"Because," he said heavily, "you've finally realized I was right all those years ago.

You should never have become a nun. I told you from the first it was a mistake." If she was going to teach children, he thought, then they damn well should be her own. The vision of her father blurred as tears welled in Mary's eyes.

"You still don't understand," she said quietly, sadly.

"I thought perhaps that by now you-"

"What?" he interrupted tersely. He thoroughly disliked the impression that he was somehow being narrow minded or obtuse. He hated it even worse that his daughter was crying.

"What is it you think I don't understand?" Mary used the cuff of her nightgown to swipe at her tears. The strain of remaining calm now took its toll on her voice, which shook slightly as she spoke.

"It was never a mistake, Papa. I don't regret what I've done with my life. The years I've been in God's service haven't been barren and joyless. I became His servant gladly. That's what I don't think you'll ever understand." Mary's eyes were still awash with tears, and her tone became more earnest, more convincing.

"But if I didn't leave now, that would be a mistake. I don't know if Mama will ever understand this." Jay Mac thought about that. For once, he thought about it quietly. Mary's distress was very real to him, and he felt her pain as an ache in his own heart. He valued his daughter's courage in the face of his censure. She had brought his disapproval down on her head when she had joined the sisterhood, now she had to cope with Moira's rejection as she was going to leave it.

Jay Mac firmly believed that he only wanted what was best for his daughter--for any of his daughters. How was it, he reflected, that there could be so much disagreement surrounding what was best? He expelled a long sigh and saw a glimmer of a smile touch Mary's lips.

She knew he was done keeping his thoughts to himself.

"I don't suppose there's a husband in your future," he said. She shook her head slowly.

"Are you answering my question?" he asked, trying to read the bemused res pose

"Or telling me you can't believe I asked it." Mary's smile became more fulsome, and she dried the last of her tears.

"A.

little of both, I suppose. I'm not out of my habit yet and you're thinking husbands."

"It's a reasonable question." She leaned forward and tapped her father on the knee.

"Only you would think so, Jay Mac." Mary picked up her cup again. The tea was cool now but she didn't mind. It soothed the back of her throat where the uncomfortable, aching lump had been.

"Don't bother presenting me with a list of prospective husbands, and don't consider for a moment that I'd let you do any sort of matchmaking."

"Humph," he grunted softly, trying to look offended.

"I don't make matches.

I make deals." Mary nearly choked on her mouthful of tea.

"Oh, God," she said feelingly.

"Truer words have never been spoken."

She pointed a finger at him meaningfully.

"And don't try to negotiate a husband for me. If someone is of a mind to ask me, I'll work out the terms with him."

"Then it's not out of the question?" he asked hopefully. Mary realized she might as well have saved her breath.

"Everything's a possibility, Jay Mac. I just don't imagine I'll be meeting many prospects in a Southwest mission." That reminder sobered Jay Mac.

"You're not still serious about going to Arizona, are you?" She simply stared back at her father, letting him read what was in her eyes.

"Your mother's not going to like this." That made Mary catch her breath.

Sometimes Jay Mac didn't play fair.

"She doesn't like the decision I've made anyway," she said after a moment.

"I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb."

"I don't like it either," he said.

"Rennie's there."

"She's with her husband so she has someone to protect her. Don't forget, a little while ago you were the one wondering about the danger.

Now you're talking about throwing yourself into the midst of it."

"I'm talking about going to teach at a mission," she said patiently.

"Not about laying rails down in the middle of Indian land." Jay Mac's dark green eyes narrowed.

"Was that a criticism?" he demanded. Now Mary was genuinely bewildered.

"What do you mean?"

"If we lay down tracks it will be beeause Northeast owns the prperty.

It's not Apache land."

"Oh, Papa," Mary sighed.

"Do you really want to argue about whose land it is?"

"No," he said after a moment. He repeated it again, more heavily this time, and came to his feet.

"We're done arguing. My mind's made up. You're not going to Arizona, at least not alone." Before Mary could recover her wits to ask what he meant by that, her father was gone. Fort Union, Arizona Territory Like most forts built after 1876, Fort Union was not enclosed by a fence along its perimeter. It was the prevailing thinking of the times that a fort was better guarded by alert soldiers than by a barrier that gave a false sense of security and encouraged sloth instead of vigilance.

Fort Union consisted of nine separate adobe buildings all a stone's throw from one another. There were quarters for the officers and their wives, quarters for the bachelor officers, three garrisons for the soldiers, a mess hall, offices for the staff, an infirmary, and a stockade for prisoners. Ryder McKay sat on the dirt floor of his cell, his back against the wall, his knees bent, and idly manipulated a silver dollar between his fingers, passing it back and forth across his hand with such easy dexterity that it seemed to have the quickness of a bead of mercury. Second Lieutenant Davis Rivers had had Ryder placed in the stockade immediately upon returning to the fort. Except for his brief interrogation by General Gardner in the general's office, Ryder hadn't been outside the eight-by-eight room in thirty-six hours. Except for his brief responses to the general's questions, Ryder hadn't spoken in all that time. In the beginning he believed his confinement would end after the general heard him out. It wasn't until he listened to the tone and tenor of the questions put to him, that Ryder realized he wasn't going to get an objective hearing. The evidence against him was already overwhelming. Outside the stockade the moon was rising. Ryder raised his eyes to catch the light and saw the moon's face was bisected by the black iron bars that divided his window. A moment's fantasy had him believing the moon was the prisoner behind the bars and he was the one who was free. It lasted only until the moon continued its upward path and slipped out of his line of vision. Ryder went back to studying the silver dollar in his hand, threading the coin from one finger to the next as if his life depended upon doing just this task.

The commotion in the office area of the stockade made no impression on Ryder. He didn't hear the argument or the outcome or have any idea it was all about him. When the door to the cell area opened he wasn't anticipating company.

"Get me a chair," Florence Gardner snapped at the hapless guard.

"If you won't let me in his cell, then the least you can do is provide a chair here in the corridor." In spite of Florence's tone the guard still hesitated.

"Are you certain the general said it was all right?" he asked.

"I have orders--" Florence drew herself up to her full height of exactly five feet and brought the tip of her cane down hard on the guard's instep to emphasize her point.

"Don't talk to me about your orders," she warned him.