The scene might have been an oil by Frederic Remington or a photograph by Bert Greer Phillips. The barn . . . the cabin . . . smoke curling from the fieldstone chimney . . . the hitching rail . . . vapor rising from the nostrils of the three saddled horses . . . the pure white rime, covering the ground for as far as the eye could see . . . the slate-colored sky . . .

Midwinter on the high plains.

Bundled against the deep chill, Gabe burst out the back door of his ranch, purposely leaving it ajar. He mounted Condor with fluid, experienced grace, wincing just a little at the stretching of five-month-old scar tissue near his shoulder and his hip.

"Come on, you guys," he called out. "I want to be as far away from civilization as possible when the clock strikes ten."

"Hold your horses, my friend," a man's voice called back. "The lady is helping me get my boots on. Hey, hold your horses—that is very funny, no? You really are holding your horses."

Finally, Alison emerged into the cold in a leather rancher's coat with a heavy fleece collar and a western hat with a rattlesnake band and eight-inch feather.

Radiant, Gabe thought, as he did every time he saw her. Absolutely radiant.

Behind her, Leon Uretsky walked gingerly in new boots. His borrowed western hat hung between his shoulder blades. His hair and eyes were raven dark, and his features were sharp and appealing.

"Left foot in the stirrup, Leon," Gabe said. "Then grab the pommel up there and swing your right leg over."

"This is your plot to get even, isn't it?" Leon asked.

"Come on, big guy," Alison urged. "You're going to love it. Besides, the doc here and I both work in the hospital. We're not going to let anything happen to you."

Uretsky swung his leg up and over like a seasoned cowboy. Then, for a few moments, the three riders remained motionless, breathing in the air and the spectacular silence.

"Beautiful," Uretsky murmured, "just beautiful. I have never been anyplace like this. Not even in Russia."

"I told you," Gabe said, turning Condor with the most subtle of movements. "I'm really glad you finally agreed to come out."

"Both of us are," Alison added. "Honey, is it time yet?"

"Not quite. We can still make it to Wizard's Ridge by ten."

The three horses walked easily away from the house and out along a trail marked only by a few tracks.

"What is so special about this Wizard's Ridge?" Uretsky asked.

"Nothing . . . and everything. I named it because, well, you'll see. The bread is in your saddlebag?"

"And butter and jam if they are not already frozen solid."

"Mmmm. I love fresh-baked bread," Alison said.

"You are going to have five whole days of it. I plan to bake a different kind of loaf each morning I am here, plus some other goodies."

"Wonderful."