"Has Trace said anything?"

"No, that's the problem. Last night I asked him flat out if they'd visited any old cabins or mines. He didn't answer. He said, 'It makes me sick to think of it,' and left the room. You were a boy once. What makes a twelve-year-old sick?"

"Finding something dead, with vultures so stuffed they can't take off. The smell's awful. Maybe stepping over human bones. A white skull grinning up at you from the bottom of a wash. Even worse when there's still a little hair clinging on top." He hesitated a second before mentioning s.e.x. "Mushy behavior. With girls, I mean. Funny, a year later you're in the corner of the school yard, speculating on which girl will let you touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

"Happens fast, doesn't it." He tightened his hands on the steering wheel and beat down the urge to pull off the road and take her in his arms. "Maybe Trace and Carl walked in on some older kids making out in a shack," Kyla suggested.

"But then we'd have a rash of hantavirus among older boys and the girls who hang out in the coffee shop."

"Right," she said. "Blows my theory. The girls looked healthy enough."

And Moira Chase looked healthy, hardly panting from her exertions. Where had Rod taken her for their adventures? Had he cleaned out a house left empty by an unemployed miner? A house surrounded by trees, a concealed drive that could hide a pickup truck in dawn twilight.

"Why so glum?" Kyla asked. "Maybe Glenda's right. You're too moody and self- centered to be a good lover."

"You talked to your sister...about me?"

"Glenda's a psychologist, and she thinks that gives her the right to pry. I cut the lecture short last night by talking to Trace."

He wouldnot be moody. The first words came tight and slow. Then suddenly he could not stop talking. How he had met Moira Chase, her vulgar proposition, the photographs, her contempt for Rod. Kyla patted his leg.

"I'm sorry. Something like that happening early, rather blights the day, doesn't it."

"No. Not when you're here." Surprising, but Moira's shadow faded with every word he spoke, and now the morning had a gloss he had failed to notice before. An antic.i.p.ation of the day and of the night to come. Telling Kyla had lifted the burden. That realization brought a deep sense of uncertainty. His feeling of deep friendship did not coincide with l.u.s.t. l.u.s.t was l.u.s.t, a surface desire, satisfied by physical pleasure.

"Would you mind a short stop in Carson City? The only boot store in Argentia closed last month, and I'm wearing my last decent pair."

Easier to talk about boots than what was really on his mind.

Chapter Seven.

Kyla sat at the kitchen table with Whit and Judith, sipping coffee she did not want, but drinking it for something to do while they talked. She felt awkward, an intruder into other people's mourning. Her sorrow at Rod's death was second hand, a sympathy for Whit's grief, and now for Judith.

She studied Judith over the rim of her coffee cup. She had expected an ethereal woman, glowing with a placid inner light that came from faith and good works.

Instead, Judith glowed with physical health, a solid, rawboned woman, at least six feet tall, who expressed even her grief in a booming voice. She had run down the front steps and thrown her arms around Whit, almost sending him to the ground. She wept without any attempt to conceal her tears.

Judith's square hands spread on the table. Blunt fingers, the nails cut short.

Her brown hair had been cropped with no regard for style. She wore faded jeans and a T- shirt that advertised some obscure music festival. Her red eyes and roughened cheeks were not her natural complexion, Kyla thought, any more than the tears collecting in the corners of her mouth would appear on a normal day.

Judith wept for her brother, had been weeping for days.

"No report yet," Judith said, her voice so strong it seemed impossible that it and the tears came from the same person. "But you say it was hantavirus." She turned to Kyla.

"Dr. Temple suggested it might be," Kyla said carefully. "But from what we've learned from other sources, I tend to accept the diagnosis."

"The lab says they'll have the results next week," Judith said. For the first time she brushed away tears. "Do you have any idea which ranch Rod intended to buy?"

"I rather suspect the Malaspina, but there's no way to be sure. We talked to the realtor, Rod had visited the Malaspina but hadn't made an offer. This weekend Kyla and I'll look at other places he visited."

Judith nodded. "No great rush, but I'd like to scatter Rod's ashes on the land he planned to buy. Maybe I'll buy it. His share of Dad's money comes to me, and I thought I might start a ranch school for kids in trouble. A memorial." The last two words sounded almost a question, soliciting Whit's advice. Kyla recalled Whit's opinion of the boy's camp, stared at him, but could detect no tremor of disapproval. Not a man to question another's dream.

"I hauled up several boxes of papers. You'll want to go through them and look for Rod's will," Whit said.

"It's here, in my safe. But except for bequests of personal possessions it's meaningless. Until Rod married, the two of us kept our investments in joint accounts. Even Dewfeathers -- " she gestured broadly to indicate the house in which they sat "-- is in both our names."

Dewfeathers? Kyla had already choked off a question about the name of the house.

It made her think of a wet chicken, which certainly could not have been what Judith intended. Some biblical reference?

"There's Rod's girlfriend to think of, even though she and Rod hadn't got around to marriage," Judith said. "Tell me about her." Whit's lower lip sprang out.

Judith playfully smacked his hand. "What kind of innocent do you think I am? Did you suppose you could hide it from me, T. J. Whitaker? I guessed the last time Rod came here. Little smiles for no reason at all, and that means love. But he kept it a mystery, said they couldn't marry for some time." She shook her head.

"Although if he'd found a ranch he wanted to buy, I can't see why they -- "

"She already has a husband," Whit said, so harshly Kyla shrank. Judith's hand went to her mouth, she gulped, controlled herself, and mimed relaxation. But Kyla caught the flash of shock, the momentary clutching of the rough hands.

Judith stared at Whit, asking for more, while tears overflowed in a new torrent.

Kyla held her breath. Whit would not be so cruel as to tell Judith the whole story, would he? She wanted to slap her hand over his mouth, and hiss. Be still.

"The woman made an unfortunate marriage," Whit muttered into his cup. "I didn't know anything about the romance. I guess I'm blind, because the cowboys had figured it out. From all indications, Rod loved her very much."

"And she him," Judith said flatly. "Everybody loved Rod. I pity her, for how does she mourn, under the circ.u.mstances? A questionable relationship, but forgivable if love is strong and true."

"I can't speak for her," Whit said miserably. He shoved his chair back from the table. "I'd better bring in the boxes. Not good to leave a Remington bronze in the open bed of a truck. Where do you want them?"

"Here in the kitchen," Judith said, staring after Whit. The screen door slammed.

"I'll help," Kyla said, taking a final swallow of coffee.

"No, stay here. I'm glad Whit's found a friend. A woman friend. It's been too long."

Kyla studied the thick dregs of the coffee at the bottom of the mug. Whit had introduced her as a medical expert, helping him find the source of the hantavirus, but Judith saw beyond that fiction.

"Has he told you about Jenny?" Judith asked.

"He told me."

"When a man loses the woman he loves, and in such a horrible way, he tends to idolize her. In Whit's memory Jenny's become an angel. She wasn't, of course.

Simply a lovely, fun girl. So far as I'm concerned, if she's an angel now, she's a dark one. A baleful influence. The shadow of the angel of death. It strikes me that you're the ideal woman to get Whit back on track. Hard-nosed, practical, not given to flights of fancy. I recommend a few nights of hot s.e.x." She grinned unexpectedly, and Kyla nearly toppled off the chair.

"Pictures of Jenny still all over?"

"I've been no farther than Whit's office." Judith's mouth twisted in disapproval. "The first day I went to Whit's house, there was a photograph beside the computer, a dark- haired woman, leaning out the door of a desert shack. Next time it was gone."

"Good sign!"

Not a good sign, Kyla thought, but she did not feel like explaining, and perhaps starting a disagreement. Whit had snapped the photo of Jenny leaning out the door of the tree house. He had probably taken it on the day before the night they had made the best love ever. A wonderful memory for Whit, until he learned about hantavirus. Until he learned that Jenny's death in all likelihood resulted from her preparations for that evening. Whit hadn't removed the picture for the sake of a new love, but because it caused him unbearable pain.

The screen door slammed, Kyla opened the swinging door for Whit, then went out to the truck to do her share of the carrying. The flap of a box had loosened and a long envelope stuck through the gap. Kyla pulled the flaps apart to replace the letter. A new envelope, without name or address, yet it contained a sheet of cream-colored paper.

"What do you have there?" Whit asked.

"The box started to work its way open, and this letter was nearly lost. It has no name on it. Do you suppose Rod could have written it just before he died?"

As Whit fingered the envelope, his face darkened. "Not the sort of paper a cowboy buys," he said. The stiff sheet crackled as he unfolded it. "h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation!" Kyla leaned across Whit's arm.The Last Will and Testament of Rodman Harris . Hand written.I leave my entire estate to Moira McCurlan Chase, the woman I love.

"Dated two days before Rod died," Whit said, his voice descending into a snarling ba.s.s. "Written on Moira Chase's paper."

"How do you know the paper's hers?"

"The picture I burned was wrapped in paper just like this."

"But Rod took that photograph. There would be no reason for him to fold a sheet of Moira's writing paper around it."

"Moira borrowed the picture long enough to make a copy. She gave it back to Rod with a piece of her stationary." He crushed the paper in his fist. "Moira didn't break into Rod's apartment to find something. She wanted to leave something, a fake will, and she scattered papers around to make it look like a burglary."

"Then why did she try to break into his truck?" Whit shrugged. "Is it Rod's handwriting?"

"Makes no difference. You heard what Judith said, she and Rod were partners in their investments. Joint tenancy, everything pa.s.ses to her automatically."

"It doesn't make sense, Whit," Kyla said, trying to sort what she knew from what she only supposed. "Why should Moira come on to you if she's trying to grab Rod's money? She should be playing the grieving lover."

"Women like Moira are ruled by their loins," Whit said. He thrust the paper into the envelope, rolled it untidily and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "Don't say a word of this to Judith. She'd die of -- "

"Judith is a bit more worldly that you suppose," Kyla said, hefting two boxes and heading for the front door.

Judith had her back turned when Kyla entered the kitchen, sorting the boxes by size to make neat towers. "Why do you call the house Dewfeathers?" Kyla asked.

"It's from a poem by Tennyson. 'Dewy-feathered sleep.' I hope people sleep well here. At first I meant to give the house a religious name -- Christian -- but people of all religions come here. I've had Buddhists and Moslems, Jews, even a fellow who worshiped an oak tree. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable -- put upon -- when they're sick."

"I believe you're the angel," Kyla said, but followed this remark with a smile to make it less serious. Judith threw back her head and laughed. A great booming amus.e.m.e.nt as strong as her inexhaustible tears.

"My nephew, he wants to create a memorial for his friend Carl."

"The boy who died of hantavirus."

"We don't know that it was hantavirus," Kyla said carefully. "Trace thinks, since Carl wanted to be a doctor, it would be appropriate if the memorial had something to do with your house. The kids made almost $300 in their car wash and bake sale."

"I'll think of something," Judith said without hesitation. "That's part of mourning. Making sure the one who's gone is remembered."

"A boy's ranch named after Rod," Kyla said.

"Maybe. New drapes for the front room upstairs? No, they're too temporary."

Judith scratched her head. "I have an artist friend. The kids could buy one of her paintings and we'll have a little bra.s.s plate made, 'In memory of -- '"

"Carl Goulding."

"Getting the money together helps the kids cope with their friend's death, and buying the picture helps a starving artist. I'll make sure the subject of the picture is suitable to a boy, something that cheers sick people. That works for good all around."

"Thank you." Kyla retraced her steps to fetch another box, relieved that she had good news to take back to Trace. Whit pa.s.sed her in the front room, grim-faced and that reminded her of the paper in his pocket. Nothing in the bed of the pickup, except for a small duffel and her rucksack. Whit stood on the front porch with Judith, one of the boxes still in his arms.

"Go with G.o.d, you two. Don't try to drive all the way to Argentia tonight. Four hundred miles, too much for one day. Plenty of beautiful spots to stop along the way."

"We'll think about it," Whit called. The strained mouth and bitter eyes had vanished. He looked, Kyla thought, like the cat who had swallowed the canary.

Judith had said something that cheered him up. Whit very carefully tucked the box against the front of the pickup.

"What are you grinning about?" Kyla asked.

"You're right, Judith's a bit more worldly than I've given her credit for." He hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand, and his smile made it triumph, not frustration. "She showed me Rod's will. Bequests to friends. My inheritance is in the box."

"Did you show Judith the paper in your pocket?"

"No need for her to see it. Moira Chase won't have a chance to present the will in probate court, because legally, Rod died penniless. Except for a fancy watch and his Remington."

Kyla knew instantly what the box contained. "He left you the Remington?"

"Yep, the bronc rider. I hope you're not a big fan of twisted aluminum triangles, or women without heads, or sculptures made of stuff from the dump."

"I have no opinion on sculpture at all," Kyla said.

Whit grinned. "All the better. For you and me, I mean."

Whit juggled the heavy box and his duffel bag on one arm, and positioned himself so he could see the expression on Kyla's face when she stepped into the hotel room. Fireplace, antique bed, and a view down Gold Canyon.

"Wow!" she said. She paused on the threshold and he collided with her naked back. His weakened hand dropped the duffel, he had the presence of mind to slide his free arm about her waist.

"I couldn't imagine where you were bringing me," she said. "Coming up the hill, I thought Virginia City, but then you drove straight through. I had no idea there was anything left of Gold Hill." She slid out of the circle of his arm, walked to the window, to the view of scattered ruins. The light cast a tempting shadow on her skirt...Slow and easy.

Since they had left Reno the only distraction from his bounding libido had been the pressure of the new boots on his right little toe. He kept hearing Judith's words when she thrust the box into his arms. "Come on, cowboy! Take the lady for a ride!" She had laughed, told him quite bluntly that his face had turned bright red. No wonder, because what was in the box reminded him of his dream, the bronc rider nestled between Kyla's thighs.

He dropped the box on the bed, stepped to the window, and wrapped his arms about her loosely. "Not much left of Gold Hill except the hotel. But it's the best.

The oldest operating hotel in Nevada." And, he added silently, a place that held no memory of Jenny. He had discovered it two years ago, and now made it a regular stop on Reno trips. Until now, always alone.