"Yes, it is," she insisted right back. "If I'd gone home with your mother like she wanted me to, this never would have happened…"

"We don't know that," Josh said in exasperation, fighting an urge to try to shake some sense into her. Why was she so determined to take all the blame for something that was clearly not her fault? "What's done is done. We can't go back and change it now, anyway. I don't want to hear another word about it. Do you understand?"

She nodded miserably. "And I'm sorry you had to leave Miss Felicity back there…"

"She's having the time of her life," Josh assured her, although the words almost stuck in his throat.

"But she'll miss you…" Candace tried.

"She'll be fine," Josh said, knowing only too well how true his words were. "Now, how about rustling me up something to eat? My stomach is starting to gnaw on my backbone," he added with a forced smile.

"Right away," she sniffed, rising from the settee.

Josh watched her go with a frown, noticing for the first time the way her proud shoulders had begun to stoop. When had that started? And why had he never noticed it until now?

The next day Josh insisted on going out to see the murdered calves, although Grady and the men strongly objected. They argued that Ortega would love an opportunity to take a potshot at Josh, but Josh ignored their warnings. As it turned out, no one took a potshot at him, on that day or on any of the days that followed. In fact, all the previous harassment ceased abruptly.

Too abruptly, everyone agreed as the tension mounted hourly. Something big was about to happen, and the strain of waiting began to take its toll on all the men. They went about their duties with every sense alert for trouble, but still nothing happened. The days dragged into weeks, and the weeks became a month. The bluebonnets turned the grass into an indigo carpet, heralding the formal beginning of summer. And still no sign of Ortega. Or Jeremiah Logan.

Felicity wrote faithfully, and although her letters arrived sporadically and sometimes two together, Josh received a clear picture of her life in Philadelphia. Richard took her to a concert. Richard took her to a play. Richard took her to see Buffalo Bill. Richard took her to the park. Her grandfather bought her more new clothes and gave her some jewelry that had belonged to her grandmother.

Oh, she said she missed him and hoped the roundup was going well, too, but that was just common politeness. Although she signed herself "your loving wife," she never mentioned coming home. Josh tried not to torture himself about it at night when he lay alone in the big bed they had once shared. He told himself that as soon as this mess with Ortega straightened out, he would summon her home. If she refused, he would simply return to Philadelphia and fetch her. Then they would be able to pick up the pieces of their lives and start over.

Meanwhile, he could not bring himself to reply to her letters. He sat down at least a dozen times to write, but there was nothing to say. He dared not mention the trouble with Ortega, and he had no other news. He also dared not mention how much he missed her and wanted her here with him for fear she might actually come. Although it was his fondest wish, he refused to put her in danger.

The perils she faced in Philadelphia, while just as real, were far less hazardous than the ones awaiting her in Texas. And whatever Winthrop might plot, whatever Maxwell might scheme, Felicity was still Josh's wife. She belonged to him, and no amount of money would ever change that fact. But such thoughts were cold comfort to him as he waited day after day for Ortega's next move.

Felicity looked up in surprise when Bellwood informed her that her grandfather wanted her to come to his room and meet someone. Normally she only visited her grandfather in the afternoon, when she either read to him or the two of them just talked. During those times, he had told her many things about her mother and himself, and she in turn had filled him in on the part of her life he had missed.

As Felicity hurried up the stairs in response to this unusual summons, she reflected on how the afternoon visits with him and the activities that Richard planned for her had helped pass the lonely days without Joshua. Unfortunately, nothing could help her with the lonely nights. And both the days and nights seemed to be getting longer as each mail failed to bring her a letter from her husband. At first she had excused him, remembering how busy he would be with the roundup, but no excuse could explain why no letter had come after all these weeks.

Sometimes she became angry and swore she would not write another line to him until he responded. Then she would decide it was better to torment him with tales of her glamorous life in Philadelphia, so she would write page after page. When these tales still brought no response, she would grow frightened. What if her earlier fears proved true? What if he really had decided he no longer wanted her as his wife? Had he left her here for good? Was this silence his way of telling her their marriage was over?

Sighing over that thought, she stopped outside her grandfather's bedroom and knocked. "Come in, child."

Maxwell called, and she did.

Her grandfather's visitor was a man about her grandfather's age who still bore the air of authority Maxwell must surely have had before his illness.

"Felicity, may I present my good friend, Alexander Evans?" Maxwell said. "Alex, this is my granddaughter, Mrs. Logan."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Logan," Evans said, taking the hand she offered. "I've been looking forward to this moment ever since I first saw your work."

"My work?" Felicity echoed, giving her grandfather a puzzled look.

"Yes, my dear," her grandfather confirmed. "You see, when I first saw your photographs, I was quite impressed, but since I am no expert, I asked the opinion of one who is. Alex here helped organize the Philadelphia Photographic Society. He's a photographer himself."

Felicity smiled, delighted to discover a kindred soul, but before she could respond, Evans contradicted the assessment. "I'm only an amateur compared to you, Mrs. Logan. I know Henry didn't tell you, but he gave me your photographs to take to the last meeting of the Photographic Society. The gentlemen there were quite impressed."

"Grandfather!" Felicity chastened him, not certain whether she was angry or not but certainly displeased that he had taken such a step without consulting her. "You shouldn't have done that."

"My granddaughter is becomingly modest," Maxwell said by way of excuse for Felicity's reaction.

"I am justifiably modest," she corrected him, giving Mr. Evans an apologetic smile. "You are very kind to flatter me, but I know my work is only passable…"

"Passable?" Evans repeated, obviously astounded. "Do you mean to tell me that you really don't know how much talent you have?"

Felicity's face mirrored his astonishment. "Photography is a craft. It doesn't require talent, not the way painting and sculpture and things like that do," she said, repeating the theories she had heard her father recite.

But Alex Evans was shaking his head. "That's what painters would have us think, but only because they're afraid of the competition. Of course, your statement is true of many photographers who fritter away their lives simply taking pictures, but for a select few-like you, Mrs. Logan-the theory simply does not hold true. Can't you see for yourself the difference between your own work and that of others?" he asked.

Felicity started to protest, a natural reaction ingrained in her from birth. It was wrong to put herself forward or to exhibit any pride in her accomplishments. But the truth of Mr. Evans's words stopped her. She had already recognized that her work was good, even though her father had given her scant praise. She knew Caleb Storm had only been afraid she would grow proud. He often quoted the Scripture verse about pride going before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction as an admonition.