He nodded. And then, “Sam, don't you miss your job?”

She was silent and pensive for a moment before answering and then shook her head. “You know, the amazing thing is that I don't. Caroline says it was that way for her too. When she left her old life, she just left it. And she never had any desire to go back. I feel that way too, I miss it less and less every day.”

“But you miss it some?” He had trapped her, and she rolled over on her stomach now and looked into his eyes as she lay on the couch and he sat near her with his back to the fire.

“Sure, I miss some of it. Like sometimes I miss my apartment, or some of my books, or my things. But I don't miss my life there. Or my job. Most of the things that I do miss are all the things that I could bring here if I wanted to. But the job… it's so strange, I spent all that time working so hard, and trying so damn hard to become important, and now…” She shrugged at him and looked like a very young, very blond sprite. “I just don't give a damn about that anymore. All I care about is if the steers are rounded up, if there's work to be done, if Navajo needs new shoes, if the fence in the north pasture is down. I don't know, Tate, it's as though something happened. As though I became a different person when I left New York.”

“But somewhere in you, Sam, is still that old person. That person who wanted to write prize-winning commercials and be important in your line of work. You're going to miss that one day.”

“How do you know that?” She looked suddenly angry. “Why do you keep pushing me to be what I don't want to be anymore? Why? Do you want me to go back? Are you scared of the commitment, Tate, of what it might mean?”

“Maybe. I have a right to be scared, Sam, you're a hell of a woman.” He knew that she wasn't willing to keep their life together a secret forever, that she wanted their love out in the open. That was something that worried him a great deal.

“Well, don't push me. Right now I don't want to go back. And if I do, I'll tell you.”

“I hope so.” But they both knew that her leave of absence had only six more weeks to run. She had promised herself that she would make a decision by mid-March. She still had a month. But only two weeks later, as they rode slowly back from the secret cabin where they still spent idyllic Sundays, he looked mischievous and told her that he had a surprise.

“What kind of surprise?”

“You'll see when we get home.” He leaned over toward her from where he sat on his pinto and kissed her full on the lips.

“Let's see… what could it be…?” She managed to look both naughty and pensive, and also very young, at the same time. She had her long blond hair in two pigtails tied with red ribbons, and she was wearing a brand-new pair of red snakeskin cowboy boots. Tate had teased her horribly about them, telling her that they were even worse than Caro's green ones, but with the Blass and Ralph Lauren and Halston wardrobe cast off since she'd arrived at the ranch, they had been her only whimsical purchase in three months. “You bought me another pair of boots? Violet ones this time?”

“Oh, no…” he groaned as they rode slowly home.

“Pink?”

“I think I'm going to throw up.”

“All right, something else. Let's see… a waffle iron?” He shook his head. “A new toaster?” She grinned, she had set fire to theirs only last week. “A puppy?” She looked hopeful and he smiled but once again shook his head. “A turtle? A snake? A giraffe? A hippopotamus?” She laughed and so did he. “Hell, I don't know. What is it?”

“You'll see.”

As it turned out, it was a brand-new color television, which he had just bought through Josh's brother-in-law in the nearest town. Josh had promised to drop it off at Tate's place on Sunday. And Tate had told him to leave it inside while he was out. And when he and Samantha came through the door, he pointed with an expression of pride mixed with glee.

“Tate! Babe, this is great!” But she was a lot less excited than she knew he was. She had been perfectly happy without one. And then she pouted coyly. “Does this mean the honeymoon is over?”

“Hell no!” He was quick to prove it, but afterward he turned on the TV. The Sunday news report was on. It was a special weekly wrap-up usually done by someone else, but tonight for some reason John Taylor was handling it, and as Sam saw him she suddenly stopped and stared at him, as though she was seeing him for the first time. It had been almost three months since she'd seen his face on TV, five since she'd seen him in person, and she realized now that she didn't care anymore. All that terrible hurt and pain had faded and all that was left now was a vague feeling of disbelief. Was this truly the man she had once lived with? Had she really loved that man for eleven years? Now as she watched him she thought he looked plastic and pompous, and suddenly the clear realization of how totally self-centered he was came to her for the first time and she wondered why she had never seen it before. “You like him, Sam?” Tate was watching her with interest, his angular rugged countenance in complete contrast to the baby-smooth golden boy looks of the younger man on the TV screen. And with an odd little smile Sam slowly shook her head, and then turned to face Tate.

“No, I don't.”

“You're sure watching him pretty close.” And then Tate grinned. “Go on, you can tell the truth. Does he turn you on?”

This time it was Samantha who grinned. She smiled with a look of freedom and relief and suddenly, finally, she knew it was over. She no longer had any tie whatsoever to John Taylor. She was her own woman now, and it was Tate Jordan whom she loved. In fact she didn't even give a damn if they'd had their baby, and she didn't care if she never saw either John or Liz again. But Tate was persistent as he watched her, sprawled out in the bed he had bought to accommodate their loving, with the soft blue blanket held to her chest.

“Come on, Sam, does he?”

“Nope,” she finally answered with a note of triumph. She kissed Tate playfully on the neck then. “But you do.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Are you kidding?” She whooped with laughter. “After what we just did all day you can doubt that you turn me on? Tate Jordan, you are craaaaaazzyyyy!”

“I don't mean that, silly. I mean about him. Look… look at that pretty blond newsman.” He was teasing her and Sam was laughing. “Look how pretty he is. Don't you want him?”

“Why? Can you get me a special deal? He probably sleeps in a hair net, and he's sixty years old and has had two face-lifts.” For the first time in her life she was enjoying making fun of John. He had always taken himself so damn seriously, and she had let him. The face and body and image and life and happiness of John Robert Taylor had been of prime importance to both of them. But what about her? When had Sam really mattered, if ever? Certainly not at the end when he ran off with Liz. Her face grew serious again as she remembered.

“I think you like him and you're too chicken to admit it.”

“Nope. You're wrong, Tate. I don't like him at all.” But she said it with such an air of conviction that he turned his head to look at her again, this time with a look of serious inquiry that hadn't been there before.

“Do you know him?” She nodded, but she looked neither moved nor amused. Mostly she looked indifferent, as though they were talking about a plant or a used car. “Do you know him well?”

“I used to.” She could see Tate bridle, and she wanted to tease him just a little. She placed a hand on his powerful naked chest and then smiled. “Don't get yourself excited, sweetheart. It was nothing. We were married for seven years.” For a moment everything seemed to stop in the little room. She could feel Tate's whole body tense beside her, and he sat up in the bed next to her and stared down at her with a look of dismay.

“Are you putting me on, Sam?”

“No.” She looked at him matter-of-factly, unnerved by his reaction, but not sure what it meant. It was probably just shock.

“He was your husband?”

She nodded again. “Yes.” And then she decided that the occasion needed further explanation. It wasn't every day that one saw the ex-husband of one's current lover on the television screen as one went to bed at night. She told him everything.

“But the funny thing is that I was just thinking as I watched him that I really don't give a damn anymore. When I was in New York, every night I used to watch that damn broadcast. I'd watch both of them, John and Liz, doing their cutesy little routine and talking about their precious baby as though the whole world cared that she was pregnant, and it used to turn me inside out. Once when I came in, Caro was watching it, and I almost felt sick. And you know what happened tonight when that plastic face came on the screen?” She looked at Tate expectantly but got no answer. “Absolutely nothing happened. Nothing. I didn't feel a damn thing. Not sick, not nervous, not pissed off, not left out. Nothing.” She smiled broadly. “I just don't care.”

With that, Tate got up, stalked across the room, and turned off the set. “I think that's wonderful. You used to be married to one of America's best-looking young heroes, clean-cut preppie John Taylor of television fame, and he leaves you and you find yourself a tired old cowboy, some ten or twelve years older than our hero, without a goddamn dime to his name, shoveling shit on a ranch, and you're trying to tell me that this is bliss? Not only is this bliss, but it's permanent bliss. Is that it, Samantha?” He was steaming, and Samantha felt helpless as she watched. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why? What difference does it make? Besides, he is not nearly as well known or successful as you seem to think he is.” But that wasn't quite true.

“Bullshit. You want to see my bank account, baby, and compare it to his? What does he make every year? A hundred grand? Two? Three? You know what I make, Samantha? You want to know? Eighteen thousand before taxes, and that was a big raise for me because I'm the assistant foreman. I'm forty-three years old, for chrissake, and compared to him, I don't make shit.”