4

The alarm went off next to Sam's bedside at four the next morning. She groaned as she heard it and then reached out a hand to turn it off. But as she did she felt the breeze on her fingers and suddenly realized that something was different. She opened one eye, looked around, and realized that she wasn't at home. Not in her own at least. She looked around once more, in total confusion, and then up at the frilly white canopy above her, and suddenly she knew. She was at Caroline Lord's ranch, in California, and that morning she was going to ride with the other hands. The idea sounded a little less appealing than it had the previous evening. The prospect of leaping out of bed, taking a shower, and actually leaving the building before she even had breakfast, and then, after being faced with a plate heaped high with sausages and eggs, getting on a horse, all probably before six A.M., sounded exceedingly grim. But this was what she had come west for, and as she considered sleeping in for the first morning, she knew she couldn't do it. Not if she was going to make friends with the men. Besides, letting her ride with the men was a privilege Caroline had given her. And if she was to be respected by the ranch hands, she would have to show herself as tough, as willing, as knowing, as good with a horse, as ready to ride, as any of them.

She wasn't greatly encouraged when she peered into the darkness after her shower and saw that the countryside was shrouded in a thin veil of rain. She climbed into an old pair of blue jeans, a white button-down shirt, a thick black turtleneck sweater, wool socks, and her own riding boots that she had worn religiously when she rode in the East. They were beautiful custom-made boots from Miller's and not at all the kind of thing to wear on a ranch, but she figured that she could buy a pair of cowboy boots in town that weekend, and in the meantime she'd have to make do. She pulled her long blond hair into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, splashed some more cold water on her face, grabbed an old blue down parka that she had worn skiing and a pair of brown leather gloves. Gone were the days of Halston, Bill Blass, and Norell. But what she was going to be doing was no longer that kind of work. Elegance didn't matter, only warmth and comfort. And she knew that when she returned to her room that evening she would do so with every muscle shrieking, every joint aching, her seat numb, her knees raw, her eyes blurred from the wind, her face tingling, her hands clenched in the position she would use all day with the reins. Knowing that was certainly no incentive to get up. She slipped out of her room into the hall and noticed the narrow sliver of light under Caroline's door. She thought of saying good morning, but it seemed an ungodly hour to disturb anyone, and on tiptoe Sam continued toward the front door. She closed it softly behind her, pulling the hood of her parka over her head and pulling the string tight in the soft rain, her boots making little squishing noises in the puddles that had already formed on the ground.

It seemed to take forever to reach the main hall where the men ate and where some of them gathered at night to play pool or cards. It was a large, freshly painted, rambling building, with beamed ceilings, a brick fireplace tall enough to stand in, a record player, a TV, several game tables, and a handsome antique pool table. As Sam had always known her to, Caroline Lord treated her men well.

For just an instant as Sam reached the doorway, her hand froze on the knob and she suddenly wondered what she had done. She was about to invade the all-male sanctum, share their meals with them in the morning and at lunchtime, work beside them, and pretend to be one of them. What would they think of the intrusion? Suddenly Samantha's knees trembled as she wondered if Caroline or Bill had warned them, and she stood there almost too terrified to go inside. As she stood there in the rain, hesitating, with her hand on the doorknob, a voice just behind her muttered, “Come on, dammit, man, it's cold.” She wheeled around, startled at the voice she hadn't expected, and found herself face to face with a stocky man with dark brown hair and dark eyes, of approximately her own height and age. He looked as surprised as she did, and then with a rapid hand to his mouth at the error, his face broke into a broad grin. “You're Miss Caroline's friend, aren't you?” She nodded speechlessly, attempting to smile. “Sorry… but could you open the door anyway? It is cold!”

“Oh…” She heaved the door wide. “I'm sorry. I just… did she… did she say anything about me?” Her porcelain cheeks were flushed from embarrassment and the chill rain.

“Sure did. Welcome to the ranch, miss.” He smiled and moved past her, welcoming but not particularly anxious to say more. He instantly greeted two or three of the other ranch hands and then moved toward the huge open kitchen, greeted the cook, and grabbed a cup of coffee and a bowl of Cream of Wheat.

Samantha saw then that the room was filled with men like the one who had just entered, all wearing blue jeans, sturdy jackets, heavy sweaters, their hats left on pegs on the wall, their cowboy boots clattering loudly as they made their way across the wood floor. There were more than twenty of them in the large hall that morning, talking in small groups or drinking coffee alone. Half a dozen were already seated at the long table, eating eggs and bacon or hot cereal, or finishing a second or third cup of coffee. But wherever one looked, there was a man engaged in his own morning ritual, in a man's world, about to engage in man's work, and for the first time in her life Samantha felt totally out of place. She felt her face flush hotly again as she walked hesitantly toward the kitchen, smiled nervously at two of the men as she helped herself to a cup of black coffee, and then attempted to disappear into the woodwork at the far end of the room.

At first glance there was not a single face she remembered. Most of them were young and probably relatively new there, and only two or three of them looked as though they could have worked anywhere for a long time. One was a broad, heavyset man in his early or mid-fifties who looked a lot like Bill King. He had the same kind of build, but his eyes weren't as warm and his face wasn't as kind. He glanced only once at Samantha and then turned his back to her to say something to a young freckled redhead. They both laughed and then walked across the room to a table where they joined two other men. For an instant of paranoia Samantha wondered if she would be the source of amusement, if it had been totally crazy of her to come here, and even crazier for her to want to ride with the men. This was a far cry from her days here with Barbara, when they had come to play around on the ranch. For one thing they had both been very young and very pretty and it had delighted all the men just to watch them hang around and ride. But this was different. Samantha was trying to masquerade as their equal, something they would surely not tolerate, if they even noticed her presence at all.