"I don't believe in pandering to a person's vanity," Melody said.

"I like being pandered to," Chet said. "It helps make up for the times people decide they'd rather point a gun at me."

"That was your decision."

"That's why I decided to hang up my gun. Sadly, I'm still long on guns and short on compliments."

This man was full of surprises. If she interpreted him correctly, he'd given up gunfighting. Or at least he was thinking about it.

"Don't look to me to even the score," Melody said.

"Me neither," Bernice said with a chuckle. "You bat those eyes at me, and my poor old heart would give right out."

"Bernice, I never thought I'd hear you talk like this."

"I'm old, child, but I've got a good memory. I'm not blind either. Now you stop worrying about me and get him cleaned up so he can make himself presentable for dinner. Belle will have a fit if he comes to the table looking like he's been dragged across the corral first."

"I thought you said I was beautiful," Chet said.

"I did, boy. Beautiful, but dusty."

It had been a long time since anyone had called Chet a boy. He wondered if Bernice's eyesight was as good as she thought.

"When I think of how easily this wound could have been fatal," Melody said, "I feel weak in the knees."

"Don't worry. A gypsy in Mexico said many bullets would be fired at me, but I would die in my bed."

"You can die in your bed from a bullet wound," Melody pointed out.

"I asked her about that, but she said her crystal ball had gone cloudy all of a sudden."

Melody stepped back so she could book at him. "Are you ever serious about anything?"

"Most people like me this way. They say I'm usually too serious."

"I expect you do it to keep people at a distance. You needn't bother since you're leaving."

Chet had never met a woman who could cut through his defenses quite so quickly. "You might not like me serious."

"As I said, you're leaving. It won't matter what you're like."

"Melody doesn't believe in sugarcoating things," Bernice said.

"So I see. You don't have to put a bandage on my neck. It'll make it hard to swallow."

"It's still bleeding."

"It'll soon crust over."

She chose a clean pad and poured whiskey into it. "This is going to sting."

"You mean it's going to feel like the Devil's got his claws in his neck," Bernice said.

"I don't suppose it'll hurt worse than the bullet," Chet said.

"Okay, I won't give you any sympathy." He hadn't meant it that way, but he had obviously riled her. It did sting, but he'd experienced much worse over the last seven years.

Besides, he was distracted by the smell of gardenias. The smell had danced around the edge of his consciousness ever since he entered the house. When Melody leaned over him the first time, he'd identified the fragrance. When she leaned over him a second time, he was certain it came from her. It was a sweet smell, strong but not cloying. He liked it. He thought it suited her.

"You don't have to be so stoic," she said.

"What do you want me to do, yell and scream?"

"No, but a wince would let me know there's somebody inside that sh.e.l.l, that you can feel things."

He grimaced. "There. Are you satisfied?"

Her expression said she wasn't. She handed him a clean pad. "Hold this to your neck until it stops weeping. After that you can get rid of some of that dust Bernice mentioned. We sit down to dinner at six o'clock."

"I don't want to eat with the family."

"It would be bad manners to refuse. And you know what happens to men who behave badly toward a lady."

She left the kitchen without giving him a chance to respond.

"No point in arguing with her," Bernice said. "Once she makes up her mind, she don't change it."

"She and Royal ought to make a great pair."

"Don't wish that on her," Bernice said.

"Why? The man's rich and wants to marry her."

"There's a curse on that house," Bernice said.

"What are you talking about?" He'd been joking about the Mexican gypsy. He didn't believe in signs and portents or witchcraft.

"His son's dead set on marrying her, too. If she goes to that house as a bride, at least one of them will be dead inside a week."

The sooner he got out of here, the better, Chet thought to himself as he walked back to the bunkhouse. He felt as if he'd stepped into the middle of a bad play where all the protagonists ended up dead by the final curtain.

He noticed his saddle and bedroll weren't outside the bunkhouse where he'd dropped them. He looked around but didn't see them anywhere. He stepped inside the bunkhouse. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

"You the fella Sydney shot?"

The voice came from the gloom of one of the bunks.

"Yes," Chet said, turning to the sound, struggling to make out the shape of the young man lying in the bed.

"Tom put your gear on the bunk over there." He offered his hand in a friendly greeting. "I'm Tim Speers. Tom said you'd probably come looking for it."

"I'll need it to ride out of here tomorrow."

"Tom said Miss Jordan had offered you a job. I sure wish you'd take it."

"Why? You don't know whether I can tell one end of a cow from the other."

"I wouldn't care if you couldn't tell a heifer from a steer. I saw the way you stood up to Lantz Royal. That's all I need to know."

Chet pulled up a chair and straddled it, his arms resting on the back. "Why is that so important? You've got a foreman." "Tom will face Royal, but he can't stand up to him. There's a difference."

"You mean Tom has courage, but Royal doesn't think him dangerous enough to worry about."

"Something like that."

"Why would I be any different?"

"He already knows you can draw like lightning and ain't afraid to do it."

"It seems to me this whole question rests in Miss Jordan's hands. She can send him away or not as she wants."

"Between Lantz Royal's boys shooting at us to scare Miss Jordan into marrying him and rustlers shooting at us for real, a cowhand's life ain't worth much around here. I'm thinking about asking for my time as soon as I get well enough to travel."

"I'm not hunting a shooting job," Chet said.

"Neill said you drilled a peach can."

Chet felt like kicking himself for doing something so stupid. "I guess old habits die hard."

But that wasn't the way he usually behaved. He didn't insult powerful ranchers, either. Anyone who knew him knew he drew his gun only as a last resort. He never went around shooting at targets to show off his marksmanship. Yet he'd done all those things in the s.p.a.ce of half an hour. What had gotten into him?

Melody Jordan, that's what. Something had happened to him the moment he set eyes on her. He didn't know whether it was l.u.s.t or fascination, but he did know that even thinking there might be a possibility of something developing between them was crazy.

Even if he was fool enough to consider getting married, she was wrong for him. She was old Virginia society. He was an ex-gunfighter who couldn't do anything but punch cows.

He stood up. "I guess I'd better get out of here before I do anything else stupid."

"How do you figure that?"

"I got Miss Jordan thinking I can handle her job, you thinking I can handle Royal, and Neill thinking I can handle a gunslinger. It'd take a very tough man to measure up to all that."

"Something tells me you could do it."

"As I see it, Melody holds all the cards. She only has to play them and the game will be over."

Chet was uneasy about joining the family for dinner. He never liked meeting strangers. They always expected him to be something he wasn't. The women took one look at him and decided it was open season. The men preferred someone willing to talk too loud, drink too much whiskey, tell too many tall tales. He was quiet, a loner, a disappointment to all. He'd tried to get Bernice to let him eat in the bunkhouse with the wounded cowhand. Much to his surprise, Speers was summoned to the table as well. He wasn't happy about it either.

"I never ate at the house," Speers said when Chet helped him through the door.

"Don't worry about it," Chet said. "They're doing this to punish me and Tom."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not doing what they want me to do."

"Tom doesn't want you to stay."

"Tom didn't invite me to dinner, either."

"I see what you mean."

The ranch house didn't have the same comfortable, lived-in feeling Isabelle's had. Everything about it made Chet feel out of place. It was larger than he had ever seen in this part of Texas. Expensive-looking rugs made him afraid to step on the floor. The walls were covered with fancy paper decorated with French ladies and gentlemen in elaborate clothes. Mirrors in ornate gold frames and pictures in heavy, dark frames covered much of the walls. Beneath these someone had placed several fragile tables, all of them loaded with vases of colored gla.s.s or painted with pastoral scenes. The parlor was filled with furniture that looked as uncomfortable as it was fashionable. Victorian. Chet didn't like that style one bit. Too fussy.

"Makes you afraid to breathe deep," Speers said.

On the opposite side of the hall a pocket door slid open. Melody stood just inside.

"I think you men will be more comfortable in Pa's study," she said, standing back to let them enter.

Chet could see Speers visibly relax, whether at the sight of a room full of st.u.r.dy, leather-covered chairs with rag rugs and a stone hearth or of Tom Neland relaxing in a deep chair, he couldn't tell. Tom didn't look pleased to see Chet. Nor did he offer to give Chet a hand getting Speers settled into a chair. His sour expression indicated that his mind was taken up with things that displeased him even more.

"You sure you don't need a doctor to look at that leg, Speers?" Melody asked.

"There's no doctor between here and town," Tom said.

"I can look at it," Chet offered. "What can you do?"

"I know a little bit about gunshot wounds."

All three people looked at him expectantly.

"I've had a few," Chet said.

An expensively dressed woman floated into the silence that followed.

"I thought I'd find you in here," she said, her East Texas drawl mixed with an accent Chet didn't recognize. "Why is it men never like to sit in the parlor?"

"Rooms like that make men nervous," Melody said. "They remind them too much of the baths their mamas used to make them take before company came."

"It doesn't stop the boys," the woman said, turning to Chet as he finished helping settle Speers. "They'd flop down on anything if I let them. . . ." Her voice trailed off as her gaze fixed itself on Chet. Her eyes narrowed, then grew wider. Her entire physical posture changed from fairly brisk to positively languid. A hand automatically smoothed a ruffle at her breast that wasn't out of place.

"Who are you?" she asked in a voice that was at once husky and excited.

"I already told you," Melody said. "He walked in earlier wanting to trade his horse."

Chet figured a wash and dress clothes made him look so different, she didn't recognize him.

"You're welcome to any horse we have," the woman said.