“It is a real home.” Sam stared into the empty fireplace dreamily as she said it, thinking back to the elegant apartment she had left behind her in New York. It had none of the qualities she felt here, not anymore, none of the love, none of the warmth, none of the tender comfort, the solace that she felt just sitting in the old rocking chair.

“Feel like you could stay forever, don't you?” He smiled at her and let his huge frame down into the leather chair. “Want me to light a fire?”

She quickly shook her head. “I'd worry too much about it after we left.”

“I wouldn't leave it burning, silly.”

“I know that.” They exchanged another smile. “But I'd worry anyway. You know, maybe a stray spark or something… this is too special to mess with. I wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize what they have here.” And then, looking at him more seriously, “I don't even feel like we should be here.”

“Why not?” The sharp chin jutted out just a little.

“It's not ours. It's theirs, and it's private and secret. They wouldn't want us to be here, or to know about them…”

“But we knew about them anyway, didn't we?” He asked the question gently and she nodded slowly.

“I always suspected. Barb-Aunt Caro's niece and I-we used to talk about it for hours, trying to guess, assuming and then not assuming. We were never really sure.”

“And once you grew up?”

She smiled in answer. “Then I sensed it. But still I always wondered.”

He nodded slowly. “So did I. I always thought I knew for certain. But I didn't really. Until I came here. This tells its own story.” He looked around again. “And what a nice story it tells.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded agreement and began to rock slowly in the old chair. “It would be nice to love someone like that, wouldn't it? Enough to build something together, and to keep it together for twenty years.”

“How long did your marriage last, Sam?” It was the first personal question he had asked her, and she looked at him squarely and answered him quickly, seemingly without emotion. But she couldn't help wondering how he knew she'd ever been married.

“Seven years. Yours?”

“Five. My boy was just a little guy when his mom took off.”

“I'll bet you were glad when you got him back.” And then suddenly she blushed furiously, remembering the story and what an insensitive thing she had inadvertently said. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean-”

“Hush.” He waved a hand gently. “I know what you meant. And hell, I was glad. But I was damn sorry his mom died.”

“Did you love her even after she left you?” It was an outrageous question but suddenly it didn't matter. It was as though here, in this shrine of Bill and Caro's, they could say anything and ask anything they wanted, as long as it mattered, as long as it wasn't designed to hurt.

Tate Jordan nodded his head slowly. “Yes, I loved her. In some ways I still do, and she's been dead near fifteen years. It's a funny thing. You don't always remember the way things got in the end. What about you, Sam, you too? You remember your husband when you first loved him, or remember what a son of a bitch he was at the end?”

Sam laughed softly at his honesty and nodded her head as she rocked. “God, isn't that the truth. Why? I keep asking myself. Why do I remember him when we went to college, when we got engaged, on out honeymoon, on our first Christmas? How come my first thought of him isn't with his socks and my guts hanging out of his suitcase when he walked out the door?” They both smiled at the image she'd created, and Tate shook his head and then turned to her again, his eyes filled with questions.

“Was that how it was, then? He walked out on you, Sam?”

“Yes,” she answered bluntly.

“For someone else?” She nodded, but she didn't look pained this time. She was just admitting to a simple truth. “That's how it was with my old lady too.” Sam noticed as she listened that now Tate sounded more like the other cowboys. Maybe here he could relax. He no longer had to impress her, and there was no one else around. “Tears your heart out, doesn't it? I was twenty-five years old, and I thought I'd die.”

“So did I.” Sam looked at him intently. “So did I. In fact,” she sighed softly, “I guess everyone in my office did too. That's why I'm here. To get over it. To get away.”

“How long has it been?”

“Since last August.”

“That's long enough.” He looked matter-of-fact and she bridled.

“Is it? For what? To forget him? To not give a damn anymore? Well, you're wrong on that one, buddy, try again.”

“Do you think about him all the time?”

“No.” She answered him honestly. “But too much.”

“You divorced yet?”

She nodded. “Yes, and he's already remarried, and they're having a baby in March.” Might as well tell him everything at one sitting. And in an odd way it felt good to get it all out of the way, all the painful truths, the true confessions. It was wonderful to get it over with. But she found now that he was watching her intently.

“I'll bet that hurts a lot.”

“What?” For a moment she didn't follow what he was saying.

“About the baby. Did you want children?”

She hesitated for only an instant, and then nodded as she suddenly left the rocking chair. “As a matter of fact, yes, Mr. Jordan. But I'm sterile. So my husband got what he wanted-somewhere else…” As she stood at the window, looking out at the lake, she didn't hear him coming, and then suddenly he was standing behind her, with his arms around her waist.

“It doesn't matter, Sam… and you're not sterile. Sterile is someone who can't love, who can't give anything, who is locked up and closed up and sold out. That's all that matters and that's not you, Sam. That's just not you.” He turned her around slowly to face him and there were tears in her eyes. She didn't want him to see them, but she couldn't resist the magnetic pull of his hands as he had turned her slowly by the waist. He gently kissed both her eyes, and then pressed his mouth down on hers for so hard and so long that at last she had to fight for breath.

“Tate… don't… no…” She was fighting, but weakly, and he only pulled her closer to him again. She could smell the scent of saddle soap and tobacco on him and feel the rough wool of his shirt beneath her cheek as she turned away and rested her face against his chest.

“Why not?” He put a finger under her chin and made her look up at him again. “Sam?” She said nothing, and he kissed her again. His voice was gentle in her ear when he spoke to her, and she could feel her heart pounding against her chest. “Sam, I want you, more than I've ever wanted any woman before.”

She spoke softly, but with feeling, as her eyes gazed into his. “That isn't enough.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand.” And then after a long moment, “But I don't offer anything more than that anymore.”

Now it was her turn. She smiled gently and asked the same question. “Why not?”

“Because-” He hesitated and then chuckled softly in the pretty little cabin. “Because I really am sterile. I don't have all of that left to give.”

“How do you know? Have you tried lately?”

“Not in eighteen years.” His answer was quick and honest.

“And you think it's too late to love anyone again?” He didn't answer and Sam looked around, her eyes pausing at the trophies and then coming back to him. “Don't you think he loves her, Tate?” He nodded. “So do I. He can't be any braver than you are, and he's one hell of a man.” And then as she looked at Tate, “So are you.”

“Does that mean…” He spoke softly, his lips playing with hers and her heart wreaking havoc between her ribs, wondering what she was doing kissing this stranger, this cowboy, and trying to justify to him why he should fall in love. She wanted to ask herself what in hell she thought she was doing, but there wasn't time. “Does that mean,” he went on, “that if I told you I loved you, that we'd be making love right now?” He looked amused, and with a small smile she shook her head. “I didn't think it did. So what are you trying to convince me of, and why?”

“I'm trying to convince you that it's not too late to fall in love again. Look at them, when they started out, they were older than we are now. They had to be.”

“Yeah…”But he didn't sound convinced. And then he turned his eyes back to her with a pensive expression. “What difference does it make to you if I ever fall in love again?”

“I'd like to know that it's possible.”

“Why? Are you doing research for science?”

“No,” she whispered. “For myself.”

“So that's it.” He ran a hand gently down her pale blond mane, fighting with the pins that held it firmly in the knot at the nape of her neck, and then suddenly he unleashed it and it all came tumbling down her back. “My God, your hair is lovely, Sam… palomino…” He said it ever so softly. “Little palomino… how beautiful you are…” The sun glinted in the window and danced among the gold threads in her hair.

“We should go back now.” She said it gently but firmly.

“Should we?”

“We should.”

“Why?” His lips were kissing her chin and her jawbone and her neck. She wasn't objecting, but she was also not going to let him go any farther than that. “Why should we go back now, Sam? Oh, God, you're so lovely…” She could feel a shiver run through him, and she pulled away slowly with a small shake of her head.

“No, Tate.”

“Why not?” For a moment there was fire in his eyes, and she was almost afraid.

“Because it's not right.”

“For chrissake, I'm a man, you're a woman… we're not children here. What do you want?” He raised his voice in lustful irritation. “The perfect romance, a wedding ring on your finger before you go to bed?”

“What do you want, cowboy? Just a quick roll in the hay?” The force of her words hit him like a bullet, and he looked stunned as slowly he shook his head.