"In Denver." The water seemed several degrees colder than it had moments before.

"Mary Renee?"

"Laying track for Northeast Rail somewhere in the Rockies." The smile had now reached her forest green eyes.

"Mary Margaret?" It seemed that Walker had written to his friend about the whole family. She cautioned herself that she shouldn't be enjoying this stranger's comeuppance quite so much.

"Recently graduated from the Philadelphia Women's College of Medicine and back home on the Double H in Colorado."

"I see." She gave him credit for masking his discomfort so well. She smoothed her cotton shift over her knees and looked at him expectantly.

"That makes you Mary Francis," he said finally. She couldn't help it that her smile widened.

"That's right."

"The nun."

"The nun," she confirmed. He surprised her again by turning the tables. In spite of the fact that she now commanded the high ground, had solid footing, and was wearing the clothes this time, he was able to stare her down.

"I don't think you have any shame," he said.

Turning in the water, he swam with strong but awkward strokes toward the opposite bank. Mary Francis sat as still as stone.

Several moments passed before she got to her feet. She was reaching for her own clothing when she heard him climb out of the water. Knowing that he wasn't looking in her direction now, she began to dress. The black habit was creased by her earlier carelessness, and she made a halfhearted attempt to smooth it. She adjusted the stiff white collar.

Out of her pocket she pulled her rosary and attached it to her waist.

She did not have her comet or veil and her red-gold hair was in congruently bright against the severity of her habit. She threaded her fingers through it quickly, squeezing out the last of the water droplets. He was fastening his gunbelt when he heard her voice coming to him quietly from across the water hole. He paused, raising his head, and looked at her. She was standing there in her plain black gown, both somber and simple, and he was thinking about a flash of rose-tipped breasts. She was standing there with the serene features of an angel, and he was thinking about kissing that mouth.

She took a step closer to the water, the movement making the habit shift against her legs. Suddenly he was remembering the undulating rhythm of hips and thighs and calves as she parted the water with her body.

"Did you hear me?" she asked. His eyes never leaving hers, he shook his head.

"You're welcome to come to breakfast at the house. If you're hungry, that is." He was. The train from West Point had deposited him in Baileyboro long before any boarding house was serving a meal. He'd chosen to walk the five miles to the Granville mansion rather than cool his heels at the station.

Now, not only was he hungry, it seemed he hadn't walked far enough.

"No, thank you," he said.

"I think I'll go straight to Walker's."

She could have said "Suit yourself." God knew as well as she did that it was what she wanted to say. Mary didn't, however, believing she might as well behave with charity in her heart right now rather than confess a lack of it later.

"Walker and Skye have returned to China," she said.

"They left soon after Maggie's graduation. There's no one at the mansion except the groundskeeper and his wife." She took the path that led into the forest and then to the summer house, leaving it to Walker's friend to follow her or not. He drew abreast of her more quickly than she would have thought possible. His passage was both swift and silent. She made no comment about his decision to join her.

The fingers of her right hand ran absently along the length of her rosary.

"My name's McKay," he said.

"Ryder McKay." Mary acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod.

"I don't recall Walker mentioning you, but then I haven't spent much time with him. It's unfortunate he's not here to greet you."

"I doubt he'll think so," Ryder said.

"He wanted to return to China."

"My sister was excited as well. Skye imagines herself to be some sort of adventuress."

"Then she married the right man." Mary glanced at him sideways.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"I think she did." They walked along in silence, their path shaded by the sweeping boughs of pine and oak and hickory. When it rose more steeply she raised her gown and revealed she was still barefooted. She had no difficulty crossing the uneven ground.

"What led you to the pool?" she asked as they came over the rise. The summer home was a hundred yards across an open field, in front of them.

Blackeyed Susans, columbine, and day lilies dotted the field.

"Why didn't you come to the house if you thought Walker lived there?"

"It was too early. I looked around, but no one was up. It seemed more polite to wait."

"But what led you to the pool?"

"The scent of water."

"The scent?

But-" He shrugged, cutting off her question. It wasn't something he could explain and it wasn't something she could understand. She probably wondered why he hadn't gone directly to the river, but that had a different scent than the place she called the pool and he called a watering hole. Mary didn't pursue her question. The summer home beckoned her, its newly painted, white wooden frame gleaming in the sunshine. The windows winked at her. At the entrance to the enclosed back porch she wiped her feet on the hemp mat, then slipped them into a pair of soft black leather slippers.

She picked up a pail of raspberries she had picked earlier in the morning. Raising it in front of her, she said, "I was already up when you came by, I just wasn't home."

"I stand corrected," he said somewhat stiffly. She hesitated a beat, fighting the urge to look away.

"I'm sorry about what happened at the pool," she said quickly, before the apology stuck in her throat.

"I should have told you at the beginning. I knew it would make a difference."

There was a hint of roughness in his voice and an intensity about his light gray eyes.

"Why didn't you?" Mary didn't respond. She preceded him into the kitchen, knowing it would take a lot of soul-searching to answer that question honestly. The kitchen of the summer house was spacious. A large, solid rectangular pine table dominated the center of the room.

Kettles and skillets and cooking utensils dangled from iron hooks on a wooden frame which was suspended from the ceiling. One of her sisters, she couldn't say now which one, had christened it the pan chandelier and the namie had stuck.

"Will pancakes be all right?" she asked, reaching for one of the cast-iron skillets. He nodded shortly and looked around for something that he might do. Her hospitality confused him. Ryder McKay wasn't used to a welcome mat. An invitation into any home was rare, and the circumstances of this invitation were most unusual.

"Just have a seat," she said, pointing to one of the six chairs gathered around the table.

"Unless you'd rather eat in the dining room? You could wait in the parlor while I cook." He nudged one of the chairs out with the toe of his boot.

"No," he said.