hen she emerged from the barn, she found that the shooting schedule had been mysteriously rearranged while she was inside, and instead of filming her scenes with Dash, they were shooting a scene with Blake and Eleanor. Everyone was unnaturally busy, and nobody would meet her eyes, but she saw by their smug expressions that they all knew exactly what had happened inside. The sons of bitches had probably pressed their ears right up to the barn door.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. She wasn't going to let anybody laugh at her. She'd take care of all of them. She'd—

"I wouldn't advise it," Dash said softly at her side.

She looked up at him, eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, mouth set in a firm line. She waited for the familiar resentment to bubble up inside of her, but she felt a peculiar sense of peace instead. Someone had finally drawn a line in the sand and told her she couldn't cross it.

"I suggest you make yourself an appointment to see Ross before you leave today. There are a few people you need to get un-fired."

She didn't really believe he'd hold her down and let everybody take a whack at her, but she wasn't going to take a chance, and she nodded.

"And don't even think about whining to anyone from the network about what happened today. It's between you and me."

A small spark of spirit returned to her. "For your information, I didn't have any intention of whining to anybody."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good. You might have more brains than I've been giving you credit for." He touched the brim of his hat with his thumb and began to walk away.

She watched him for several seconds. Her shoulders drooped. By tomorrow, he wouldn't even speak to her. It would be just like always.

His steps slowed and then halted. He turned back to her, studying her for a moment before he spoke. "I know you like horses. If you want to drive out to my ranch some weekend, I'll show you a few I've got."

Her heart swelled in her chest until it seemed to fill every space. "Really?"

He nodded and once again began to walk toward his motor home.

"When?" She took several quick steps after him.

"Well..."

"This weekend? Would Saturday be all right? I mean, Saturday's good for me, and if it's good for you..."

He stuck his thumb in the pocket of his jeans and looked as if he regretted his invitation.

Please, she prayed. Please don't take it back.

"Well—This weekend isn't real good for me, but I guess next Saturday would be okay."

"That's great!" She could feel her grin stretching like Silly Putty over her face. "Next Saturday'd be just great."

"All right then. Let's make it around noon."

"Noon. Oh, that's great. Noon'll be fine."

Her heart floated like a baby's bath toy. It continued to float right through the rest of the day, allowing her to ignore the crew members' smirks and the satisfaction in Liz's eyes. Despite the blow to her pride, she was surprised at how good it felt not being bad any longer.

That evening she cornered Ross in his office and asked him to rehire Melanie and Jack. He agreed with alacrity, and before she left the studio, she called both of them and apologized. Neither of them forced

her to grovel, which made her feel even worse than she had before.

The next week dragged on forever as she waited for Saturday and her visit to the ranch. She bent over backward trying to be nice to everybody, and although most of the crew continued to keep her at a distance, a few of them began to warm up to her.

On Saturday she drove down a narrow dirt road in the rugged mountains north of Malibu and caught her first glimpse of Dash Coogan's ranch. It was tucked neatly into the hills amidst chaparral, oaks, and sycamore. A pair of red-tailed hawks circled in the sky overhead.

She pulled over to the side. The clock on the Trans Am's dash read 10:38 and she wasn't due at the ranch until noon. She flipped down the visor and studied her reflection, trying to decide if the lipstick she'd put on looked silly with her dog's dish haircut. It did. But then, everything looked silly with the haircut, so what difference did it make?

The clock read 10:40.

What if he had forgotten? Her palms were sweating, and she wiped them on her jeans. She tried to tell herself that he wouldn't forget something so important. Their day together was going to be everything she had dreamed about. He would show her around the place. They'd talk about horses, go riding, stop and talk some more. Maybe his housekeeper would have packed a picnic lunch. They'd spread a blanket next to a creek and share a few secrets. He'd smile at her just like he smiled at Janie and—

She pressed her eyes shut. She was getting too old for this kind of childish fantasy. She should be daydreaming about sex, instead. But whenever she did that, she imagined herself making love with Eric Dillon and that got her excited and upset all at the same time. Still, daydreaming about Dash Coogan treating her like Dash Jones treated his daughter Janie wasn't any better.

The clock read 10:43. One hour and seventeen minutes to go.

The hell with it. She turned the key in the ignition and pulled out on the road. She would just pretend she'd gotten the time mixed up.

The ranch house was a rambling one-story stone-and-cypress structure with green shutters at the windows and a front door painted charcoal gray. Considering the fact that Dash was a star, the place was relatively modest, probably the reason the IRS hadn't made him sell it. She got out of the Trans Am and walked up the steps to the front door. As she pushed the bell, she lectured herself about mature behavior. If she didn't want people to treat her as if she were fourteen, she shouldn't act that way. She needed to develop the gift of restraint. And she had to stop wearing her heart on her sleeve all the time.

She pushed the bell again. There were no signs of life. Her nervousness took a quantum leap into full anxiety, and she leaned on the bell. He couldn't have forgotten. This was too important. He—

The door swung open.

He had obviously just gotten out of bed. He wore only a pair of khaki pants, and he hadn't shaved. The wiry strands of his hair lay flat on one side of his head and stuck out on the other as if a herd of cattle had run a stampede right through it. Above all, he didn't look happy.

"You're early."

She swallowed hard. "Am I?"

"I said noon."

"Did you?"

"Yeah."

She didn't know what to do. "Do you want me to go for a walk or something?"

"As a matter of fact, I'd appreciate it."

"Dash?" A woman's voice called out from inside the house.

A look of displeasure came over his face. There was something familiar about the low husky tones of that female voice. Honey bit down on her lip. It was none of her business.

"Dash?" the woman called out again. "Where's your coffeepot?"

Honey's mouth gaped in outrage. "Dusty!"

Lisa Harper's familiar blond head appeared behind his shoulder. "Honey, is that you?"

"It's me all right," she replied through clenched teeth.

Lisa's eyes widened in baby-blue innocence. "Oops."

"She's sleeping with you, too?" Honey exclaimed, glaring at Dash.

"How about you go take that walk now?" he replied.

She ignored him and glared at Lisa. "You certainly do spread your favors around."

"Comparison shopping," Lisa replied sweetly. "And just between the two of us, the old cowboy leaves Eric Dillon way back at the starter's gate."

"I think that's just about enough," Dash said. "Honey, if one word of this gets to those writers, your butt is going to become public property. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you," Honey replied sullenly.

Lisa, who was always looking for ways to expand Dusty's role, grinned at Honey behind Dash's back, obviously hoping she'd talk her head off.

"I'll go take that walk now," Honey said, before he could order her to leave. She fled down the walk, barely breathing until she heard the front door close behind her.

Later, as she stood over by the paddock admiring three of Dash's horses and breathing in the tang of eucalyptus overlaid with the faint scent of manure, she heard Lisa drive away. Envy gnawed at her as she thought of Lisa and Dash, Lisa and Eric—Lisa, who knew all the secrets of womanhood that were still mysteries to her.

Not long after, Dash appeared wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt with a pair of jeans and worn cowboy boots. Beneath his Stetson, the sides of his hair were still damp from his shower. He extended one of the two mugs of coffee he carried toward her. After she took it, he put a foot up on the fence rail and gazed out at the horses.

She put a foot up, too.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. She was beginning to discover that it was less work to apologize than to defend herself when she was wrong. "I knew I wasn't supposed to show up until noon."

He sipped his coffee from the white ceramic mug. "I figured you did."

That was all. He didn't give her any big lectures or say anything more about it. Instead, he pointed toward the animals in the paddock.

"Those two are quarter horses, and the other's an Arabian. I'm boarding them for friends."

"They're not yours?"

"I wish they were, but I was forced to sell mine off."

"The IRS?"

"Yep."

"Scum suckers."

"You got that right."

"We were audited once, right before Uncle Earl died. Sometimes I think that's what killed him. Nobody except serial killers should have to deal with the IRS. It ended up that I had to handle most of it."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen. But I was always good in math."

"There's a lot more than math involved when you're up against the IRS."

"I'm smart about people. That helps."

He shook his head and chuckled. "I've got to tell you, Honey, that in all my life I can't ever remember meeting anybody—male or female—who was a worse judge of character than you are."

She bristled. "That's a terrible thing to say. And it's not true."

"It's true all right. The most competent people on the crew are the ones you give the most trouble to, and it's not just the crew, either. You only seem to attach yourself to people with character faults a mile wide. The best people are the ones you turn your back on."

"Like who?" she inquired indignantly.

"Well, Liz for one. She's smart and she's got integrity. She also liked you right from the beginning, although I have no idea why."

"That's ridiculous. Liz Castleberry is the queen of the bitches. And she hates my guts. It seems to me that all you've proved is that I'm a better judge of character than you are."

He snorted.

Honey pressed her point. "I'll give you a perfect example of how vindictive she is. Last week I got back to my trailer and I found a package from her. There was a note with it that said she was sorry she'd missed my birthday, and she hoped I'd like her present even though it was late."

"That doesn't sound too vindictive to me."

"That's what I thought until I opened the present. You'll never guess what was inside."

"A hand grenade?"

"A dress."

"Imagine that. You should take her to court."

"No. Listen. Not just any dress, but this frilly little yellow thing with a ruffle. And these stupid-looking shoes. And pearls."

"Pearls? Well, now."

"Don't you see? She was making fun of me."

"I'm having a little trouble following you here, Honey."

"It looked like something a Barbie doll would wear, not a person like me. If I put an outfit like that on, everybody would fall on the floor laughing. It was so—"

"Feminine?"

"Yes. Exactly. Silly. You know. Frivolous."

"Instead of being made out of barbed wire and razor blades."

"That's not funny."

"So what did you do?"

"I bundled it right back up and returned it to her."

For the first time he looked irritated. "Now why did you have to go and do that? I thought we decided that you were going to mend you manners."

"I didn't throw it at her."

"That's a relief."

"I merely said that I appreciated the gesture, but I didn't feel right accepting a gift from her because I hadn't bought her a birthday present."

"And then you threw it at her."

She grinned at him. "I'm a reformed character, Dash. Emily Post would have been proud of me."

He smiled, then reached out, and for a moment she thought he was going to rumple her hair, just like he rumpled Jane Marie's. But his arm fell back to his side, and he walked over to talk to the stable hand who worked for him.

He picked out one of the quarter horses for her, a gentle mare since she wasn't an experienced rider, while he took the spirited Arabian. As they headed out into the hills, the sun felt warm on her head, and she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so happy. Dash sat in the saddle with the easy slouch of a man who was more at home on a horse than he was on the ground. They rode in companionable silence for some time before the compulsion to talk became too much for her.

"It's beautiful out here. How much of the land is yours?"

"All of it used to be mine, but the IRS took a lot of it. Pretty soon it'll be part of the Santa Monica National Recreation Area." He pointed off to a steep-walled canyon on their right. "That was the northern boundary of my property, and that creek up ahead marked the western edge. It dries up in the summer, but it's real pretty now."

"You've still got a lot left."

"It's all relative, I guess. I don't think a man can ever own too much land."

"Did you grow up on a ranch?"

"I grew up just about everywhere."

"Did your family move around a lot?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't mean anything."

"You moved around by yourself?" she asked.

"Just what I said."

"You didn't say anything."

"That's right."

He gazed out at the line of trees that grew near the creek bed. She studied his profile, taking in the deep-set eyes and strong nose, the high cheekbones and square jaw. He looked like a national monument.

Still staring into the distance, he finally spoke. "I'm a private man, Honey. I don't like the idea of my personal life being broadcast to the world."

She looked down at her hands where they rested on the pommel. "You think I'll talk to the writers, don't you?"

"You've been known to do it."

"I don't have to talk to them. It's just that things get bottled up inside me and I don't have anybody else

to tell."

"What you do is up to you, but my business is my own."

"Like you and Lisa."

"Like that."

"Lisa's just praying I'll tell the writers that I found the two of you in a compromising situation."

"Lisa's ambitious."

She sighed. "I won't say anything."

"We'll see."

His lack of faith made her angry. Just because she'd told the writers a few things in the past didn't mean she was a blabbermouth. "Do you love her?" she asked.

"Hell, no, I don't love her."

"Then why—"

"Jesus, Honey, there's such a thing in this world as recreational sex." He looked away, and she wondered if she had actually managed to embarrass him.

"I understand that. I just thought—"

"You thought I was too old. Is that it? I'll have you know I'm only forty-one."

"That old?"

His head snapped around and she grinned at him. His irritation faded. She looked out over the rugged landscape. Her mare whinnied and tossed its head. "I promise you right now, Dash, that anything you tell me stays with me."

"I appreciate your sincerity, but—"

"But you don't think I can keep my word. I guess I deserve that. The thing is—if occassionally I had someone else to talk to, I wouldn't have to go spilling my guts to the writers all the time."

"This is starting to sound a lot like blackmail."

"I guess you can take it however you like."

Dash released a long, put-upon sigh. "See, from my viewpoint, you're a pretty big talker, and I'm a man with a definite attachment to silence."

"It must have been hard being married to all those women."

"They were mutes compared to you."

"Those writers sure are going to be interested to hear about you and Lisa."

"Honey?"

"Yeah?"

"Remind me to tan your hide."

"You already did. And don't think I've forgotten it."

It was nearly three when they got back to the barn. They cooled off the horses and then handed them over to the stable hand. Dash led her to her Trans Am, which was parked at the side of the house near a heating-oil tank that was partially camouflaged by a hedge of hydrangeas. Honey didn't want the afternoon to be over. She hated the idea of going home to her family's unending complaints. Her stomach rumbled, and she was struck with inspiration.

"Do you ever get hungry for homemade biscuits, Dash? The kind that are so thick and fluffy that when you split them open a big puff of steam comes out. And the butter melts in this golden yellow puddle right in the middle. Then you pour some warm maple syrup—"

"I knew you were ornery, Honey, but I didn't think you were sadistic." He came to a stop near the trunk of the car.

"I guess I never told you what a good cook I am. That's exactly the way my biscuits turn out."

He was clearly dubious. "You don't exactly look like the domesticated type."

"See. That just goes to prove what a poor judge of character you are. I've been cooking for my family

for years.

My Aunt Sophie was always too tired to fix meals, and by the time 1 was ten, I started to develop this allergy to TV dinners, so I began experimenting, and before long, I became an excellent cook. No fancy stuff. Just plain home cooking."

She pulled the car keys from the pocket of her jeans and jiggled them casually in the palm of her hand. "Gosh, now that I've got my mind on biscuits, I think I'll go on home and make up a batch. Thanks a lot for inviting me, Dash. I had a real good time."

He stuck his thumb in the pocket of his jeans and looked down at the ground. She jingled her car keys. He poked at a rock with the toe of his boot. She passed her keys from her right hand to her left.

"I guess if you wanted to check out my kitchen pantry and see if you can find what you need, 1 wouldn't object."

She widened her eyes. "Are you sure? I don't want to wear out my welcome."

He grunted and headed toward the ranch house.

Grinning, she fell into step behind him.

The kitchen was old-fashioned and roomy, with oak cupboards and toasted-almond paint. She hummed as she gathered up the biscuit ingredients and dug a pound of bacon from the freezer. As she began measuring the flour into a speckled stoneware mixing bowl, she could hear a Sooners basketball game on television in the family room. Although she would have enjoyed Dash's company while she cooked, it was still nice being alone in his kitchen.

Forty-five minutes later, she called him in to take a chair at the antique oak table that sat in the kitchen's small bay. Uncle Earl hadn't liked talk with his meals, so she didn't have any trouble keeping quiet as she flipped back a clean blue tea towel to reveal a bowl full of steaming golden-brown biscuits. He took two of them and speared a half dozen bacon slices onto his plate.

As he broke open the first biscuit, the steam rose up, just as she'd described. She handed him the butter and a pitcher of syrup she had warmed. It wasn't pure maple, but it was all she'd been able to find. The pat of butter soaked into the biscuit and the syrup sluiced down over the sides. She served herself.

"Good," he murmured as he polished off the first one and began his attack on the second.

She took a sip from the fresh coffee she had brewed. It was a little strong for her, but she knew he liked

it that way. As he finished his second biscuit, she surreptitiously pushed the basket forward so he could take another.

She wasn't a big eater and she was satisfied with one biscuit and her coffee. He ate a fourth.

"Good," he murmured for the second time.

His enjoyment of her food filled her with pride. She might not be pretty or flirtatious or know how to talk to men, but she definitely knew how to feed them.

He ate nine strips of bacon and half a dozen biscuits before he finally stopped. Looking over at her, he grinned. "You are one fine cook, little girl."

"You should try my fried chicken. Real golden crispy on the outside, but on the inside it's moist and—"

"Stop! You ever heard of cholesterol, Honey?"

"Sure. That's what Lisa uses to bleach her hair."

"I think that's Clairol."

"My mistake." She smiled innocently.

While he was eating, she had been thinking about something he had said earlier. As he stirred a heaping teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, she decided to ask him about it. "Name one person with a weak character that I've attached myself to."

"Pardon?"

"Earlier. You said the strongest people are the ones I turn my back on. You said I only attach myself to weak characters. Name one."

"Did I say that?"

"You said it. Who were you talking about?"

"Well..." He stirred his coffee. "How about Eric Dillon for starters?"

"I haven't attached myself to Eric Dillon. As a matter of fact, I hate his guts."

"Sure you do."

"He's rude and stuck on himself."

"You got that right."

"But he's very talented." She felt a perverse need to leap to his defense.

"You're right about that, too."

"I'd have to be crazy to care about Eric Dillon. There isn't any way in the world somebody like him would ever look twice at somebody like me—a runty little redneck girl with a big old sucker-fish mouth."

"What's this thing you've got about your mouth?"

"Just look at it." She puckered.

Amusement flickered in his eyes as he studied her lips. "Honey, a lot of males would consider a mouth like yours sexy. If it wasn't moving so much, that is."

She glared at him. "Just try to name someone other than Eric Dillon. I happen to know you won't be able to because I see right through people. I admire strength."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Then why, Miss Great Judge of Human Nature, have you been so all-fired determined to attach yourself to me?"

She could see that he'd meant to say it as a joke, but it didn't come out that way. As soon as he spoke, his face stiffened and the warmth that had been growing between them dissolved.

Abruptly, he pushed his coffee cup away and stood. "I think it's about time you go on. I've got some things I have to do this afternoon."

She rose and followed him out through the kitchen and across the comfortable family room that stretched along the back of the ranch house. It was decorated with leather furniture and framed posters from his old movies. He led her toward the front door, his boots clicking on the terracotta tiles, the air heavy with tension.

She couldn't stand for their day to end like this. Reaching out, she touched his arm and spoke in a voice so gentle that it hardly seemed to belong to her. "You're just about the strongest person I know, Dash. I mean that."

He turned to face her, his eyes weary and defeated. "I remember one day when you called me a worn-out old drunk."

Shame filled her. "I apologize for that. It's like Satan has taken over my mouth this past year."

"You didn't do much more than speak the truth."

"Don't say that. It makes me feel even worse."

He rested his hand on his hip, stared down at the floor for a moment, and then looked back up at her. "Honey, I'm an alcoholic. Every day is a struggle for me, and a lot of the time I'm not sure it's worth it. The bottle isn't my only problem, either. I'm hard on women. My own kids hate my guts. I've got a hot temper and I don't care much about anybody except myself."

"I don't believe that."

"You'd better believe it," he said harshly. "I'm a selfish son of a bitch, and I don't have any intention of changing at this point in my life."

He stalked from the house, and she couldn't do anything more than follow after him to her car. Their beautiful day together had been ruined, and somehow, it was all her fault.