his eyes. "Where's Mother?" With much effort, he managed to make his tone light. "And my big sister? And that no-good gambler she married?"

Derek threw his arm around his shoulder, leading him into the oak-floored foyer of the ranch house. "Miranda!" he shouted. "Storm! Brett!" He gave his son a grin. "Your mother's going to box your ears, son."

Rathe had to smile at that. "She's peeved, huh?"

Derek looked at him. "Peeved?" He threw back his head and laughed.

His sister, magnificently beautiful in the ful flush of womanhood, five years Rathe's senior, came running down the stairs, her elegant silk gown, bustle, hoops and al , hiked to her knees, showing long, exquisite, silk-stockinged legs. This was the Storm Rathe knew far better than the one who had married and now lived on Nob Hil in San Francisco. She shrieked, a cry completely reminiscent of their childhood, and Rathe caught her as she catapulted into his embrace.

"I would have kil ed you if you hadn't come," she told him breathlessly. "Al those telegrams! First one arrival date, then a new one! Mother kept preparing surprises for you! She's furious!"

Rathe smiled sheepishly and met Brett's gaze over Storm's shoulder. Keeping one arm around his sister, he reached out to shake his brother-in- law's hand. They exchanged genuinely warm hel os. They had come a long way from the day fifteen years ago when Rathe had refused to let Brett enter the house and had wanted to carve him to pieces-when Brett was hunting down his runaway wife.

His mother appeared in the doorway then, crying. Storm moved aside, into her husband's arms, smiling. Miranda was a tiny woman and Rathe dwarfed her as he embraced her. Since Grace, nothing had felt this good, and he felt such anguish wel ing up in him that he held her longer than necessary, so he could regain control. "Where are my nephews and niece?" He managed a very forced smile.

"They're asleep," Brett said. "Thank God." He exchanged a fond look with his wife. Something twisted inside Rathe, seeing their intimate exchange, when it had never done so before. Brett saw him watching, and flashed him a dazzling white smile. "My hands weren't ful enough with just my wife," he said, winking.

Storm poked Brett in the ribs. "Don't let him fool you, Rathe, he's a wonderful father. How is Nick doing? And where is the lovely lady you were bringing?"

Rathe's expression froze. He became aware of a heavy, questioning silence. Storm quickly came over and held his arm. "I've just said something awful. I'm sorry, Rathe." She smiled at him tremulously.

Rathe couldn't return her smile. "Nick is fine," he said. "He's putting a lot of effort into restoring Dragmore." Had it only been a few months since he had been in England? It seemed like years, like a different lifetime-a lifetime before Grace. And now it was a lifetime without Grace. "As for my lady friend, she had an accident." He wondered if his voice sounded as hoarse to their ears as it did to his.

"Everyone into the parlor," Miranda said, throwing Storm a scalding look. "Derek, pour some brandies. Rathe, are you hungry? You're too thin."

This time his mouth curved. "No, Mother, I'm not hungry, but a brandy sounds perfect."

He clenched the fencepost and stared at the shadowy outline of Derek's prized stud stal ion. The moon was almost ful and very bright. Al around him were the familiar Texas night sounds he had grown up with. Yet tonight, there was no comfort to be gained from them. An owl hooted. Rathe leaned against the fence and stared blindly into the dimness. Behind him, the ranch house was mostly dark, except for the lights in his room and the master bedroom.

In that bedroom Miranda stood with a brush in her hand, her beautiful features tense with worry. "He's outside walking, Derek. Something's so terribly wrong."

"I know," Derek said. "I could tel the instant I saw him. There's no sparkle in his smile, no light in his eyes." He looked at his wife, misery in his own gaze, sharing their child's sorrow. "Do you think she's dead?"

"I think he needs you," Miranda said, clasping his large hand with her little one. "I can't stand to see him like this. Rathe was always so ful of love and laughter. It's like looking a a stranger!"

Derek went outside. He didn't try to disguise his steps as he approached. He knew Rathe heard him, not because he turned-he didn't-but from the mere fact that he was his son and he had trained him in the way of the Apache. Rathe final y ducked his head in some kind of acknowledgment as Derek paused at his side by the corral. A moment passed.

"He's a real beauty, Pa." His voice was raw.

Derek placed his hand on his son's back. "Rathe, what happened?"

Rathe made a protesting sound, looking at his boots, only now his vision was fogged. He blinked furiously. He wasn't sure he could speak even if he wanted to.

Derek didn't move his hand. He gripped his shoulder. "Get it out," he said. "You've got to get it out."

Rathe choked and took a long, deep breath, shaking his head no, but tears wet his face. He gulped air frantical y. "Pa," he managed to say, "I need to be alone."

Derek's hand moved to his neck and tightened. "Did you love her?"

The warm pressure of his father's hand and the intimate question were his undoing. He convulsed over the railing and gasped on a huge sob. "Ah, shit," he moaned.

"I'm sorry, son," Derek said, pul ing him to him, until Rathe's hanging head touched his shoulder. Realizing their intimacy, Rathe started to tense and withdraw, but his father tightened his hold. "Dammit," he said, "I'm your father and I love you. Cry if you have to."

Rathe cried.

Chapter 28.

Spring, 1876 Grace gazed out the window at the east Texas countryside, startled at the lushness of the pastures, the richness of the newly planted cotton fields, the thickness of the oaks and cypresses. She felt uncomfortable. She had been uncomfortable from the moment the train had entered Mississippi. And it had nothing to do with the weather, for it was a pleasant spring. It had to do with him. She had not forgotten him in the past eight months, but being in New York and knowing he was down South had made it a little easier. Now, al she could wonder was if he was stil in the South, and if so, where...not that it mattered.

Fortunately, their lecture circuit had not included Natchez. Grace knew she could not have borne the memories had she even set foot in the town.

She had wondered if he was stil there-but of course he wasn't. And even if he was, by now there would be another woman, another mistress. It hurt too much to bear thinking about, even after al this time.

The National Association for Woman's Suffrage was planning to lobby in Philadelphia in July during the Centennial celebrations. This circuit was a wel -organized and massive effort to recruit new members in the hopes that they would make the journey to Philadelphia to show their support. Susan B.

Anthony and Matilda Joslyn Gage, while not on the official Centennial program, had grand plans of delivering a Declaration of the Rights for Women to Vice President Ferry. They intended to read a portion of it aloud from the platform before anyone could stop them. Other members of the National would be handing out pamphlets and copies of the Declaration to the crowd. But Grace could barely get aroused by the prospect. Excitement had long since drained from her life. It had fled the night she had left Rathe in Natchez.

Last November the Democrats had swept the Mississippi elections, ousting the Republicans once and for al from state and municipal office. She had read about it in the papers and felt sad at the thought. She wondered how many voters had been kept away from the pol s through intimidation-if not sheer force.

But she had also read about events in Natchez. She'd fol owed Ford's fal with glee and had learned that the church had been rebuilt by Rathe after she had left.

Despite the fact that she had run out on him, he had stayed long enough to finish what he had started. She was so proud of him-but it was a bittersweet and heart-wrenching feeling. In a way, she wished he had just left Natchez in a fit of hurt anger. Instead, he had proven himself a hero. He had rebuilt the school, and it almost felt like he had reached out, through space and time, to touch her with his deed and his heart.

And there was more. Her mother was miraculously stil alive, and at Frazier Hospital. She was stubbornly clinging to life, and the doctors had given her another few years. Grace was thril ed to see the deterioration had stopped, even if it was temporary. She had intended to stay in New York, to be with Dianna, except that her mother had adamantly pushed her to go on this circuit. "This is your life, Grace," she had said. "Or did you leave him for nothing?"

Grace had told her mother about Rathe. There had been no way she could hide her broken heart from her. But it was no surprise to Dianna. It had been obvious that there was a benefactor, because of the cost of Frazier Hospital.

And that was just it. Every month Rathe paid Dianna's exorbitant bil s. Grace didn't understand how he could find it in his heart to do so after the cold way she had left him. It was magnificent. It tore at her. It was a deed that, like the rebuilding of the schoolhouse, stood blatantly for her to see; and she felt as if he was stil in her life, so close, that if she just tried to reach out, he would be there, waiting.

But she didn't want him to be there. What she real y wanted was for him to leave her alone, so she could become healed and whole again. Instead, he was a shadowy, insistent presence in her life.

She pressed her forehead to the window, forcing herself to think about their Texas itinerary: Houston, San Antonio, Fredericksburg, Austin, and San Marcos. It was grueling, this tour, but she welcomed it.

"Don't tel me you're not coming?" Derek asked incredulously.

Rathe shrugged. "I'm not in the mood for a fair, Pa."

"We're going to spend the night in town. Fredericksburg's got its share of wine, women, and song. Come on, son. I've never seen you work so long and so hard. I don't know how you're going to deal a deck of cards with al those new cal ouses you're sporting."

Rathe had to grin. He knew his father respected his sudden interest in ranching, his self-imposed isolation, his austerity and celibacy, but he also knew his father felt that after eight months, it was time for Rathe to return to the living. Derek had even confessed that while he'd always wanted him working the ranch at his side, he'd never dreamed it would be under these circumstances. Rathe had told them a little bit about Grace, just enough for his father to understand his behavior. Now, subtly, Derek was encouraging him to revert back to his old ways, even if that meant moving on.

"I'd rather see you roaming Europe," he'd said softly, one cold winter day over coffee laced with brandy, "instead of here in some kind of self- imposed exile."

Rathe hadn't responded.

Wel , maybe Derek was right, maybe it was time to return to the living. Maybe he needed a good card game, a good drunk, and a woman-any woman. But even as he tried to convince himself of this, he felt no anticipation, and knew he would only be going through the motions. He tried not to think her name.

"Yeah, al right, let me pack a few things."

Derek grinned. "Your mother's already done that."

Miranda appeared, petite and dainty in a stunning pink traveling outfit. Derek's eyes brightened at the sight of her. "Have I seen that before?"

She smiled and turned slowly for him. "No, you haven't. Do you approve?"

He grinned and pul ed his wife into a sensual embrace. "When do I ever not approve?"

Even as a child, Rathe, witnessing the blatant and hungry love between his parents, had sometimes felt like an intruder. But now, having experienced love himself, it stirred up too much agony to watch them, so he turned away to get his horse. But he was thinking of Grace. Her ghost wouldn't leave him alone.

They reached Fredericksburg as the sun was going down. After dining with his parents, aware of, but ignoring the flirtatious smiles from a dozen genteel young ladies, he settled into a saloon and downed five bourbons, half-heartedly attempting to enjoy a poker game. Hours later and several hundred dol ars in the hole, he al owed himself to be led upstairs by a buxom whore with red highlights in her hair. He kissed her, the first woman he had kissed since Grace, and fondled her breasts academical y. He was not aroused, and worse, the sight of her overly lush, even flabby body when she shed her clothes made him tender his excuses as fast as he could. He didn't want a whore. Ful breasts and reddish hair did not make her Grace, not even a good substitute. He didn't want a substitute! Dammit, he wanted her, he was pining for her, he stil loved her-and she was dead.

The next morning he was suffering from an acute headache when he joined his parents for a late breakfast. "Have a good time last night?" Derek asked, grinning.

Miranda jabbed her husband with her elbow in a very unladylike manner. "Don't encourage him to be a wastrel," she warned.

"It's good for him," Derek argued.

Rathe groaned. "I think I'm going back to bed."

"No, you're not," his parents said together. Derek let Miranda continue. "You're coming with us."

"Mother..."

"What do you intend to do? Drink yourself sober in a saloon al afternoon? Look at what a beautiful day it is!"

Rathe gave in. He was too tired to argue.

He trailed after his parents amidst racing children and mil ing adults. Booths sported the best of the county livestock and the best local homemade confections. A traveling salesman had set up his red wagon, showing off al his wares. Vendors hawked cotton candy. A gypsy fortune tel er tried to lure him into her tent with a seductive smile, but he politely refused. A display of bright quilts, bal oons, and puppy dogs completed the festivities. A young woman handed al three of them a flyer. The instant he saw the headline, Support Women's Right to Vote, his gut cramped and he felt sick. Would it never end? he thought angrily, crumpling the offensive paper. Would he always be tormented by memories of a dead woman?

"They have a speaker," cried Miranda. "And she's on now! It's Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Oh, I want to hear this!"

"Believe me, Mother," Rathe said, "you'l be bored."

Miranda turned on him. "Am I or am I not as intel igent as your father?" she demanded.

Rathe sensed trouble, met Derek's gaze, and saw that his father was trying not to laugh. "Of course you are." He meant it.

"Do you find me an inferior human being to your father?"

"Of course not."

"I think I've made my point," Miranda said.

"I think I've got a radical on my hands." Derek laughed, the two men trailing after the petite Miranda, marching ahead.

Rathe was afraid, but compel ed. He knew he shouldn't go and listen to this speaker, it would only open al his wounds. But he couldn't stop his body's forward motion. Miranda, being short, worked her way to the front of the crowd, and her husband and son fol owed her. Rathe looked at the plain, quietly dressed woman standing on the platform, but didn't hear her words. There were a dozen chairs spread in a row behind her, where other speakers were seated. When his vision first caught the familiar pale profile and the glint of severely pul ed-back red hair, he knew it was a mistake and it hurt so badly he couldn't breathe. It could not be Grace.

But then she turned her head toward him.

At that instant, his senses came painful y alive. It was Grace!

She paled, her violet eyes going wide with shock.

It was Grace! Grace-alive!