"What was his subject?"

"Mathematics." Once again she was disconcerted by his ability to surprise her.

"This was a subject you liked?"

"Very much so."

"I see," she said, wondering what to make of him. He almost smiled then.

"No," he said.

"You don't see at all." Mary noted that he didn't seem bothered by the fact, which meant that he didn't care for her opinion one way or the other. She supposed that was as it should be. They were virtual strangers in spite of a common acquaintance and a perfunctory exchange of names. Mary finished up the last of the dishes while Ryder stood by.

"When do you have to return to the Fort?" she asked.

"I'm not going back to Fort Apache. I have a new assignment."

"Here in the East?"

"No." Was that disappointment he glimpsed? Relief?

"In the Southwest Territory."

"You're regular Army?" In Ryder's opinion there was nothing regular about the Army.

"More or less." he said.

"I scout for them." Mary Francis Dennehy's laughter was not for the faint-hearted. It exploded from her like a burst of Gatling gunfire.

It was loud and raucous, yet wonderfully lively and infectious. The features that could be solemn and serene under the most trying circumstances became animated and mobile. Her eyes crinkled, her nose wrinkled, her generous mouth split widely, and she flushed from the hollow of her throat to her scalp. Her family appreciated it. Little Sisters of the Poor made allowances for it. Mother Superior suffered it.

And Bishop Colden prayed it would never happen during his mass.

Ryder McKay took a step backward and stared mutely.

"Oh," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Oh, I'm sorry. No, I'm not.

Not really. Oh." Mary felt another burst of laughter rising in her, and she fought to stifle it. Brushing at the tears that had gathered at the corners of her luminous eyes, she held her breath as if she had hiccups.

"But it's so funny, don't you think?

You.. an Army scout... lost on your way to.. to..."

"To Walker's," he finished without any hint of humor.

"It was amusing when I realized it. It's humiliating when you do."

That cut her laughter short.

"Oh, I didn't mean .. ." Her voice trailed off when she saw his eyes were not so sober as they had been a moment earlier. He was teasing her, she realized. She dabbed at her eyes again.

"I wouldn't mention this to anyone," she said.

"I think I said that earlier," he reminded her.

"So you did." She picked up a dishtowel but he took it out of her hands and dried things himself. She leaned against the sink and watched him and wondered why he was here now, why he had lost his way, and what it meant.

"There's a sign at the fork in the road," she told him.

"Walker's place is clearly marked."

"There was no sign," Ryder said. Yes, she thought, there was a sign, but it was one meant for her, not for Ryder McKay. It was after midnight when Mary left the summerhouse and retraced her steps back to the pool. The night was cloudless. Starshine and a first quarter moon lighted her path.

Mary hadn't even considered carrying a lantern. She had found her way unerringly to the pool on much darker nights. This evening presented no problem. Wearing only her white cotton shift, she was like a wraith as she crossed the field of wildflowers. She padded silently where the grasses had been beaten down. The earth was cool on her bare feet as she wended her way over the hillside, and in the forest the bed of fallen pine needles was soft. At the edge of the clearing she paused as she had on so many occasions, as she had earlier this morning. This place was a sanctuary to her, a place of peace and worship, and she gave thanks for it now.

Stepping forward to the natural stone stairway, Mary pushed the wide straps of her shift to each side of her shoulders and let the fabric glide against her skin like a caress. She stepped out of the puddle of material and unhesitatingly launched herself into the pool. From his perch on the far side of the water hole Ryder McKay watched the graceful, supple arc of Mary's body as it slid almost soundlessly into the inky depths. He should leave, he told himself, because she valued this place for its solitude. For the second time he was the trespasser, and for the second time he had failed to make his presence known. The thought came to him again that he should leave, but Mary surfaced then and raised her arms, stretching, and moonlight limned the slender length of them and Ryder stopped thinking about what he should do and considered instead what he would do. Mary turned on her back and floated with little effort, kicking her feet just enough to keep her on the surface. The water was warmer than the air, and her skin prickled and her nipples hardened. She ducked backward into the water, warming herself all over until she completed a circle and surfaced again. She could see her own breath like mist in the air .. or cigar smoke. She smiled. Now why had she told Ryder McKay that story? Or any of the others during the afternoon and into the evening? He had wanted to be on his way after breakfast since there was no chance of seeing Walker, but she'd pressed him into helping her with a few of the heavier chores around the house. He hadn't seemed to mind, she reflected, and he was the one who offered to finish painting the porch rails after lunch. Neither of them mentioned dinner, but it seemed natural somehow that he should stay, and then they sat on the swing at the front of the house and time slipped away. She was the one who realized he was missing his opportunity to get out of Baileyboro, yet she hadn't said anything about the train schedule. It seemed only right that she offer him one of the summer home's five bedrooms for the night. She hadn't thought about not being able to sleep while he was in the house, while his bedroom was across the hall from hers. She was tired when she bid him good night; she hadn't expected to toss and turn and wonder if Ryder was finding his own bed comfortable. After thirty minutes she had risen and gone to the window seat. She had tried to read, but the star shine on the field outside her window was more intriguing. The path to the pool unwound through the field like a dark grosgrain ribbon. Even though she sat at the window for another half hour she knew where she'd find a measure of tranquillity. Only it wasn't the same now; and she knew better than to blame Ryder McKay. His intrusion wasn't the problem. That rested within her. There could be no measure of peace anywhere if she didn't find it first in her heart.

It came without warning, the ineffable sadness that was so much a part of her life of late.

The weight of it lay heavily on her chest, crushing it. Each breath was labored. The movement of her arms became listless and leaden. Mary was too experienced with the sensation now to fight it. She gave in and allowed herself to slip beneath the surface where her tears could mingle with the water. Ryder raised himself up slightly, anxious now for Mary to resurface. He counted the seconds and wondered how long she could possibly hold her breath.

He was on the point of diving for her when she came up and headed for the bank. in the stillness of the night he could clearly hear her pained gasps for air, and it was only by slow degrees that he realized the rhythm was wrong, that what he was hearing were really Mary's anguished sobs. He came to his feet, intent on leaving now.

Whatever was pulling at Mary's heart was between her and her God, he thought. It wasn't about him. He had no place in it. Still, he found himself walking the perimeter of the water hole and coming to stand beside her prostrated body. He scooped up her shift and crouched beside her.

"Put this on," he said softly. And when she couldn't quite manage it herself, he helped her. After that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms.

Chapter Two September 1884, New York City Mary went home to write the letters. The convent in Queens was not the place where she could put her thoughts to paper this time. Although it had been her home since she was seventeen, for just a month more than thirteen years, Sister Mary Francis needed to go to the place of her youth. The mansion on the corner of Fiftieth and Broadway was a palatial affair. John MacKenzie Worth had had it built when he'd recognized the populace of Manhattan was moving north. Central Park was mostly farmland when they first moved in. In the beginning their house sat alone on a street that, though it later became a thoroughfare in the heart of the city, was then a muddy tract in the hinterlands. The gray stone home was large and solid, built to accommodate Jay Mac's mistress and his five bastard Marys. There was a lot of gossip among society's upper crust when Jay Mac's plan was first revealed and still more during the residence's construction. After all, matrons tittered, Jay Mac and his wife lived not far from the planned site. How could he do this to Nina? How would that woman hold her head up? Only Nina's death finally silenced the gossips on that subject. On another front, one closer to his heart, Jay Mac heard from Moira that she really didn't want to leave the flat where she had been living with her daughters.

True, they were cramped, and Mary was old enough to deserve her own room, but it was hardly a squalid setting.

John MacKenzie Worth had not become one of a dozen of the most powerful and influential men in the nation by listening to what everyone else said. The construction went ahead. Now, as Mary Dennehy came to stand in front of the spiked iron fence that bordered the property, she appreciated her father's decision as she had never done before. She pushed at the gate and it swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. Mr.

Cavanaugh's work, Mary thought.

Their groundskeeper worked hard to present the house in its best light.

The shrubs were carefully manicured, the rosebushes pruned lovingly.

Now that it was fall, marigolds and hardy mums followed the perimeter of the house and touched it with a deep, rich rainbow of autumn's finest colors. Mary let the gate swing closed behind her and paused briefly before starting up the walk. She drew a calming breath to order her mind because she recognized that the serene and stoic presentation of the house was not what one necessarily encountered inside. A maid she didn't recognize greeted her at the door and took her shawl.

"Where's Mrs.

Cavanaugh?" Mary asked. The groundskeeper had a perfect counterpart in his wife, who oversaw all of the inside work. Mrs.

Cavanaugh had been with Moira Dennehy and her children since they'd moved from the flat to the palace.

"M'name's Peggy Bryant, Sister," she said, making a little curtsy.

"Mrs. Cavanaugh's having a row with the butcher this morning.

Something about being charged twice for lamb chops that weren't worth their price once."

Mary smiled. It had been disconcerting not to see a familiar, loved face immediately, but Peggy's story was pure Mrs. Cavanaugh.