“I came to you,” she announced, “like you said I could.” Her ragged clothes dripped water onto Belvedere Delaney’s fine Persian rug that lay in front of his red marble fireplace. Wind and rain howled at the casement, but in this warm and comfortable room, insulated by the thick velvet curtains under their deep-tasseled valances, the fire burned softly and the candle flames scarcely flickered. Sally turned about on the rug, admiring the books, the furniture and the leather chairs. She was dazzled by the reflection of candlelight from decanters, from the glint of gilded frames, and from the precious European porcelain on the mantel. “This is nice, Ethan. I never knew you had a brother?”

Ridley had crossed to the credenza where he opened a silver humidor and took out one of the cigars his brother kept for visitors. He needed a cigar to help recover his poise. “I thought you were married?”

“I’ll take one of those cigars,” Sally said.

He lit the cigar, gave it to her, then took another for himself. “You’re wearing a wedding ring,” he said, “so you are married. Why don’t you go back to your husband?”

She deliberately ignored his question, instead holding her ring finger up to the candlelight. “The ring belonged to my ma and she had it from her ma. My pa wanted to keep it, but I made him give it me. Ma always wanted me to have it.”

“Let me see it.” Ridley took her finger and felt the thrill he always felt when he touched Sally and he wondered just what accident of bone and skin and lip and eye had made such a terrible beauty out of this foul-mouthed, sour-minded child of the hills. “It’s pretty.” He turned the ring on her finger, feeling the dry lightness of her touch. “It’s quite old, too.” He suspected it was very old, and perhaps quite special and so he tried to pull it off her finger, but Sally jerked her hand away.

“My pa wanted to keep it,” she looked at the ring, “so I took it away from him.” She laughed and drew on the cigar. “Besides, I ain’t married proper. No more proper than if I jumped a broomstick.”

That was precisely what Ridley feared, but he tried not to show any apprehension. “Your husband will still come looking for you, won’t he?”

“Robert?” She laughed. “He won’t do anything. A gelded hog’s got more balls than Robert. But what about your lady friend? What will your Anna do when she knows I’m here?”

“Will she know?”

“She will, honey, ’cos I’ll tell her. Unless you keep your word to me. Which means looking after me proper. I want to live in a place like this.” She turned around the room, admiring its comfort, then looked back at Ridley. “Do you know a man called Starbuck?”