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you beat up men who try to seduce me," she sighed.
    "I don't want other men seducing you," he said without thinking. "Especially not a ladies' man like Hewett."
    "Why not?" she burst out, exasperated.
    "There's a question." He turned off onto a dirt road. "God, it's dusty!" he muttered.
    She spared the thick yellow dust a glance and turned her attention back to him. "Go ahead, avoid the question. That's what you always do when you don't want to talk about things."
    He lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at her. "Well, it works, doesn't it?" he asked reasonably. "All right, if you want to know the truth, sexual freedom may be in vogue all over the world, but I'm an old-fashioned man. I believe God made women to have children and be the foundation of a family. To my mind, that doesn't mix with easy virtue and high-pressured careers."
    She gaped at him. "You reactionary!" she accused. "You mean you think the little woman should stay at home, chained to a stove and slave to a man's hungers?" "What would you know about a man's hungers, Kate?" he asked suddenly, his dark eyes cutting and intent as they met hers across the seat. She shifted restlessly. "What do you know about a woman's heart?" she returned. "With an attitude like yours, you'll never find a woman to marry." ' 'Praise God,'' he replied easily. ' 'A wife is the last thing on earth I want." "Well, you'll never get an heir for the Spur without one," she returned. He frowned thoughtfully through a thin veil of smoke. With a brief glance in the rearview mirror, he pulled off onto the grassy shoulder and cut off the engine. All around them was open land, and Kate noticed the familiar Diamond Spur logo on each gate. What Jason had was a small empire. It stretched practically into San Frio, and encompassed large tracts of bottom land up and down the Frio and small tributaries. "I want to show you something." He got out, moving around the Bronco to open the door and help her down from the high cab. She was briefly close to him until he reached past her to shut the door. Then he leaned back against it, his long legs crossed, the cigarette dangling from one hand. "Blalock Donavan had a cabin out there," he said, nodding toward the flat plain that led to the Frio River. "The homestead burned down a month after he took possession, and he and some of the vaqueros put up a shanty just for him to sleep in. Soon after that, he married a Mexican girl and had seven kids in rapid succession. He built a house very much like the one I live in now, but the legend goes that he and the Mexican girl stood off a Comanche war party in that very cabin." "Where the mesquite stand is?" she asked, gesturing toward a thick grove of trees with long, feathery green fronds blowing in the wind. "The very one. There's a legend that she saw her patron saint standing beside the river, and he
    promised her that she and her husband would be spared. The name San Frio came loosely from it —San for Saint and Frio for the Frio River." He glanced at her and grinned. "Even legends have some truth, but Blalock was a gambler and a realist. He wrote in his diary that it was rain as much as divine intervention that saved them."
    She leaned back against the Bronco's door beside him, trying not to notice the powerful lines of his body, or the thick shadow of chest hair that peeked out at the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. "Rain?" she coaxed.
    "Comanches lashed the arrowheads on their arrows with rawhide," he explained. "When it rained, the humidity, so the story goes, made the rawhide relax." His dark eyes twinkled down at her. "So the arrowheads had this tendency to fall off in wet weather, before they got to the intended victim."
    She laughed gently at the irony of it. Of course, those warriors surely had other weapons just as deadly, and they were fabulous horsemen and fighters. But it was one tiny Achilles' heel in an otherwise terrifying memory, and she liked knowing that even those men had one.
    "The things you never