"To say good-bye. I won't be coming again. No one but officers and clergy will be permitted to see you. Harry warned me about the order.

He won't make an exception this time. He says even Senator Stillwell won't get back here." Ryder's slight smile was cool.

"The general's anticipating an escape attempt." Florence nodded.

"He was brooding about it tonight at supper. I think he's fearful that the Chiricahua will try to rescue you."

It was interesting, Ryder thought, that the Army had so little understanding of its enemy and made so little attempt to come by any.

"There's not going to be any rescue," he said.

"The Chiricahua aren't going to attack the fort. They don't have the numbers to do it, and they don't have the weapons."

"You forget that almost everyone here believes the Apache were able to buy weapons after the Colter Canyon massacre." Ryder didn't argue.

Instead he said, "The Chiricahua won't mount a rescue. It's not their way. Even if I were highly regarded by them--which I'm not--they would only seek retribution."

"So the fighting will come later," she said heavily.

"After you--" He finished the sentence she couldn't.

"After I'm hanged." Florence gripped her cane more tightly. Unable to look at him, she stared at her hand, at the knuckles that were thickened by a touch of rheumatism, at the thin parchmentlike skin that made her veins so visible. She should be contemplating her own death, she thought. Instead she was contemplating his.

"I could help you escape," she said.

Ryder came lightly to his feet and approached the bars.

"Listen to me, Florence." He waited until she raised her face, hardening his heart against her tears. She had made the offer before, and he had turned it down on every occasion. She didn't fully comprehend the wreck she would make of her son's military reputation and career.

While Florence blamed her son for not looking beyond the evidence, Ryder did not. Presented with the testimony of the survivors of Colter Canyon, General Gardner was acting in the only way he could.

"Don't think about it again, and don't act on it if you do."

"But-" He reached through the bars and laid a hand over hers.

"No." Florence acquiesced with little grace.

"Very well," she said sourly.

"But I can tell you when it's my time I'm not going without a fight."

Ryder went to the far side of his cell and stood beside the small window. The evening air was cool, and he appreciated the fragrance of the desert washing over his face.

"Is that what you think, Florence? That I'm going without a fight?"

"Aren't you?"

"I told them I was innocent. No one believed me." He corrected himself.

"No one save you."

"That's not true. Your uncle lent his support, and General Halstead came down from Flagstaff to speak in your favor." Ryder was silent for several moments. He looked past the bars of his cell to the garrison.

Just at the periphery of his vision he could see the officers'

quarters.

"You should be going," he said.

"Before the general realizes you're not reading in your room." She waved aside his concern.

"I told him I was visiting the Sullivans. Mrs.

Sullivan's sister and mother arrived this afternoon, and I made their acquaintance at dinner. Mrs. Worth was quite pleasant, though I don't know what to make of the other one. Most times she looked a thousand miles away. Hardly said a word." Ryder was barely listening. Even before his incarceration he hadn't been particularly curious about the people who came and went from the fort. Now his interest in them was even less. He couldn't recall who Florence had told him the Sullivans were or what business they had at Fort Union.

"Is that so?" Florence sniffed.

"You're putting me in mind of her this very minute," she said sharply, tapping her cane for attention.

"You could at least pretend some regard for my conversation. Miss Dennehy perked right up when your name was mentioned, so I think you could--" Florence broke off mid sentence, not because Ryder interrupted but because she realized that she finally did have his full attention.

His entire posture was alert now, his frostlike eyes narrowed. She had the vaguely unsettling notion that he intended to pounce on her and the fleeting thought that she was actually glad for the bars that separated them.

"Why ever are you looking at me that way?" His expression didn't change.

"Did you say Dennehy?"

"Well, yes," she said slowly, in some confusion.

"She said I could call her Mary, but I thought in conversation it was only polite to--" "Mary Dennehy?" he asked.

"Mary Francis Dennehy?"

"I believe so."

"Sister Mary Francis?" Florence wasn't certain what he was asking, but she said, "Yes. Rennie's sister." He said the name almost under his breath.

"Rennie." Then, "Why didn't you tell me Mrs. Sullivan was Rennie?"

Exasperated, Florence threw up her hands. Her cane clattered against the bars as it fell.

"I told you she was here with her husband. I went on and on about her darling little girls. I said they were connected to the railroad."

She wagged an accusing finger.

"And you never showed the slightest recognition." That's because he hadn't known the most important thing. It didn't matter now. He walked swiftly to the bars, reached through, and pulled Florence to her feet. She was close enough that he could have kissed her forehead. He didn't. It wasn't thankfulness he felt right now, but urgency.

"I want to see her," he said. His grip was tight, but Florence didn't wince.

She was grateful for whatever had stirred him to life.

"Mrs.

Sullivan?"