But, constant as the wind was, it was no less constant than the war of wills between the old plainsman and the English lady beauty, a contest fully as intense and just as mortal as anything that occurred at Skunkwater Flats or Greasy Corners.

I was not sleepy that night, though you would think that with all my travels and my worries I would have sunk straight to bed—particularly since my bed was a commodious four-poster with the first really clean sheets I had encountered since leaving Philadelphia. One of the Irish crones had even turned them down.

But of course my worries were far from over. I knew nothing of what might have happened to Billy and Joe; both might already be dead, in which case my chances of leaving Winds’ Hill alive were very slim, for it was plain the old man would hang me at his caprice, however lively the yarns I beguiled him with.

I am no chess player, but I came to realize that night that I had become a living pawn—though whose pawn had yet to be decided. That I was still alive was probably because Old Whiskey, on one side of the board, hoped to use me to capture the beautiful but elusive queen.

As to the queen’s strategy, well, I had not long to wait to discover that. There was a little balcony off my bedroom—I stood on it for an hour, smoking one of Lord Snow’s fine cigars and watching the moon light the grasslands. I sensed a presence behind me and turned to see Lady Snow, in a long gown, her hair flowing almost to her waist, standing by the commodious four-poster.

“Would you care to couple with me, Mr. Sippy?” she asked, as directly as could be.

“What?” I asked doltishly—of course I was very much taken by surprise. Sandycraw eating terrapin soup in Tibet could have seemed no more improbable than Cecily Snow’s appearance, much less her words.

“I should like it so,” she said, unembarrassed. She had brought her hairbrush and was still brushing her long hair.

I had supposed for some time that that had ended for me—the element of life that Cecily simply called coupling. I supposed I had lost it for good when I left Kate Molloy unkissed. During my weeks in the New Mexico Territory it had seemed far more likely that I would meet a noose or a bullet than a woman interested in carnal love.

But there one stood—not in Scott and not in Bulwer, either—in my bedroom, slowly brushing her hair.

“You see, the cowboys will no longer oblige me,” she said. “They’re afraid he’ll kill them.”

“Well, won’t he kill me?” I asked, putting down the cigar.

“Of course, but he means to kill you anyway,” Cecily said. “I doubt you’ve much to gain by restraint.”