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with the agent at the White River Indian Agency. He was trying to convince the tribe to learn how to plant crops. They preferred to race their ponies rather than spend time hoeing a field. What made the matter even worse was that Nathan Meeker thought the lush meadow where the Ute horse track was located would be a perfect place for planting the crops. White Owl pushed this unbearable thought from his mind and concentrated on the reason he was here.
    Beyond the crops was a sprawling house, barn, and corrals. All the larger structures looked new, and a couple smaller outbuildings were in the processof being erected. Wild Rose’s family was not poor, White Owl determined. Maybe she really was like the rich, hateful women he had met in Denver.
    No, he had not gotten that impression, and White Owl felt that he was usually good at judging people. However, he had been certain that she would come back to the racetrack to see him yesterday, and he had been wrong about that.
    Only a few minutes after he had stopped on top of the ridge, White Owl saw someone exit from the house. His heart felt as if it had just risen up to his throat. It was her . . . his Wild Rose. There was no doubt in his mind because his keen eyes could make out almost every detail. Her hair was in a tight bun at the back of her head, but the red hue shined like fire in the morning sky. She moved at a brisk pace, and the full skirt of her blue gingham dress swirled around her legs as she walked. There was something in her hand, but White Owl could not tell what it was.
    Although he had no way of knowing whether there was anyone else in the barn with her, White Owl was not in the mood to wait any longer for another opportunity to see Rose. He spotted a good location in a thicket of aspens to hide his pony. He didn’t bother to tie the horse up, because Niwaa—meaning “friend” in Ute—was the most loyal mount he had ever possessed. He would trust his life to the sleek black stallion.
    Making his way down the embankment, White Owl knew that he was not being wise. He wasvisible most of the way, and a rifle could be aimed directly at him. Still, he continued his descent until he was at the wide entrance to the barn. He paused at the side of the doorway with his back against the rough-hewn logs. Cautiously, he leaned to the side and glanced into the dim barn. The sunlight that shone through the front entrance was the only light, and the sides and back of the building were too dark to make out anything.
    But then White Owl heard her voice. She was talking to someone—or something. He unconsciously put his hand on the wood-handled knife that hung from a belt around his waist, then stepped slowly into the semidarkness of the barn. The strong smell of hay and horse manure assaulted his nose as he slipped into one of the empty stalls at the front of the barn.
    “Hello? Is that you, Donavan?”
    White Owl crouched down when he heard her call out. She had obviously heard him, too, but she thought he was someone named Donavan. White Owl gritted his teeth together and tightened his hold on the knife handle. Who was this Donavan? Could she have a husband? He had not thought of that possibility before now. The idea prompted a bolt of jealousy. It did not matter if she had a husband already. He would just steal her from him.
    “Must be hearing things, Molly girl.”
    She was talking to her horse, White Owl realized. He released his grip on the knife. She was good to her pony, and he thought that meant that she also had a good heart. As quietly as he could,White Owl rose and began to move toward her voice. There were three stalls on each side of the barn, and she was in the third stall on the right-hand side. A lantern hanging from a nail inside the stall cast a small light around the interior.
    Once White Owl had reached the stall where she was brushing her mare’s mane, he did not waste one second. He lunged into the stall, grabbed the girl from behind and immediately