"Yes, while still holding the mass of the pasturage and woodlands in common. Big common lands. Tiny personal lands."

"What happened when New Mexico became a U.S. territory?"

"The shit hit the fan."

She smiled wryly. "I gathered that much from reading the microfilm. But why?"

"Lots of reasons." Dan kept working as he talked. It was easier than looking into her changing, intelligent hazel eyes or watching her pink mouth shape words or her tongue licking moisture over dry lips.

Apparently his body had just decided that it was one hundred percent healthy and ready to ride.

"Under Spanish and Mexican control, taxes were pretty much avoided," Dan said. "A tax collector who was too diligent ended up beaten, dead, or run out of town. The taxes that were collected mostly stayed in New Mexico. In fact, throughout its history, New Mexico has been a fiscal drain on whichever government claimed it, right into modern times. That's the thing about frontiers. They're expensive to try to control."

"So the Spanish and Mexican governments let New Mexicans get away with not paying taxes?"

"That's modern thinking."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"We live in a time when communication is immediate, every trans-action is recorded, and the government gets its taxes at the same time a worker gets his paycheck."

"Sure," she said, "but governments throughout history have managed to collect taxes, no matter what the state of the communications."

"In towns and settled areas, yes. Frontiers? No. It's the nature of a frontier to be beyond the pale of society, of civilization, of control. Essentially, New Mexico spent more time after its 'discovery' as a frontier than any other piece of American real estate. New Mexico had three hundred years of being somebody's edge of the earth, somebody's dumping ground for outlaws, adventurers, city rejects, dreamers, and politicians." Dan's mouth turned in a wry downward curve. "While Oppenheimer and the boys were inventing the atomic age at Alamogordo, curanderos and brujos were still practicing their ancient trades in the rural areas, using natural drugs like morning glory, poppy, and mescaline, drugs that were outlawed by a culture that never understood them. Between formal wars there were still informal shoot-outs over land and water. Penitentes still carried heavy crosses and flogged themselves bloody following in the steps of Christ." He shrugged. "Some say they still do."

Fascinated by the light and shadow flowing across Dan's angular face, Carly watched his movements as he worked over the scanner. "What do you say?" she asked.

For several breaths the room was quiet. Then he looked up, pinning her with a glance. "I say it's better left alone. For every step you take away from a New Mexico city, you're going back in time. Frontiers are dangerous. Smart people leave dangerous things alone unless there's no other choice. You have a choice."

She tilted her head slightly. Light slid through her hair, picking out the gold among the shades of dark red and darker brown.

"Something wrong?" he asked, sensing her intensity.

"I think you believe a lot of things are better left alone."

"Sleeping dogs and land mines," he said under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. Family joke."

"You don't look like you're laughing."

Dan put another sheet in the scanner and touched the button. "Once you begin thinking of New Mexico as a long-lived frontier rather than a modern state, its history makes a lot more sense."

Carly wanted to protest the change of subject, but didn't. She was here to learn about a family history, not this man's personal history. If she'd rather pry into Dan's affairs than the Quintrells', that was her problem.

"How so?" she asked.

He shrugged. "The pueblos might be the longest continuously inhabited structures in America, but they aren't Anglo. Santa Fe has a history longer than that of the United States, but three-quarters of Santa Fe's history isn't Anglo. We've been a state for barely three generations. My mother's grandfather lived on a frontier where men carried guns because there was no other law." He pulled out a sheet, replaced it. "Outside of Santa Fe and Albuquerque, the people of New Mexico live a lot closer to the bone than most Americans do. Closer to the wild lands. Culturally separate from our neighbors."

"I thought this was the great state of cultural mixing."

He straightened and faced her again. Deliberately he interlocked the fingers of his hands. "If you call this mixing, then we're mixed."

"So we're talking salad rather than melting pot?"

"Other than cuisine and art, the Indians, the hispanos, and the Anglos lead pretty separate lives. Side by side, but not together."

She frowned. "Is that good or bad?"

"It just is, Carolina May. It just is."

The sound of her name spoken in his husky, matter-of-fact voice raised gooseflesh on her arms.

Uh-oh. Not good.

She rubbed her skin briskly and told herself she was sitting in a draft.

But she knew she wasn't.

Chapter 10

QUINTRELL RANCH

EARLY MONDAY AFTERNOON

"THANK YOU, MISSY," JOSH SAID, REACHING FOR THE SANDWICH MELISSA MOORE had put in front of him. "I didn't realize how late it was."

"Thanks, honey," Pete said as his wife put another plate in front of him. "I was getting hungry enough to start in on the leather-bound ledgers."

Melissa smiled at both men. "Beer, tea, coffee, soda, wine, whiskey, water?"

"Coffee," both men said instantly.

"Coming up."

Pete watched his trim, jeans-clad wife walk out of Josh's home office. Light gleamed in her fair hair and glanced off the colorful cowboy boots she wore. The Indian turquoise necklace shifted against her silk blouse and the full breasts beneath. The breasts, the tight butt, and the huge dark eyes were the legacy of her mother.

"Sometimes she's the image of Betty," Pete said.

Josh looked up from the ranch report, followed Pete's glance, and said, "Thank the Lord she didn't inherit Betty's taste for booze and pills."

Pete's smile flashed against his narrow, almost ascetic face. "Not my Melissa. She's as smart as they come and twice as gutsy."

"If it weren't for her keeping a lid on stuff here, I'd have talked the Senator into selling the ranch and living full-time in Santa Fe long ago."

"Never happen. Quintrells have lived here for six generations."

Josh shook his head. "This place is a money sink and a pain in the ass. I love Santa Fe and Washington, D.C."

"But you look so fine on horseback or walking over the fields with your hunting dogs and shotgun. Not to mention the ranch's yearly Founders Barbecue with all the cultural mixing and fireworks, costumes and deal-making. The photographers go nuts and the voters can't get enough of it."

The governor gave a bark of laughter. "Maybe I should make you my campaign manager instead of Mark Rubin."

"No thanks," Pete said quickly. "I'm a small-town guy at heart. So is Melissa."

"Good thing, or she'd be running for my office. That is one organized female you married."

Pete grinned. "A real terror."

Melissa returned with coffee cups and pot on a tray. She fixed each man's coffee the way he liked it, set the cup in front of him, and asked, "What else do you need?"

"More feed from less land, more rain on all the land, and peace on earth while you're at it," Josh said.

"Try church," she said.

"I do every Sunday."

"God has a lot to watch over." She pushed her long hair away from her cheek. "Maybe you should go twice a week."

Josh snorted. "You and Father Roybal."

Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she smiled again. "He's not my Father Roybal. I'm a Methodist."