"There's lots of room," Nathan agreed. Emily noticed how flushed the little boy's cheeks were and wondered if she should just be happy for him. Although, it was hard to shout for joy when she felt cheated. She couldn't understand why this stranger, one of Donald's friendsno less, was hired when she was there with plenty of time to give the children lessons, shoe horses, clean the barn, and do it all like she'd planned. She thought there had been an understanding, that she'd be the one, not this... this...

She caught the unwelcome stranger staring at her again, and suddenly the whole scheme became clear to her. For whatever reasons her boss hired this man, she was positive he was also there to keep an eye on his help. Bringing him in had probably already been in the works, and here she had gone and setup a perfect spot to put him.

She took a good look at the three saddling up. At least she knew the description of the private watchdog that would be hiding behind corners and peering through windows. Oh, she was so angry she was half-tempted to give him something good to report to the boss.

Paul finished saddling the ponies then turned to her. "Would you like some help?"

She glanced up for a moment then continued adjusting the reins on her horse. "I'm doing just fine, thank you." He had come on like a bull, and although his voice was now even as he explained to the children how to mount their ponies, she couldn't just forget why he was there.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

Nearly a year had passed since she left the farm. Her hope of finding Samuel Dimsmoore was fading, although the need was still there, the desire too. The idea she had conjured up in her mind, about the special bond they would share if they ever met, never left.

Time didn't ease the guilt she felt whenever she thought of Claude. Nothing could stop that pestering voice telling her to turn herself in. But then she would picture herself alone in jail, no one to believe in her, no one to stand up in court and demand justice for what he'd done to her. Whether or not she ever found Samuel, she knew there would come a time when she would go to the police. Until then, she thought the best thing for her was to keep her mind on the children. As far as she was concerned, they needed her more than she needed to be in jail.

She was almost over the disappointment that Paul had taken over what she considered was her project. He was good to the children, and they enjoyed being with him. For those reasons, she did her best to be cordial to him. What she couldn't get over was the fact that he was in cahoots with Donald. She couldn't help but be annoyed each time she noticed him watching her. It seemed when she was playing basketball with Nathan, Paul would show up to work on the patio or do some touch-up painting or adjusting on one thing or another-things Bruce used to do, only more. She didn't see much of the new driver. If she took a walk, Paul was pulling up weeds or pruning shrubs, something the gardener would normally do. If she accompanied the children for a ride around the corral, there he'd be, lurking somewhere nearby, chewing on a piece of straw, just staring like he couldn't get enough.

She figured Donald must certainly be happy with his spy, probably getting a big kick out of the whole thing. And she didn't miss how Paul checked in with his boss now and then, meeting at his upstairs entrance, alerting him, no doubt, on the sins of his help.

There was plenty of free time for Emily when the children were with their tutor, or in doing homework, and it bothered her she wasn't able to saddle up her horse and come and go as she pleased. Ever since she met George, she'd been waiting for the right opportunity to go see him, and didn't think she should have to sneak over. Then one night the opportunity came in a way that left her no choice.

She was sitting at one of her bedroom windows, looking up at the stars when she heard the cry of an animal. At first, she thought it was a coyote, or a fox, possibly injured. Then, once she got it into her head that it sounded more like a dog, she couldn't let it go.

With a flashlight in hand, she went outside and followed the sound that led her to the area where the neighbor's cows had come through. The new fence was in place, moved a way onto the neighbor's property, partially up the hill. As she poked the flashlight beam around, that's when she saw the youngest Trutman dog caught in a trap. She scrambled over the fence and rushed to him.

"You poor thing," she said as she released his leg from the mean looking trap. "What're you doing out here by yourself?" Her answer came a moment later at the sound of a snapping branch. Spinning around, she came face to face with a long-faced cow wandering about pulling up fresh clumps of grass.

Relieved it wasn't Paul, or Harold, she turned back to the distressed animal, tucked him in her arms, and carried him to the barn where she found some disinfectant to clean the wound. To her relief it was only superficial, and figured it was his hair that had held him to the trap. She went to the house in through the kitchen door, and brought him back something to eat. Then she wrapped the pup in a blanket and placed him on a pile of hay in the back room. She would take him home in the morning before anyone was up.

She left the barn and started up the walk just as Paul came around the corner. He seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him.

"What're you doing out so late, young lady?" he demanded. "Didn't Mr. Schillings' warning about riding after dark sink in?"

"I was visiting the horses," she snapped, walking past him, straight up the walk toward the house.

"I'd be more cautious if I were you!" he called after her.

When she reached the front steps, she stopped and turned back. And even though she could barely make out the lines of his frame through the trees, she could see that he was standing outside his bunkhouse watching her. As infuriated as it made her, she knew it was best to hold her tongue.

Early the next morning, the grass was still glistening with dew, and only a whisper of light filtered through the mist as she made her way to the barn. She saddled her horse, then placed the pup into a sling and anchored it around a shoulder. Then, on foot, she led the horse behind the bunkhouse, following the trees and shrubs that ran along the front lawn.

When she reached the gate at the end of the circular driveway, she turned back to the house draped in the early morning fog. There was a dim glow from her bedroom window and she could only hope she had forgotten to turn off her light.

She mounted Star and followed the narrow road up a few feet. Then she turned south and followed the fence that flanked the hillside and separated the two properties. When she came upon an old gate, she dismounted, reached through the fence and tugged on a latch that was corroded and probably hadn't been used in years. After a few good hits with a rock, and five or six solid yanks, it fell open.

Once on the neighbor's property, she replaced the latch and swung back onto Star. She made her way up the hillside as drops of mist fell from trees and landed on her head and shoulders. When she reached the crest, she came out of the haze into an amazing view where patches of fog hovered below. She stopped to take in the splendor, realizing this was the view Beatrice had been talking about. What a waste of beauty, Emily thought, on her way down the other side of the hill.

A dog began to bark in the distance, and she followed the sound until she reached the spot where the trees ended and a field began. Up ahead a mile or so out was a large red barn and a log cabin. She followed a trail into the yard and dismounted, knocked on the cabin door.

Jeramie, the same young boy she'd seen during the cow invasion, answered the door. "Rusty! You found Rusty," he said, pulling the dog into his arms. "What happened to his leg?"

"Oh, don't worry, it's nothing serious," she assured him.

A woman whom she guessed was Mrs. Trutman stepped out from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on a flour-speckled apron, and then self-consciously poked at a disarray of wire rollers and loose bobby pins she had undoubtedly worn to bed the night before.

"I'm Greta. You must be Emily," she said. "George told me all about you." She leaned over for a peek at the pup, then motioned the two into the kitchen. "Jeramie, take the little guy in where I've got a morning fire going."

She grabbed a pillow from the couch, followed them into the kitchen, and then dropped it on the floor next to the wood stove. The boy settled the pup, and curled up beside him, while Emily sank to the floor nearby.

"What was it you said happened?" Greta asked as she pulled up a chair.

Emily told the story of how she found him. "I think Rusty was scared more than anything," she added as she ended the story.

Greta reached down to stroke the dog. "Poor fella. Schillings knows our animals wander that way now and then, and why not, it's our land. If he'd just left that dang fence alone." She sat back, holding down a hair roller as she secured it with a bobby pin that had fallen onto her lap. "You know, speaking of traps. My father used to trap a while back, and I've got a feeling that Schillings will try to turn everything back on us. But the thing is, the men searched every inch of our land to make sure there were no traps left behind." She groaned, clinching her arms across her chest. Emily could see that George took after his mother. "He'd just better not start on that. That's all I've got to say." She got up, stuffed a couple of logs into the fire, and then took a seat again. "I don't know. I just wish I knew what he was really up to. Know what I mean?"

Emily nodded, feeling guilty again for knowing more than she was saying. But why should I condemn myself before I even know anything for certain, and why get her and George more worked-up than they already are?

"You know what I think, Emily? I think he's trying to wear us down until we move."

"Yeah, George mentioned something about your neighbors moving out."

"That's right, and he must've paid them good 'cause they're not talking. We're not moving. This property's been in the family for years, and he ain't get'n it."

"I don't know if you realized this, but the new fence has already been put up."

"Oh it has, huh. Well, they put down at least one trap in the meantime." Greta groaned and shook her head, turning back to Rusty who seemed to know the concern was all for him. "So you don't think he needs a vet, huh?"

"Nah. I'm certain it didn't touch a bone. Last night I put on some disinfectant. If you've got something that'll fight infection, that's all I'd worry about."

"That we've got."

"Oh, by the way, he was there with a cow of yours."

"Ha, just like the little guy. I'll bet he's gonna be one of the best herding dogs we've ever had."

Someone shuffled up the back steps, and everyone turned as the door opened and George poked his head in. "Emily," he said, stepping inside. "What a surprise." He noticed the dog, wiped his feet, and went over. "So you brought Rusty home. Where'd you find him?"

"Caught in a trap just over the fence from Schillings. Don't worry, he's okay."

"That's it, Ma, I'm gonna kill that man!"

Greta got up and went to the stove. "Well, you need to eat first. How 'bout you two sit over here and I'll dish up some oatmeal. There's biscuits and honey too, if you'd like."

"Just a small bowl for me," Emily said as she took a seat at the table. "Oh, and maybe a biscuit... with just a bit of honey."

Greta dished the food for them then went to the sink to start washing up.

George leaned over his bowl; he would take several bites, sit up, clinch his jaw, and then start eating again. Finally, he flung the spoon aside and pushed himself from the table. "Think I'll ride back with you, Emily. Fetch the cow, and check for traps." His eyes narrowed so only the blue showed. "And then when I'm done with that, I'm goin' over to wring that man's... neck!"

Emily couldn't help but smile. "You think that'll do any good?"

"Damn right it will."

Greta rinsed a plate under the tap and set it on the rack to drain. "Son, I want you to be careful now."

"Sure, Ma, as careful as I need to be."

George took his bowl and spoon to be washed, snatched a biscuit off the stove, leaning back against the counter. "What we need is a good lawyer."

Greta watched him devour the biscuit. Reaching over to catch crumbs, she dumped them in the sink, and then dipped her hand back into the suds and pulled up another plate. "You're right, of course. But if there's a crooked one out there, I'm sure that weasel already found him."

George dusted his hands off, and went to the door, tucking his shirttail into his jeans. He slipped on a cowboy hat then grabbed a belt from a wall hook. He buckled and looped the belt, leaving six or seven inches that he pushed back through. Rubbing the buckle with a sleeve, he gave it a pat. "A longhorn Texas silver. Grandpa's at one time," he added, flipping the end of the leather belt. "It's served its purpose well, but one of these days I'm gonna have this thing cut down to size."

Emily looked up from where she was clearing the table. "Remind me to tell you about the chimney boots sometime." She brought the dishes over to Greta, said her goodbyes, and headed out the door with George.

"You guys take it easy," Greta called after them.

"Say, Emily," George said as they mounted the horses, "I can't tell you enough how much we appreciate you bringing Rusty home."

"No need to thank me. I wouldn't of done anything different."

They followed a trail through a grove of fruit trees, past a field of cut wheat and acres of weeds, wild flowers, and rocky grassland, each with their own thoughts.

So much had happened that Emily didn't know where to begin, although now at least she had someone to talk to. "George, I've been wondering whatever happened to Sylvia. How well did you know her?"

"She's a distant relative of my mother's. We weren't exactly close, as in buddy-buddy, but I guess you could say we were friends. About what happened to her? All I know is that she left without a word. Didn't even tell her parents goodbye. Schillings said she took off with a man, said she'd talked of eloping for some time. I didn't see her that often, but I'll tell you what. I saw her less than three weeks before she disappeared, and she never mentioned a boyfriend to me."

"He told me she left because of family problems."

"See, he didn't even bother to keep his story straight." George bit his lip, squinted, trying to remember. "Let me think now. Mmm. You know... the last time I saw her she was telling me something about his logging business. At the time, I didn't take it too seriously. She could be a little flighty at times, you know? Anyway, as we were talking, Schillings himself walked in. And by the look on his face and by Sylvia's reaction, I thought something was wrong."

"Do you have any idea where she might've gone?"

"You mean if she went on her own? No, I haven't a clue. There hasn't been a word from her in, uh, I'd say over a year now. Her parents called the police, but after a few weeks, they were convinced that she left on her own. They're still waiting to hear from her."

Emily stopped her horse, and George came up beside her. "What is it?"

"Maria told me that her father hit Sylvia."

"Hit her? Right there in front of the children?"

"Well, she said she heard them arguing, and when she looked in, Sylvia was lying beside the desk with a bloody head."

"Wow. That doesn't sound too good for Sylvia."

"Maria told me that he hit her mother too."

"Really. So then, shouldn't we go to the police? We'd have Maria's word."

"Yeaah, that sounds like the logical thing to do, but... oh I don't know, George. I've seen at least three police officers that come by... just to visit, up to his private suite. Oh, and he had a senator and his wife over for dinner a while back. It sounds like he has political ambitions."

"You serious?"

"That's what I heard."

"Say... how old is Maria anyway?

"Nine."

"Well, shoot, that's another thing. Who'd listen to a nine-year-old? I think you're right. We need to get the facts straight, find out who we can trust first."

They were nearing the Schillings' property when George slid from his horse. He picked up a stick and jabbed it into the brush. A moment later, they heard the snap of a trap.

"Oooh, just to think that Rusty could've been suffering all night, or worse, makes me want to snap this around Schillings' neck." He placed the trap into his saddlebag, and then walked alongside his horse, looking for more.

"So then... what about the cows, George? I mean, can you keep them away from here?"

"I had to do a little patchwork late last night, but they're safe in a fenced-in area for now."

They came upon the stray cow, and then George spotted the fence. "Will you look at how far he's moved that damn thing!" He sighed, disgusted, mounting his horse. "Well, a least ole Betsy's okay," he said, beginning to coax the animal homeward. He lifted a hand to Emily. "I've got a ton of work to do so I'd best be on my way. But, thanks again, and say, listen, I have an idea I'm working around in my head. Stop by and if I'm right about my suspicions, we might have something solid we can use against him."

When Emily reached the barn, it looked as though Paul wasn't aware she had left. As she settled the horse in the stall, she began to think about how good he was with the children and the horses too, many times taking the animals out for walks, making sure they had plenty of grazing time. Maybe she could trust him enough to tell him what happened to Rusty. She put everything away, snooping, and lingering more than she intended to. As she pondered about whether or not to confide in him, that's when she came upon four traps in the corner of one of the supply closets.

She was so furious, she stormed off to find him; how right she had been all along. She hustled around to the back yard, not sure she even wanted to talk to him.

When she saw him, he was coming from the island of trees, and he didn't look happy. "Where in the world have you been?" She thought she'd seen him angry the other night, but apparently not.

She backed away, then quickly turned and fled to the house. As she rushed in through the back entrance, Otto stepped in front of her, folding his arms. "Do you often traipse the halls dressed like that?" he said. He was serious by nature, but now he sounded unusually stern.

She looked down at the stains on her shirt and pants, and the tracks on the floor. "Sorry, Otto. I'll get a mop and clean it up."

"No, don't bother. Just take off your shoes from now on after you've been..." His eyes slid down to her feet again. "Well, whatever you've been up to."

She took her shoes off and carried them up the stairs. At the top, she looked down and saw that Otto had taken out his hanky and was wiping the floor.