"This is fine." More than fine, he thought, but he didn't say the words. He was conscious of his dusty boots, of his clothes that looked as if he'd slept in them, of his dark, damp hair that was just beginning to dry at the back of his neck.

"You can hang your duster on that hook by the back door," she told him when she saw him hesitate. Mary glanced at his empty hands.

"You don't have a hat?" Ryder shook his head. Most often he wore a bandana tied around his forehead and hair. He had one in the pocket of his duster, but he hadn't worn it since leaving Fort Apache two weeks ago. He touched the back of his neck again. It was when he had cut his hair. He was aware suddenly that Mary was looking at him expectantly, and Ryder realized he'd still made no move to take off his coat. He did so now, hanging up not only the coat but his gunbelt as well. Although his hostess made no comment, he could sense her relief.

The black iron stove was a monstrous contraption that generally needed more coaxing than a contentious child. On this occasion it fired up easily, and Mary set the skillet, adding a dollop of butter upon it to heat. She quickly put the pancake ingredients in a bowl and placed it in front of Ryder along with a wooden whisk.

"You mix this while I clean the berries." Welcoming something to do, Ryder didn't object. Butter was popping on the skillet by the time he had the batter smooth and without direction from Mary he left the table and began pouring the first cakes. At the sink Mary paused and glanced over her shoulder to where Ryder was working. He was intent on his task and didn't appear to sense her interest. There was nothing tentative about his work. His movements were crisp and efficient as he measured out the batter and, later, when he flipped the saucer-sized cakes. She turned back to her own work, finished rinsing the berries, and sugared them lightly to bring out their own juice.

"Do you want coffee?" she asked, realizing she was remiss in not thinking of it earlier.

"Are you having it?"

"No.

I'm drinking milk."

"Milk will be fine." Better than fine, he thought, trying to recall when he'd last had a glass of cold, sweet milk. It wasn't as long ago as the last time he'd been swimming, it only seemed that way. He expertly flipped another cake and placed it on a warming plate.

"Do you want me to get it?" he asked before he poured more batter.

"I saw the cooler on the back porch." Mary accepted his offer, reasoning he wouldn't have made it if he minded. It gave her the opportunity to set the table. In a matter of minutes they were sitting at a tight angle to one another, unfolding their napkins. Ryder started to pick up his fork when he saw Mary bow her head. His lean fingers released the fork and his hand slid onto his lap. He lowered his head, but didn't close his eyes, watching Mary instead as she said the blessing quietly. When she was finished she smiled encouragingly in his direction.

"Please help yourself." For a moment he couldn't think what she meant.

He was staring at her mouth, at the smile that had some extraordinary power to tilt him off center. He blinked. His world was righted as her smile slowly faded under his penetrating stare. He looked away abruptly, picked up his fork, and stabbed at the pile of pancakes. Out of the corner of her eye Mary watched Ryder stack his cakes, spread them with butter, and add the sweetened raspberries. She appreciated his appetite and wondered when he'd last eaten, though good manners dictated she couldn't ask.

"How do you know Walker?" she said, lifting two pancakes to her own plate.

"We met at West Point."

He saw her startled pause. The reaction didn't surprise him.

"I.

was two years older than Walker, but we began at the same time. He finished. I didn't." She resumed preparing her pancakes.

"But then that's probably more in line with what you'd expect of me."

Mary's red-gold brows arched.

"I don't believe I've formed any expectations regarding you, Mr. McKay.

We've only just met." He said nothing and applied himself to his meal. She was silent for a few minutes, then asked, "How is it that you came to go to West Point?" Ryder looked at her frankly.

"How is it that you came to go to the convent?" Mary's head jerked a fraction in response to his candor. He couldn't have let her know any more clearly that she was intruding upon his privacy.

"Look, ma'am," he said.

"If the price of breakfast is having to answer your list of questions, I think I'll pass." Waiting for her reply, Ryder leaned back in his chair and pushed away his half-eaten plate of food. Mary found herself apologizing for the second time that morning.

"You're right," she said softly.

"I was being unconscionably rude.

There are no strings to breakfast." She pushed his plate toward him again, even as she felt her own appetite fading.

"Eat your fill. I won't bother you again." She noticed he did not require a second invitation. He tucked into his food with relish while she mostly pushed hers around her plate.

"This is a big house for just you"' he said, looking around the kitchen again.

"Are you here alone?"

"Right now I am. Jay Mac and Mama were up here for most of June and they'll return again next month. They hire some help in Baileyboro to maintain the house. I didn't want anyone here, so I sent them away."

Her sigh was a trifle wistful.

"But you're right, it's a big house to ramble in alone. Every room has memories, this one perhaps more than any other. Sometimes I can almost believe I hear the Marys laughing and bickering and chattering." She smiled gently now, thinking about squabbles at the kitchen table over who would clean the berries and who would make the pie crust, who would set the table and who would pour the milk.

"There were too many of us and not always enough jobs."

"The Marys," he said thoughtfully, interested.

"Is that what you call yourselves?" Her smile deepened to a grin.

"No. My father called us that. He came up with it after we started calling him Jay Mac. He mostly used it when he was thinking of some collective punishment."

"Collective punishment?"

"You know, when one of us had done something wrong and wouldn't admit to it. Jay Mac would line us up, oldest to youngest, and pace the floor in front of us, speaking to our mother as if we weren't in the room at all."

Mary's voice deepened, her brow furrowed, and she tucked her chin lower and looked up, as if she were looking over the rim of invisible spectacles. Ryder watched, fascinated by this imitation of John MacKenzie Worth. The man was a leader of industry, the owner of one of the most powerful and successful rail lines in the nation, a personal friend of presidents and generals. He was not a man to be taken lightly or to be made light of. Yet his daughter showed no compunction about sharing this intimate glimpse into their family life. ""Moira,"

he'd say, 'the Marys have perpetrated a most heinous crime. I count two of my cigars missing from the humidor on my desk. Not one Mary will admit to it, so all the Marys must bear the responsibility."

"The impression she gave of Jay Mac was quite credible, but then all her sisters agreed she'd had more years to practice it. Mary straightened and resumed her own sweetly melodious voice.

"He'd go on for a few minutes, hoping to wear us down, I think, but he never did. Being one of the Marys made us stronger. Against a force like Jay Mac, it was necessary to band together." Half her mouth curved in a quick smile that also lighted her eyes.

"Poor Papa, he's smart about so many things, but he's never quite learned how to divide and conquer his five Marys." If only a third of what Walker had written him about the family was true, Ryder imagined that five young Marys were a force to be reckoned with.

"Why were you all named Mary?"

"Mother's idea." She took a sip of milk.

"Tradition, I suppose.

She's Irish, you know. And Catholic, of course. But Jay Mac's a thorough Presbyterian, and then there's the problem of us all being bastards because Jay Mac didn't marry my mother until a few years ago."

She glanced at him, wondering what Walker had revealed to him.

"Did you follow that?" He nodded, but he was paying more attention to the fact that she had a milk mustache on her upper lip. Her youthful smile, the odd cropping of her red-gold hair, and now the milk outlining the shape of her upper lip made her seem as young as a schoolgirl. As innocent as one, too. He needed to remind himself of that. He cleared his throat and touched his own lip. She understood immediately.

"Oh," she said a bit self-consciously. She dabbed at her mouth with her linen napkin, then looked to him.