He stared at the recorder, opened his mouth and started to say something, then closed it. His brown eyes were dark and angry, and I tried to quell the anxiety in my chest and the truth on my face. It was the biggest bluff I'd ever attempted, me of the billboard face.

Slowly a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he let out a small laugh. Shaking his head, he said, "Oh, man, you're good."

Surprised, I laughed, too, and said, "Yeah, I know."

"With an ego to match mine," he added.

"Meet me tomorrow. Nine o'clock at the folk art museum."

"I'll be there with my whips and thumbscrews."

"I told you, Detective, no browbeating on my watch."

He lifted his eyebrows slightly. "My dear Mrs. Harper, who said they're for the old lady?"

In the parking lot I called home again to see if Gabe was there. When the answering machine took the call, I hung up.

The driveway was empty. Inside the house, it was apparent Gabe hadn't been home yet-no briefcase or dirty glasses in the sink. Another dinner with Lydia? Annoyed, I listened to my message to him on the answering machine, then the one after it.

"Sweetheart," he said. "I have a dinner with the city manager and then I'm going to drop by Lydia's hotel to talk about Sam. She and I have missed each other all day. I'll be home as soon as I can. Te amo Te amo."

"Yeah, me, too, Friday," I said, feeling sad rather than angry. I fed Scout, then heated up a can of soup and watched a couple of sitcoms on TV before falling asleep. The sound of the shower running awakened me, and I glanced at the bedside clock-ten-twenty.

"How was your dinner with the city manager?" I asked when Gabe climbed into bed.

"Fine," he said, turning to me and pulling me into his arms, nuzzling my neck.

I lay there for a moment, tempted by the masculine rasp of his beard, his gentle, seductive tongue, then pulled away. "I'm tired."

"All right," he said without argument. He kissed my temple, then settled into his side of the bed.

I lay there in the dark and listened to his breathing slow down until he fell asleep. The lacy curtains covering our bedroom window made snowflake patterns on the ceiling, and I watched them move and change, like all the lives surrounding me, like my own life.

SAM CAME BY the next morning and had breakfast with us, his dark eyes ringed blue with fatigue.

"How is Bliss?" I asked after Gabe left for work. I tossed some leftover bacon in Scout's dish. His happy tail beat against my leg.

"She's doing okay," Sam said, leaning his chair back on two legs. "She still won't talk about it, though. Says we just gotta move on." His young face looked troubled. "What do you think she means by that?"

"I have no idea, Sam," I said, taking his plate. "All I can suggest is give her time. Losing a baby and getting shot are both extremely traumatic."

"What should I do?"

"Just listen. Don't try to push her. Let her feel what she needs to feel. That's all I know to tell you."

"She told me last night she's thinking about taking a leave from the police department. She said she might go up north for a while with her mom and sister. Don't tell Dad. He doesn't know yet."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I don't want to go up north. I just got my life together down here."

I scraped a plate into the garbage can. "Only you can make that decision."

"Do you think it'll hurt our relationship?"

Determined to be honest, I said, "I have no idea, but it would be hard to build a relationship with someone if they aren't around."

"That's kinda what I thought. Maybe we don't love each other as much as we thought."

"Then again, maybe a separation will help you both see what you really want."

He nodded, his face miserable. "Like I said, don't tell Dad any of this. Or Mom. I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do."

"You have my word," I said, flattered he'd confide in me first. There was no doubt I'd miss him like crazy if he left.

He let the front of his chair drop on the kitchen floor with a thump. Scout went over and laid his head in Sam's lap, and Sam massaged his ears, causing Scout to sigh deeply. "All I gotta say, madrastra madrastra, is being an adult sucks. It sucks big-time."

"Yes, I know," I said and poured myself another cup of coffee. "This I do know."

DETECTIVE HUD ARRIVED at the folk art museum at five minutes to nine. He wore a pink shirt, another tweedy Western jacket and black-cherry-colored boots.

"Just how many pairs of boots do you own?" I asked, walking out to his truck.

"Twenty-two," he said. "But that's nothing. My mother owns forty."

"The infamous mother. I don't even believe she exists."

He opened the passenger door, a bland look on his face. "Oh, believe me, she exists. Where's your hound dog?"

"Left him home today. It's a long, hot drive."

He came around and climbed into the driver's seat. "Okay, enough small talk. Where are we going?"

"Mariposa Valley."

"Where's that?"

"Out on the Carrizo Plains. Eastern part of San Celina County. Just get on 101 North, and I'll tell you where to turn off."

He put the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. "Put on some music, or I'll punish your insubordination by forcing you to listen to me sing."

With Dale Watson singing low-down, truck-driving, honky-tonk country, I directed him to turn off on Highway 58 outside of Atascadero and headed east on the winding, two-lane highway toward Mariposa Valley. In the distance, the Temblor mountain range rose stark and forbidding against the white-blue morning sky. We passed small herds of cattle grazing among the long grasses, bunched together around an occasional wind-carved oak. Then the land changed to pure prairie, and the sky turned a deep solid blue. Birds flew high above us, swooping in the currents, too far away to tell if they were peregrine falcons or one of the many types of hawks that live out here on the desolate plains-red-tailed, Cooper's, marsh, and rough-legged hawks.

"Hard to believe we're in the same county," the detective commented. "How far are we going?"

"It's about seventy miles to the fire station. That's where the post office and the library is, too. I'm hoping someone there will give us an address."

We passed a huge sun-faded billboard. He slowed down and read out loud, "WELCOME TO MARIPOSA VALLEY-2 1/2-ACRE PLOTS-GOLF COURSE, POOLS, SHOPPING CENTER, GOOD SCHOOLS-TOMORROW'S PLANNED COMMUNITY TODAY." He glanced over at me. "What is this place?"

"That sign is almost as old as me. Back in the early sixties Mariposa Valley was apparently being advertised as the up-and-coming place to buy property. There were twenty-five thousand acres to be sold, as the sign said, in two-and-a-half-acre plots, and a whole town was going to be built. They wanted to name it Paradise Valley, but I think that name was already taken. Anyway, except for some die-hard desert rats of the human variety, the only things that prosper out here now are a lot of mule deer, lizards, coyotes, sandhill cranes, and the occasional rattler. The only time it really gets crowded is when the bird-watchers flock out here to add to their life lists."

"What happened to the developer's great plan?"

I reached for my purse and dug around for a rubberband. This time of year out here, it would probably get close to ninety, and the sun coming in the window was already turning my thick hair into an uncomfortable blanket on my neck. "It was missing one important element-water." I zipped up my purse, irritated because I spend a fortune buying those fabric-covered hair scrunchies, yet never seemed to have one when I needed it. "You have a rubberband or a piece of string or something?"

"Check the glove compartment."

I opened it, and next to the neat black leather map holder was a bright pink Barbie scrunchy. Good enough. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and turned to stare out the window. "It shouldn't be real hard to find her. I don't imagine there's more than a couple of hundred people who live out here these days."

"Then maybe we can get this cleared up today."

"I sure hope so," I said.

We passed only one other vehicle in over an hour, a San Celina Sourdough Bakery truck. Except for a couple of wind-blasted farmhouses, miles of black sage, manzanita, and chaparral, and a cluster of rusty combines laced with shiny-feathered crows, we could have been driving on Mars. Every once in a while we passed an abandoned car skeleton, bleached almost colorless by the harsh, prairie elements, squatting among the grasses-a twentieth-century reminder of nature's uncompromising power. The desolation out here had always slightly unnerved something deep inside me and though I'd eat a plateful of hay before admitting it, I was glad for Detective Hudson's presence and especially the gun underneath his tweed cowboy jacket.

"We're almost there," I said when we passed by the closed Butterfly Cafe and the graffiti-decorated, abandoned motel. I pointed to our right at a group of buildings about a mile away.

Outside the combination fire station/community building a single person stood watering a struggling section of lawn. We pulled into the parking lot next to the only other car, a tan Toyota pickup. I was right about the temperature. The hot and dusty air hit us with a slap when we stepped out of his air-conditioned truck. The person watering, a tall, proud-looking Latina dressed in engineer-striped overalls and a white tank top, watched us curiously. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Let me do the talking," I said in a low voice.

"I will not," he replied.

"You'll blow it," I spat.

He grabbed my elbow, then swung around to the front of me so his back was to the woman watering, blocking her from my view. "Look, I've been extremely patient so far, but I'm not going to let an inexperienced civilian screw up this chance for me."

"You look. The people who live out here aren't like regular people. Many of them are hermits and other loners who are very skittish about anyone they don't know. I have connections with some of the ranching families out here and so have a better chance at getting them to talk." look. The people who live out here aren't like regular people. Many of them are hermits and other loners who are very skittish about anyone they don't know. I have connections with some of the ranching families out here and so have a better chance at getting them to talk."

He stood with his hands on his hips, a condescending sneer on his face. "You honestly think you can do better than me?"

I folded my arms across my chest. "Yes, I do. If they find out you're a cop, they'll clam up, and we'll never find out anything."

He stepped aside and swept his arm out dramatically. "Then by all means, go ahead. But I'm warning you, if you blow it, I'll-"

"Fire me?" I finished. "Detective, just follow me, keep your mouth shut, and your gun ready."

"You are really asking for it, Mrs. Harper."

I ignored him and started toward the woman in overalls, putting on a friendly smile. "Hey," I said.

"Hey," she repeated, her handsome face open but wary.

"My name's Benni Harper, and this is... my friend... uh, Hud."

Squinting into the bright sun, she nodded at the detective. The hose she was watering with sputtered, and she turned around, straightening the kink in it. "Harper," she said, when the water started flowing smooth again. "I used to know a Wade Harper when I was a bartender in San Celina. A place called Trigger's."

"Wade was my late husband's brother. Trigger's closed awhile back. Lost their liquor license."

"I heard. So, you're Jack Harper's wife? I remember him, too, 'cept he was a lot quieter than Wade. He left good tips. Nice eyes." She put her thumb over the hose's metal lip to make a thin spray.

"Yes," I said, remembering Jack's gentle brown eyes. "He did have nice eyes. He died a few years ago in a car accident."

"That's rough. I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

She peered at me closer. "You know, I feel like I've seen you somewhere. Did you hang out at Trigger's, too?"

"Not much. But I know what you mean. You look familiar to me, too. I grew up in San Celina. My dad and gramma own a ranch east of the city."

She walked over to turn off the spigot. "Cattle?" she said over her shoulder.

"Yep, some Angus, some Santa Gertrudis, some Hereford crosses. My dad likes to experiment with different breeds."

She turned back to face me, her brown, oval face thoughtful, then said, "I got it! We sat across from each other at a Cattlewomen's Association Christmas luncheon about five years ago. Over at that Mexican restaurant near the Goodwill store. A lady next to you was talking about antique buttons."

"That's right," I said. "She had one that was worth two hundred dollars, remember? We were flabbergasted."

"Yeah, I remember. That was when I was still with my first husband, Danny Wheaton." She made a sour face that was more telling than words.

"I know the Wheatons. They own a ranch north of the city. Nothing but Black Angus. Danny and I went to high school together." And he was a spoiled, rednecked jerk if I remember correctly And he was a spoiled, rednecked jerk if I remember correctly, I added to myself.

"That's them. Meanest bunch of people you ever saw. Especially the mother. Danny was her pride and joy, and he took full advantage of that."

"How'd you end up out here?" I searched my brain for her name, it was something unusual . . . Danny and . . . Rolanda, Renata . . . Riccarla. That was it. "Riccarla," I said.

A big grin spread across her face as she wiped her wet hands on her overalls, leaving dark spots. "That's a pretty good memory you have. Met my current guy when I left Danny and was working at Trigger's. Bobby's great. He's the mailman out here. I run the library three days a week and spend the rest of the time making bay leaf wreaths. I sell them at the Farmer's Market."

"You make those! They're beautiful. I bought one for my gramma last year. She loves it."

"Thanks. It keeps me off the street corners."

Behind me I heard Detective Hudson impatiently clear his throat. Ignoring him, I said to her, "Being the mailman, I bet your husband knows everyone who lives out here."

"Yeah, he does. Lived here his whole life. His family's land goes back to one of the original Spanish land grants. We live out on the old place. Real log cabin. Takes us forty-five minutes just to get to the station here."

"Guess you really like your privacy," I said.

"After listening to those Wheatons yammer for six years, you betcha." She stuck her hands deep into her pockets. "So, what are you two doing out here? Going to see the petroglyphs on Painted Rock? I think it may be closed right now. They've been having some trouble with vandalism."