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prosperous feed store. It seemed to Kate to be more an outgrowth of the ranch than a town, however, since Jason had a resident veterinarian, blacksmith, mechanic, accounting firm, computer specialist, and other assorted employees
    who could do everything from artificial insemination of cows to complicated laboratory cultures on specimens from the cattle.
    Huge oak trees lined the cracked, crumbling sidewalks that supported as many deserted buildings as occupied ones. The drugstore had the same overhead fans that had cooled Texas ranchers sixty years before, and there was a hitching post that Texas rangers had used as long ago as the 1890s.
    "It never changes," Kate said with a smile, watching two old men sit in cane-bottom chairs outside the grocery store, exchanging whittled pieces of wood. "If it lasts a hundred years, San Frio will still look like this."
    Jason closed his door and fastened his seat belt. "Thank God," he said. "I'd hate like hell to see it turn into a city the size of San Antonio."
    "And what's wrong with San Antonio?" she demanded.
    "Nothing," he replied. "Not one thing. I just like San Frio better. More elbow room. Fasten your seat belt." "We're only going to the ranch...." He looped an arm over the back of the seat and stared at her with pursed lips and a do-it-or-
    I'll-sit-here-all-day look. After a minute of that stubborn, concentrated scrutiny, Kate reached for her seat belt.
    "You intimidate people," she muttered. "Look at old Mr. Davis watching you."
    He glanced amusedly toward the store where the stooped old man was grinning toward them. Jason raised a hand and so did the old man. "My grandfather used to pal around with him," Kate said. "He said Mr. Davis was a hell-raiser in his time. And look at him now, whittling."
    "At least he's alive to do it," he replied.
    "My grandfather couldn't whittle, but he used to braid rope out of horsehair," Kate recalled. "He said it was hard on the hands, but it worked twice as well as that awful Mexican hemp to rope cattle." "The best ropes are made of nylon," Jason replied. He started the jeep and reversed it. "After it's properly seasoned, you can't buy a better throwing rope." "You ought to know," she mused. She studied his dark face, her eyes skimming over the sharp features, the straight nose. He had an elegance about him, although she decided he wasn't
    handsome at all. In his city clothes, he could compete with the fanciest businessman. He caught that silent scrutiny and cocked an eyebrow, looking rakish under the brim of his weatherbeaten hat. "Well, are you satisfied, now that I've been stitched and cross-stitched?"
    "I guess." She settled back against the seat as Jason roared out of town at his usual breakneck pace, bouncing her from seat to roof and down again. She grimaced. "At least you'll heal properly now."
    "I'd have healed properly alone, thank you. God knows why everybody on the place thinks I'll die if they don't drag you over every time I scratch myself," he muttered. "Because to you everything short of disembowelment is a scratch," she replied. "People do make mistakes from time to time, even you. It's human." "That's the one thing I'm not, cupcake," he replied dryly. "Ask any one of my men during roundup, and they'll tell you the same thing."
    He turned off the city road onto the long, sparsely settled ranch road that led eventually to the Diamond Spur. Clouds were gathering against the horizon, dark blue and threatening as they loomed over the gently rolling landscape.
    "Those are rain clouds," Jason remarked. "The weatherman was predicting some flash flooding this afternoon." He scowled. "If the Frio runs out of her banks before we finish the bottoms, we may lose some cattle."
    "You and your blessed cattle," she grumbled. "Don't you ever think about anything else?"
    "I can't afford to," he mused. "Ranchers are going bust all over. Don't you read the market bulletin anymore?" "Only when I can't find a fashion magazine," she returned.