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she'd bluntly said. Sally Newcomb knew she was having a bridegroom purchased for her and she was just enough of a spoiled bitch to think she could assure his fidelity as well. Although Daisy wasn't so certain Martin had sold his fidelity when he signed over his name to Sally. Certainly he hadn't wasted any time repairing his friendship with her, and if his political future required
amicable
gestures to other women less principled, she suspected Sally would have competition.
    "As you know," Daisy replied, glad she had a legitimate, known excuse for refusing, "we're opening a new mine so I'm neck-deep in work. But thanks for the offer." She and Martin had been good friends, more than friends at times, and despite Sally's vivid characterization of her territorial prerogatives, they'd continue to be friends. Martin had an earnest boyishness she'd always found refreshing. "And tell Sally I'd love to come for dinner," she added, her smile innocent.
    "Excuse me. I didn't know you had company."
    The deliberate invasive tone didn't suit the courtesy of the sentence.
    Two glances swiveled to see Trey standing in the doorway, his pale silvery eyes trained on Martin. Still formally suited for business in navy worsted, yet he conveyed menace and aggression as though he wore beaded leather and held a warlance in his hand.
    "Sorry," Trey quietly added in a consciously much-delayed afterthought, his voice neither polite nor apologetic. Was Martin a welcome or unwelcome guest in Daisy's office?
    "Martin was just leaving," Daisy said, which didn't answer his question but effectively removed the object of his query in any event. "I told him he could count on our support in his election campaign."
    Taking his cue from hers, Trey smiled. Any need for chivalrous protection was apparently uncalled for. Daisy and Martin were reconciled and friends from the look of things. "Whatever we can do, Martin, just let us know," Trey offered, acknowledging Daisy's promise of aid. "Although Daisy's better at strategy than anyone else in our organization."
    Having been politely dismissed, Martin drained his glass and set it down. "I was just trying to talk Daisy into taking on the position of campaign manager for me," he said, rising to his feet, his worn boots in stark contrast to the sumptuous carpet.
    Relaxing against the soft cushion of her chairback, Daisy smiled up at the two tall men. "And I told Martin I'm scheduled for the next five years… or is it ten?" One dark brow lifted ironically. "Maybe Judge Nott's right. Pouring tea and playing the pianoforte would be considerably more relaxing."
    "Since you fortunately don't have to consider ploughing the north-forty," Trey waggishly reminded her. Walking the small distance to her desk, he dropped into her chair and comfortably propped his booted feet on her immaculate desktop.
    For the right man perhaps she would, Daisy realized in a rebellious inward reply. The revelation was startling. Which might explain why Martin's sudden marriage hadn't wounded her very deeply.
    Her smile was automatic, concealing the intemperate direction of her thoughts—Absarokee culture abjured farming. "Give my regards to Sally," she heard herself saying, her words instinctive and mechanical.
    Martin's hand gripping hers was warm, as she remembered.
    They both smiled.
    Waving from across the room, Trey said something, too, but Daisy wasn't listening. She was thinking: I should be sad and I'm not. It wasn't introspection but an observation only; Daisy wasn't introspective by nature. Like her father and brothers, she was motivated by action.
    "You don't seem distrait," Trey quietly said after the door closed on Martin, pleased, considering the circumstances, that she wasn't.
    Daisy shrugged with the smallest movement of her shoulder. "I know. I find it odd."
    Having had considerably more experience than his sister in the wildly passionate world of amour—more experience, many said, than any man since his father's fascinating