"Can she dance?"

"No, but she can sing."

"Of course," Grace said. "Please bring her along." The couple said good-bye and then strolled off holding hands.

With some amus.e.m.e.nt, Peter settled into his chair and thought about the irony of meeting Byron Holmes here. It wasn't all that unusual, since Camden was where so many men like Byron spent their summers. Yet, of all the people in the world, he'd never guessed he'd shake hands with the man whose surname was synonymous with the world's first tabulating machines. Small world, Peter thought. No, he corrected himself, I'm from the small world, and he's from the big world. But, as he'd just learned, it didn't seem to matter how big or small your baby.

When it's yours, it's yours. And this man understood that.

The horses walked side by side, each carrying a rider through the secluded wooded path.

"I don't believe you, that the only love you have ever felt has been for horses. Nonsense," Greta said.

"It is true," said Jean-Pierre, crossing his heart with his finger.

"Ridiculous."

"Greta, I tell no lie when I say that I have been in love only with horses. Nothing has ever come between us," he said, patting his beast's neck affectionately.

"Frenchmen," she said with a dismissing wave of her gloved hand.

"Such talkers." Had he noticed? She took a breath, reminding herself to keep her left hand on the saddle.

And, she wondered, had he noticed her color when he'd crossed his heart? Unless he was psychic, she knew that he could not see what was going on inside her when he spoke of things such as his country and horses.

"Your husband, he is doing something very important today, no?"

"Yes. It's important. To him. Some new computer."

"Indeed. I read about it in the paper. You must be very proud, Greta. Yes?"

"Yes, of course. He's done very well since he's been in control.

Very busy," she said. She wished this topic to go no further. She let herself look at him, into his eyes.

"Yes," Jean-Pierre replied with a nod that said, without words, that he understood. It was the same look he had given her when they'd first met after they had shaken hands, when his arm had been in a sling.

They continued along in silence at a trot, and Greta renewed their conversation with enthusiasm. "Jean-Pierre, tell me more about your country. Is the French countryside similar to Northern California, as everyone here seems to think?"

"Ah, it is beautiful," Jean-Pierre said. "All year is green out in the countryside where I was born. And clean when you inhale, and pretty, all fresh and tingling in your nose, in your heart.

You ride on and on and see no one for very long stretches of time. Here and there, children are playing or doing ch.o.r.es, you see a woman carrying a basket, a man with an ax. They wave when they see you." Smiling, he waved to her as if to ill.u.s.trate, but all at once his expression changed into a grimace, as though he were suddenly in great pain.

"What is it?" Greta asked.

"This d.a.m.ned shoulder. If I cannot even lift it to wave, how will I ever hold a mallet again?"

"Isn't there anything you can do about it?"

"Oh, sure. There are procedures. Surgery."

"Then why don't you get it fixed?"

"It is complicated."

"Yes, but it's worth a try, isn't it? Wouldn't it be better to try to save it, so you could play again, rather than give up your livelihood?"

"It's not that simple."

"Why? People get things like that fixed all the time, don't they?

You're a champion. How can you just stop playing?"

"That's not what I mean. I don't want it to be like this."

She persisted. "I still don't understand. What's so complicated about your case?"

Abruptly he reined his horse to a halt and she brought her horse around. He was looking off into the hills. For all of his broadness and strength, his maleness, she saw that she had unknowingly struck a sensitive chord in him. "Jean-Pierre," she said, trying to catch his eye, "I didn't mean to upset you. If I have, I'm sorry."

"No. That's not it. You see," he said with a faint smile, "I am an independent."

"I'm sorry, really. You don't have to go on if you don't want to."

"But I do. I do want to go on. Right now, in Deauville, where I have lived most of my life as a polo player, the tournament is underway. Eight teams converge to compete for fifteen cups. The most coveted is the Coupe d'Or. There is money as well. I, of course, was on the French team. I had a sponsor for the tournament, but because of this d.a.m.ned thing, I had to drop out."

"But if you get it taken care of, can't you play again, and make next year's compet.i.tion?"

"That is the problem, getting it taken care of. It costs money.

And because I am an independent and I had to drop out, I lost my sponsorship. What I am saying, Greta, is that I cannot afford the surgery and therapy. That is why I agreed to come here as a consultant to look into developing a polo club. I need the money."

"Jean-Pierre," Greta said, "I understand how you feel." She felt compelled to tell him about her own suffering. However, glancing down at her gloved left hand, she couldn't bring herself to go on. Hers was no common ailment. Granted, he was suffering, losing the use of his shoulder, but her loss, she could not help feeling, was greater. It was not the same. It was worse. And, she feared, it might repulse him, and end the acquaintance they had begun.

They continued along the trails leading back to the stable, back from her escape.

For the past three months she had gone riding every couple of days with Jean-Pierre. It had started with his insisting that she try some jumping, but she dashed that idea at once. However, she did agree to go riding with him once, and had continued ever since. The early mornings frequently found her on these paths with Jean-Pierre, before he began his day. In addition to his polo club project, he trained a number of students. With each day they spent together, riding along the lush trails, she acquired more knowledge of horses and Europe, and of things she had never imagined before - most of all attraction, for the first time since her marriage to Matthew, for another man. While she knew he was here to research the potential for a polo club, he was not specific about the details of his private life. Whenever she pressed him for more information, he turned the conversation back to her, or went into one story or another that was full of adventure and intrigue. He told her that, like most polo players, he was a thrill-seeker; his att.i.tude was that all of life was a game, one big gamble, there for the playing. When she asked him how long he thought he would stay, he told her he was not really sure. All she wanted, she reminded herself continually, was to be able to keep spending a precious hour or two with him each day riding. But lately, when she left him after their ride, she had begun to allow herself a little more; she had now and then found herself thinking about him during her midmorning bath, or just staring out the bedroom window, across the treetops and off into the near distance, at the ranch's gable rooftop. And sometimes, after a morning ride, she would awaken on her bed, not remembering having lain down, his face the first image to appear to her, her mind studying and touching him before opening her eyes and getting on with the day. Although she relished these moments in his company, she could hardly wait to be away from him today, to be alone with him in her secret way.

"I have thought how good it would be to go back to France after my project is through here, taking my meager savings, and my meager arm, and finding a small ranch in the country."

She tightened her grip on the reins. "Well, if you want it badly enough, you'll find a way to get back into the game."

"Yes, maybe. But for now I am a slave to this project. It's paying the bills, as Americans are fond to say."

With mild dread, she knew he would be gone sooner than she wanted to admit. Of course it would be better if he were gone, she told herself. She was married to a very successful man, and that meant security and stability.

Yet as if to discourage her rational thinking, a burst of enthusiasm whipped through her. "Let's race," she shouted, then pressed her heels into Mighty Boy's sides. Before Jean-Pierre could answer, her horse bolted forward.

"Cheater!" he hollered, and gained on her quickly. They rounded a turn in the path and flew past wild calla lily flowers, the tall stems batting their horses' legs. She looked over her shoulder, excited, and pressed Might Boy harder. Jean-Pierre narrowed the distance between them and his horse fell into a synchronized gallop with Mighty Boy. She laughed at him and saw that he was hiding something behind his back. He saw that she saw.

"Not until you slow," he said, reining his horse to a trot.