That evening while their supper simmered on the stove, Hank suggested that Carly should call her father. She responded by saying, "I hate to run up long distance charges on your bill."

He unlipped the cell phone from his belt and handed it to her. "I've got a long distance package. Something like three-hundred minutes a month, and I use only about half of them. You can talk without it costing me a cent."

She squinted at the phone, then handed it back to him. "It's too small and confusing. Can you dial for me?"

She recited the number, and Hank punched it in. Then he went to the living room and flipped on the television, pretending to be watching the news while she talked to her dad, a conversation that began with a tremulous, "Daddy?" Then she settled down to talk, explaining to Art Adams about her temporary marriage to Hank. "He wanted to help me through this," she said haltingly. "In the end, he was so convincing I couldn't say no. I would have invited you, but it seemed senseless for you to spend the money on air fare when it was only a formality."

Convincing? He'd blackmailed her into saying yes.

"I know," Carly said softly. "I'm very lucky that he's here for me." A long pause. "No, Daddy. It's not like that. We, um, have an agreement. He seems okay with it." Another pause. "I won't get my heart broken, Daddy. It's just a convenient arrangement, something he offered to do for me and the baby. Neither of us has any expectations, and once I'm able to get out on my own, we'll dissolve the marriage."

When the conversation moved on from that topic to life in general, Carly was soon laughing. "You did the jitterbug? She must be quite a lady if she convinced you to dance." A sigh. "What is the jitterbug, by the way?" His answer sent her into a fit of giggles. "I'm so happy for you. It's good to know you're having so much fun down there."

Hank was equally glad to know that she was so close to her dad. It was more in keeping with his idea of family. Too soon to suit him, Carly told her father she should say good-bye. "I shouldn't use up too many of Hank's minutes," she explained. "I'm using his cell phone."

Hank almost interrupted to tell her she could use all the minutes she liked, but then he'd be revealing that he'd been eavesdropping. He decided that she'd covered all the important stuff. He could work on her usage of his long distance allotment later.

"Thank you, Hank," she said softly as she returned the phone to him. "It was good to talk to him."

He could tell that she'd enjoyed the conversation by the glow of her smile and the pleased light in her lovely eyes. "What's he like?"

"Funny." She shrugged. "Wonderful. He's always been my rock."

Hank felt an unwarranted pang of resentment. He wanted to be the person she counted on. And where had that thought come from? He had to keep it firmly in mind that Carly had no intention of remaining in this marriage. If he started thinking in terms of forever, he'd be setting himself up for heartbreak.

As a distraction, he escorted Carly to the stables to meet his horses. The entire way there, she kept saying, "I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

Hank laughed. "You climbed on a skateboard. Trust me, my horses are a lot safer."

"So you say."

At the entrance to the stable, she put on her brakes and stared at a mare just inside the enclosure that stood with her head poked out over a stall door. "It's all right," Hank assured her.

She reluctantly allowed him to draw her closer. In that moment, Hank wasn't sure which made her warier, him or the horse, "It's huge."

"It is a she." Hank reached out to scratch behind the horse's ears. "Her name's Sugar. She's a sorrel."

"I thought you raised quarter horses."

"Sorrel is a color, not a breed." He pointed further up the aisle to a gray-muzzled gelding. "That old fellow is a buckskin. Took to biting recently, and his mama brought him here for an attitude adjustment. In the next stall, the reddish brown mare with the black mane is a bay."

She shook her head. "I'm still struggling to learn all the different shades of pink. I'll never get horse colors straight."

"The horses won't give a hoot." He tugged on her hand to bring her closer. "Sugar's safe." And so am I. "It's all right. She won't hurt you."

She reached out a hand, then snatched it back at the last second. "Doesn't she have teeth?"

"Of course. She doesn't bite, though."

"Are you sure?"

He put his hand to the mare's muzzle. Sugar expected a treat and chuffed, wiggling her lips over his palm. "See? I've still got my hand." He grasped Carly's wrist and shoved her slender fingers under the mare's nose. "Don't be afraid."

"Oh, God." Rigid with tension, she squeezed her eyes closed, clearly expecting to lose half her arm. After a moment, she lifted her lashes and giggled at the ticklish sensation of the horse's lips on her skin. Hank wished he could nibble on her for a while. "She's so soft," she whispered.

"Like velvet," he agreed, remembering how soft her legs had felt last night. He released his hold on her. "Go ahead and pet her. She's a big sweetheart." When Carly hesitated, he laughed. "I'd never tell you to do something if you might get hurt. This horse is so gentle I could lay a newborn at her feet."

Carly stepped closer. Soon she was touching Sugar's ears and running her slender hand over the mare's mane. "Oh," she kept saying. "You're so sweet."

The sentiment seemed to be mutual. As if Sugar recognized a gentle soul, she began nickering and nudging Carly for more petting.

"I think she likes me," Carly said with a laugh.

What wasn't to like? Hank liked her, too. Perhaps more than was wise. Uncertain what to do with the emotions she evoked within him, he turned away.

"This is Sonora Sunset, Molly's stallion," he said at the next stall. "Poor fellow was whipped within an inch of his life. Molly showed up here one day in a Toyota, pulling a huge two-horse trailer. Sunset was inside, raising sand and shrieking to wake snakes in six counties. That's how Molly met Jake."

Carly came to stand by the gate, her stricken gaze moving over the stallion's scarred black coat. "How awful," she said softly. "Who did that to him?"

"Molly's ex, Rodney Wells. He's a sick son of a bitch." Hank realized what he'd said and rubbed his jaw. "Sorry. I need to watch my language."

Carly suppressed a smile. "Your language doesn't offend me, Hank. I've heard much worse."

"From who? He needs to learn some manners."

"I went to college, remember-a special school for the blind my first year, but then I mainstreamed at Portland University. On a campus, people use all kinds of expletives." She fixed her attention on the horse again. "Why did Molly bring a wounded stallion to Jake? Tucker's the vet."

"So's Isaiah. They've started a practice together." He hooked an arm around the stallion's sturdy neck. "Molly wasn't looking for a vet. She needed a horse psychologist. Sunset was loco from all the abuse."

"Jake is a horse psychologist?"

"He and I have a way with horses. A lot of people think we're horse whisperers. Molly heard about Jake through a trainer, and she brought Sunset here in hopes that Jake could save him from being put down."

Watching Hank with the stallion, Carly could see that he had a way with the animals. "Are you?" she asked.

He flicked her a quizzical look. "Am I what?"

"A whisperer."

His white teeth flashed in a teasing grin. "I'll whisper in your ear any old time you want."

Carly could well remember the shivers that had run down her spine when he had. She hugged her waist. "I'll pass, thanks."

"I was afraid you'd say that." His grin broadened, and he winked. "In answer to your question, no, I'm not a horse whisperer. Is there such a thing?"

"I don't know. Is there?"

"I doubt it. I'm good with horses, is all. No big mystery. They're just like people, with fears and phobias, likes and dislikes. Some trainers are old school. They use harsh methods to get the job done. Others take a more gentle approach, but they've got a set way of doing things, regardless of the animal. Jake and I follow our instincts and take our time, always bearing in mind that each horse is different and may need different handling." A teasing twinkle warmed his sky-blue eyes. "They're sort of like women that way."

Carly chafed her arms.

"You cold?"

"No." She was, actually, but she hesitated to say so. He wore no jacket and might offer to share his body heat. She gingerly touched the stallion's nose.

"He's a big old love, just like Sugar," Hank assured her. "Didn't used to be, but Molly brought him out of it. He's gentle as can be now-for a stallion."

Carly jerked her hand away. "What's that mean?"

Hank grinned and turned to lead the way deeper into the stable. Trailing behind him, Carly admired the graceful harmony of his movements. His long legs bowed out slightly at the knee, a trait she'd noticed in his father and all his brothers as well. She assumed it came from sitting in a saddle so much of the time. Whatever the cause, it was attractive, giving him a rugged air that went well with his broad-shouldered, tapered torso.

He stopped at each open stall to introduce her to the occupant. Carly knew she'd promptly forget the horses' names.

"Are the closed stalls vacant?" she couldn't resist asking.

"Nope. Mamas and babies, down for the night." At the end of the aisle, he gestured at two stalls that were larger than all the others. "Our version of birthing chambers," he explained. "They're bigger so the mare can comfortably lie down and stretch out her legs. We do imprinting in here as well."

"You brand your horses?" Carly had always felt that the practice was cruel, and she couldn't conceal her disapproval.

"Imprinting isn't branding. Most folks don't do that anymore." He studied her indignant expression for a moment, then chuckled and scratched under his hat. "Instead of branding, a lot of people tag the ears- kind of like a lady getting her ear pierced. The more expensive horses get ID chips, little information crystals inserted under the skin, or we tattoo the inside of an ear. It doesn't hurt."

"Oh." She was relieved. "What's imprinting, then?"

"Baby training, essentially. I'll bring you down to watch sometime-or better yet, to help. It's fun. Imprinting is basically situational conditioning begun directly after birth and continued over the first several months of life. You get a foal used to all the things that might frighten it as an adult. Imprinting is a lot of work, but in the end, the horse is better off. We seldom have to hobble an imprinted horse, and we hardly ever have to use a twitch. In short, imprinted horses are better adjusted, happier animals, and they're a joy to work with."

"What's a twitch?"

He rubbed his jaw. "It's a contraption that pinches the nose, one of the most sensitive spots on a horse's body. You anchor the twitch with just enough tension to make it hurt like hell. If the horse moves, it hurts a whole lot worse."

"That's horrible."

"It's necessary with a horse that refuses to stand while you give it shots or treat a wound. They're big, strong critters. You can't muscle them around. Try, and they'll show you how the cow ate the cabbage." His mouth tipped in a slight smile. "Now you can understand why we imprint our foals. We don't enjoy inflicting pain on a horse. Our imprinted animals seldom have to be subdued. We subject the foals to every conceivable experience, over and over again, until they think nothing of it. As adults, they do a horse version of a yawn while they're shoed or vaccinated or doctored. Not much throws them."

"Anything that saves them from a twitch has my vote."

He glanced at his watch. "We should head back to the house. The stew should be about done."

As Hank led the way from the stable, he couldn't help but remember all the girlfriends he'd brought out to the ranch over the years. Most of them had mixed with horses like oil with water. Carly didn't even seem to notice the horse shit, a fact that was driven home to Hank when she stepped in a fresh pile.

"Uh-oh." She shook her leg, trying to dislodge the smelly gook. "Oh, yuck. Is that what I think it is?" She peered myopically at her foot.

"If you're thinking it's horse shit, go to the head of the class," he said, going back to grasp her elbow.

Hank expected her to be pissed about her shoe. Instead she laughed and glanced around, looking like someone who'd just wandered into a minefield.

He guided her around the bombs as they left the building, smiling at the way she shook her foot every few steps. Once outside, she stopped to rub her shoe clean on the grass. She got all but a couple of blobs. Hunkering down, Hank grasped her ankle to turn her foot. She jumped at the contact and almost toppled over backward.

"Whoa." He grabbed her by the waistband of her jeans to steady her. When she caught her balance, he returned his attention to guiding her foot. "Now swipe," he instructed.

When her sneaker was clean, he pushed erect. She wrinkled her nose and smiled at him. "One of the dangers of an untrained visual cortex. I can't detect irregularities on a ground surface. I never knew the manure was there until it went squish under my foot."

The way she said "squish" set Hank to laughing again.

Hank lay on his back, arms folded beneath his head, feet dangling over the end of the mattress. Moonlight spangled the cedar ceiling of the back bedroom, the shadowy patterns shifting as the night wind swayed the trees outside the window. He couldn't sleep for thoughts of Carly-how she'd timidly petted the horses at first and then warmed to them; how she'd laughed over the manure on her shoe; how startled she'd been by the touch of his hand on her ankle; and how painfully nervous she'd been later when they returned to the house.

She was so beautiful he ached when he looked at her. He wished he could tell her that, but if he tried, she'd just think it was another hokey come-on line. She'd made that blatantly clear last night.

No question about it, he was swimming upstream against a strong current with her, and the best he could probably hope for was friendship. That frustrated him. He'd hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they might make this marriage work. But the more he was around her, the more convinced he became that he'd burned his bridges with her. Some screw-ups couldn't be fixed, plain and simple, and he'd screwed up big time. She had it in her mind that a second go-round with him would be awful, and he had no idea how to disabuse her of the notion.

So... friendship, it would be. All and all, that would be better than nothing. When she filed for divorce and moved out, they'd be able to keep in contact and work together at parenting, making things easier on their child.

Hank sighed and closed his eyes. Friendship. He could think of far more satisfying ways to spend two years with a beautiful woman, but a man didn't always get his druthers.

Chapter Fifteen.

Over the next couple of days, making friends with Carly became Hank's goal. In order to accomplish that, the first order of business was to make her feel at ease with him. To that end, he began calling her at different times during the day, just to say hi. He invariably caught her busily at work, trying to train her visual cortex. One afternoon, she was going through all the kitchen drawers, identifying utensils by touch.

"There's this thing," she informed him. "It has handles you squeeze, with a little box at the end that has a bunch of small holes. I have no idea what it is."

Hank thought for a moment. "A garlic press?"

"Excuse me," she said with mock seriousness. "I'm asking you."

He laughed. "It has to be a garlic press." He explained how the peeled cloves are pushed through the holes. "It works, slick as greased owl shit."

"What a nauseating comparison. A garlic press. Hmm. That goes on my list of new things to try. When can we press garlic?"

Hank hung up smiling. Most people would feel silly not recognizing a garlic press, but Carly took it in stride, determined to learn all that she could as quickly as possible.

At other times when Hank phoned, he interrupted her daily eye-exercise regime. The specialist had given her charts to tack to a wall. One was headed by the basic colors, and below was a diagram, showing many of the possible shades that could be created by blending the basics. Another was a chart of shapes and symbols-shapes, squares, triangles, figure eights, and the like. Carly spent hours working to train her visual cortex to recognize them on sight. One morning, Hank walked in to catch her trying to work what looked like a child's puzzle. She quickly dumped the pieces back into the box and shoved it under the sofa, clearly embarrassed to have him know that she was struggling to master an activity that a five-year-old could easily do. The discovery enabled Hank to better understand the battle she was waging. It was horribly difficult for her to fit certain shapes together, something that most people had been doing all their lives.

In order to spend more time with her, Hank began taking all his meals at the cabin. He ate poached eggs on toast for breakfast because the smell of fried food made her sick, settled for sandwiches at lunch, and donned an apron at night to help prepare dinner.

After the kitchen was tidied, he used the hours before bedtime to take her to the main house to visit with Jake and Molly or to recline with her in the living room to watch TV or chat. Their time alone together was always tense. While walking, she kept an arm's length between their bodies and didn't say a whole lot. At the house, she sat across the room from him and fidgeted, toying with her clothes or plucking at the fringe of a sofa pillow. She frequently said night early, claiming exhaustion.

All Hank's life, he'd been told that he had more charm than all his brothers combined. He tried using it to best advantage with Carly. But in the end, Hank was the one to be charmed.

If there was a character trait he most admired, it was courage, and Carly proved to be the most determined, courageous individual he knew. Though he suspected her eyesight was growing worse, she never so much as hinted that she was worried or experiencing any difficulty.

When he returned to the cabin to check on her at various times throughout the day, he often found her poring over books she'd brought with her from the apartment. Sometimes she studied a tome titled What's What, a visual glossary of everyday objects. Other times, she worked on recognizing the letters of the alphabet. The print in her books was small, forcing her to lean close with her nose mere inches from the page, and more times than not she propped an elbow on the table, absently rubbing her temple as if she had a headache.