He rode toward her in a straight line, with the pinto at a full gallop, making his way toward her with almost fierce determination, and then at the last moment he swerved to fall in right at her side. She eyed him carefully for an instant, not sure of what she'd see there, afraid that once again he'd be angry, that he'd spoil the moment, and that the friendship that had been conceived only the night before would already die. But what she saw instead in those deep green eyes that looked at her so fiercely was not anger this time, but something much gentler. He said nothing to her, he only watched her, and then nodded and led the pinto on. It was clear that he wanted her to follow him, and she did, with Black Beauty moving effortlessly down the trails that he sought out, over hills, and into little valleys, until at last they were on a part of the property she had never seen. There was a small lake there, and a little cabin, and as they came over the last hill and saw it Tate and the steaming pinto slowed. He turned then to smile at her in the early morning, and Samantha returned the smile as she watched him rein in his horse and dismount.

“Are we still on the ranch?”

“Yes.” He looked up at her. “Over past that clearing is where it ends.” The clearing was just behind the cabin.

Samantha nodded. “Whose is that?” She indicated the cabin, wondering if there was anyone there.

Tate didn't give her a direct answer. “I found it a long time ago. I come here now and then, not often, but when I want to be alone. It's all locked up, and no one knows I come out here.” It was a bid for secrecy and Samantha understood.

“Do you have the keys?”

“More or less.” The handsome leathered face broke into a grin. “There's a key on Bill King's ring that fits it. I helped myself to it once.”

“And made a copy?” Samantha looked shocked, but he nodded his head. Above all else Tate Jordan was an honest man. If Bill King had asked him, he would have told him. But Bill never had, and Tate figured he wouldn't care. Above all he didn't want to draw attention to the forgotten cabin. It meant a lot to him.

“I keep some coffee in there, if it hasn't gone stale. Want to get down for a bit and step inside?” He didn't tell her that he kept a bottle of whiskey there too. Nothing with which to commit excesses, but something to keep him warm and soothe his mind. He came here sometimes when he was worried, or if something was bothering him and he needed to be alone for a day. Many was the Sunday he had spent at this cabin, and he had his own ideas as to what kind of purpose it had once served. “Well, Miss Taylor?” Tate Jordan watched her for a long moment and she nodded.

“I'd like that.” The lure of coffee appealed to her, this morning it was unusually cold. He gave her a hand down and helped her tie up the handsome horse, and then he led the way toward the door of the cabin, extracted his copy of the key, opened the door, and stepped aside to let her in. Like the rest of the cowboys on the ranch, he was always gallant. It was like a last touch of the Old West, and she looked up and smiled at him as she walked slowly in.

There was a dry, musty smell in the cabin, but as she looked around her her eyes widened instantly in surprise. The large airy single room was decorated in pretty flowered chintzes, they were somewhat old-fashioned, but still very handsome and very appealing. There was a little couch, two thickly cushioned wicker chairs, and in a corner by the fire was a huge handsome leather chair that Samantha knew instantly was an antique. There was a small writing desk in a corner, there was a radio, a small record player, there were several shelves of books, a large friendly fireplace, and a number of funny objects that must have meant something to the person who owned the cabin: two large handsome trophies, a boar's head, a collection of old bottles, some funny old photographs in ornate old-fashioned frames. There was a thick bear rug spread out in front of the hearth and a delicate antique rocking chair with a needlepoint footstool standing nearby. It was like a haven in a fairy tale, hidden deep in the forest, the kind of place one would want to come to hide from the rest of the world. And then through an open doorway Sam saw a small pretty little blue room with a large handsome brass bed and a beautiful quilt, soft-blue walls, another impressive bear rug, and a little brass lamp with a small shade. The curtains were blue and white and very frilly, and there was a large handsome landscape of another part of the ranch hanging over the bed. It was a room where one would want to spend the rest of one's life.

“Tate, whose is this?” Samantha looked vaguely puzzled, and Tate only pointed to one of the trophies perched on a little shelf on the near wall.

“Take a look.”

She moved closer and her eyes widened as she looked at the trophy and then Tate and then back again. It bore the legend WIIXIAM B. KING 1934. The second one was Bill King's too, but dated 1939- And then Sam looked over her shoulder again at Tate, this time with fresh concern.

“Is this his cabin, Tate? Should we be here?”

“I don't know the answer to the first question, Sam. And to the second, probably not. But once I found this place, I could never stay away.” His voice was deep and smoky as his eyes reached out for Sam's.

She looked around silently and nodded again. “I can see why.”

As Tate moved quietly toward the kitchen she began to look at the old photographs, and although she thought there was something familiar about them, she was never really sure. And then, feeling almost embarrassed, she drifted into the bedroom, her eye caught by the large landscape over the bed. As she reached it and could easily read the signature, suddenly she stopped. The artist had signed her name in red in the lower right-hand corner. C. Lord. Sam turned around then and was about to flee the tiny bedroom, but the room was blocked by Tate's vast frame in the doorway. He was holding out a cup of steaming instant coffee and watching her face.

“It's theirs, isn't it?” Here was the answer to her question, the question she and Barbara had mused over so often, and laughed about, and giggled over. Finally, in this tiny cozy blue room with the patchwork quilt and the huge brass bed that almost filled the room, she knew. “Isn't it, Tate?” Suddenly Sam wanted confirmation, from him if no one else. He nodded slowly and handed her the bright yellow cup.

“I think so. It's a nice place, isn't it? Somehow, all put together it's just like them.”

“Does anyone else know?” She felt as though she had uncovered a holy secret and had a responsibility to both of them to know if it was secure.

“About them?” He shook his head. “At least no one's ever been sure. But they've been awfully careful. Neither of them ever gives it away. When he's with the men he talks about ‘Miss Caroline’ just like the rest of us, even calls her that most of the time to her face. He treats her with respect, but no particularly marked interest, and she does the same with him.”

“Why?” Samantha looked puzzled as she sipped her coffee and then set down the cup and sat on the edge of the bed. “Why didn't they just let people know years ago and get married if that was what they wanted?”

“Maybe they didn't want that.” Tate looked as though he understood it, and as she looked up at his weathered face, it was clear that Sam did not. “Bill King's a proud man. He wouldn't want it said that he married Miss Caro for her money, or for her ranch or her cattle.”

“So they have this?” Sam looked around her in fresh amazement. “A little cottage in the woods, and he tiptoes in and out of her house for the next twenty-five years.”

“Maybe it kept the romance fresh for them.” Tate Jordan was smiling as he sat down next to Samantha on the bed. “You know, there's something very special about what you see here.” He looked around himself with warmth and respect that were almost akin to awe. “You know what you see, Samantha?” He didn't wait for the answer but went on. “You see two people who love each other, whose lives blend perfectly, her paintings and his trophies, their old photographs and records and books, his comfortable old leather chair and her little rocking chair and her footstool by the fire. Just look at it, Sam.” Together they glanced out of the bedroom doorway. “Just look. You know what you see out there? You see love. That's what love is, those copper pots, and that old needlepoint cushion, and that funny old pig's head. That's two people you see out there, two people who've loved each other for a long time, and still do.”

“You think they still come here?” Sam was almost whispering and Tate laughed.

“I doubt it. Or if they do, not much anyway. I probably come here more than they do. Bill's arthritis has been bothering him a lot the last few years. I suspect”-he lowered his voice-“that they stay pretty close to the big house.” As he said it Samantha remembered the nightly opening and closing of doors. Yet even after all these years they met in hidden ways at midnight hours.

“I still don't understand why they keep it a secret.”

Tate looked at her for a long time and then shrugged. “Sometimes that's just the way it is.” And then he smiled at her. “This isn't New York, Samantha. A lot of old-fashioned values still apply.” It didn't make sense to her anyway. In that case they should have gotten married. Good Lord, it had gone on for twenty years after all.

“How did you find this place, Tate?” She stood up again and wandered back out to the living room and a few minutes later sat down in Caroline's comfortable old rocking chair.

“I just happened on it one day. They must have spent a lot of time here years back. It's got the same kind of feeling as a real home.”