"And spring?"

"Little eagles is March and April; many leaves is May and June."

"How do you say those names in the Apache tongue?" she asked. Ryder told her. Mary listened to the unfamiliar language, trying to catch its cadence and intonation.

"What do they call summer?"

"Large leaves." He gave her the Apache word and smiled at her attempt to repeat it.

"Early fall is the season of large fruit. The Apache reckon a month as a moon and a year as one harvest. There are thirteen moons to one harvest and six seasons."

"How is it that you know so much, know the language, yet aren't one of them?" Ryder's long fingers raked his dark hair. He looked over the top of Mary's head at the vastness of the land beyond the cavern's mouth.

"I never said I wasn't one of them," he said finally.

Mary turned, frowning.

"But you said-"

"I said I wasn't Apache, not by blood or birth." His pale gray eyes watched her carefully, gauging her reaction.

"I'm Chiricahua," he said, "by choice."

The subject had been closed and remained so. Dozens of questions had come to Mary's mind and all of them were unasked. Ryder had placed the blindfold around her eyes and led her back to the chamber, his manner less solicitous than it had been on the outgoing journey, his tone more brusque. Mary did not know what she had done to elicit this response, yet it was clear to her that Ryder thought she had done something. She wondered about it throughout the day, but any overture she made was summarily rebuffed. Mary couldn't know that it was merely her acceptance of Ryder's disclosure that had brought about the change.

Confusion warred with the mask of calm indifference he usually wore like a mantle. He had expected distaste, even shock. It wasn't an unfamiliar response to his words, and he knew how to deal with it.

If she had been fascinated as someone of Anna Leigh Hamilton's ilk might have been, he'd have known how to brush her aside. Mary wasn't even accusing. His admission could have prompted her to rethink her position on the Colter Canyon raid, could have swayed her opinion of his guilt or innocence. Instead she hadn't judged him. Her clear, intelligent eyes were curious, not condemning; and her lovely face held the placid purity of an angel's. In spite of her habit, Mary Francis Dennehy was a very dangerous woman. That night when Ryder lay down beside her he didn't put his arm around her. Mary missed it immediately, missed the weight and security, the way he bound her to him with the proprietary embrace. She told herself she shouldn't be so aware of him, that she shouldn't listen for the sounds of his even breathing or the hushed words that sometimes escaped his lips as he slept. She shouldn't care if he slept or not, shouldn't concern herself with his thoughts or his displeasure, shouldn't wonder if he didn't trust himself to touch her or if he just didn't want to. Mary turned on her side to face him. His eyes were closed and his cheek rested on an outstretched arm. The lantern had been turned back so that only a thin layer of light marked his profile. His lashes and brows were every bit as dark as his hair which was pulled back in a leather thong. His features were strong, almost predatory, and the illusion of sleep softened them only by the narrowest margin. Months in the stockade and almost two weeks in the cavern had leached color from his skin.

Even so, he was still darker than she, and when he was able to bathe in sunshine again he would be as bronze as he had been on the occasion of their first meeting.

"I know you're not sleeping," she said. When he didn't open his eyes she went on.

"I've been lying beside you these past thirteen nights. I think I know when you're sleeping." His pale gray eyes opened, their expression steady yet watchful.

"I'd think you'd know when I want to sleep."

"I do," she said.

"And right now you only want to ignore me.

Some people might take the hint." Ryder's sigh was telling.

"Obviously you're not one of them," he said dryly.

"Obviously not." She hesitated. Now that she had his attention she wasn't certain what she wanted to do with it.

"I don't know why you're angry with me," she said at last.

"I don't know what I've done."

"I'm not angry with you." Mary studied his face, the enigmatic gray eyes, the impenetrable calm he wore like armor. She had penetrated it at least once, she thought, no matter that he had drawn it on again.

"But you're angry," she said, then reconsidered.

"At least you were."

"So it had to be about you." He made her sound very self-centered, and that didn't set well with Mary.

"Doesn't it?"

she asked. Ryder raised himself on one elbow.

"There are two of us here. It could be about me. Don't you ever get angry with yourself?"

"Well, yes, but-" He leaned forward, placed a finger on her lips and stopped her objection.

"Enough. Go to sleep."

Mary waited for him to remove his finger.

"I can't."

"Can't. Or won't?"

"I say what I mean," she said tartly.

"I can't and neither can you." She didn't tell him why. Mary simply turned over, her back to him again, and reached behind her for his arm.

She brought it across her waist then adjusted her position in a way that had become familiar to her over the last thirteen days.

"Mary." He said her name like a warning.

"It's all right," she said.

"We both can sleep now." Fifteen minutes later, when Mary was breathing quietly and evenly, Ryder realized she was half right.

"What do you mean you're not going to wear it?" Ryder asked. He was holding her habit out to her, but she continued to let it dangle at the end of his hand.

"Just what I said." Mary's voice was flat, stubborn.

"There's nothing wrong with your hearing."

"Well, you can't go around all day in that blanket." By his count she had adjusted it four times across her breasts, and it was in danger of slipping again. They had been awake less than an hour. One misstep on the trailing hem and she was likely to lose the entire thing.

"Why can't I?" she demanded.

"You think it's good enough for me to sleep in."

"It's supposed to deter you from sneaking out while I'm sleeping."