So Carly enjoyed her late lunch, mentally compiled questions to ask Diana when there was a break in the conversation, and enjoyed the by-play of a man and a woman who were thoroughly pleased to be with each other.

Not until John gave Carly directions back to the building holding the newspaper archives did she realize that, despite the repeated promise of time for questions later, there hadn't been a real opportunity to ask Diana about the Taos of her childhood.

As she drove into town, Carly thought about all that had been said and not said during lunch. Most people were happy to talk about themselves. Diana Duran definitely wasn't, which made Carly curious.

Was she an adoption, like me? Is that why she avoids talking about her parents?

Carly parked in an alley and walked through the old building that housed the newspaper, still thinking about Diana. As she let herself out the back door, she wondered if Dan would talk about his mother's childhood, or if he would ignore Carly just like his mother. Frowning, she walked over the courtyard's weedy, frozen earth without noticing the man who stood across the courtyard, waiting for her.

Motionless, Dan watched her approach the old building. There was grace in her walk and worry in her expression. He wondered what had gone wrong during lunch.

Damn it, Dad. Why'd you have to take a professional busybody home to Mom?

Even under the best circumstances, his mother wasn't exactly outgoing with anyone other than family-unless they were under six. With young kids, she was another person entirely, laughing and giggling and transparent as sunshine.

"Indigestion?" Dan asked mildly.

"What?" Carly jumped, startled. She'd almost walked right into him. "No, the food was fabulous. I was just, um, thinking."

"And frowning."

"Talk about the pot and the kettle," she said, too low for him to hear.

He heard anyway. "You have salsa on your mouth."

Automatically she licked her lips. A spicy taste rewarded her. "Mmm, your mother sure can cook. Did she learn it from her mother?"

"No."

To anyone with more sensitivity than a rock, the tone of Dan's voice closed off that avenue of conversation.

Irritation flared in Carly. She made her living asking questions about the past, and she was real tired of running up against roadblocks in the present. Especially with Daniel Duran.

"Did her father like to cook?" Carly asked.

"No."

"Grandmother? Grandfather? Aunts, uncles, elves?" she asked sarcastically.

Dan wondered if she'd somehow found out. "Why do you care? She's not part of Winifred's project."

Carly blew out a frustrated breath. "You're right. But your mother has the kind of kitchen that looks like it was handed down through generations, yet there weren't any pictures on the wall of parents or grandparents. Kids, yes, the living room was lined with their school photos. Some babies, too."

"She and Dad put the kitchen together themselves from swap meets and secondhand sales. He built the greenhouse in back and the two bedrooms where the girls and boys slept. It was crowded, but a lot better than where the kids who were placed with us came from. Nobody shouted, nobody raised a fist, and nobody did drugs or sexual brutality." The line of Dan's mouth twisted when she flinched. "You see, Ms. Nosy, not everyone has a family they want to remember and record."

"Are you saying your mother didn't?"

"Ask her."

"I wanted to."

"And?"

"Somehow I couldn't get a word in edgewise without being rude."

"That's your answer," he said.

"What?"

"A very polite way of saying 'None of your business.'"

Chapter 12

QUINTRELL RANCH

MONDAY EVENING

AT THE BACK OF THE QUINTRELL HOUSE, DAN PARKED HIS TRUCK, GOT OUT, AND closed the metal door. The sound carried like a shot through the darkness. Dogs barked but didn't rush out. The air was clean, sharp, an icy knife blade against his nostrils. He breathed deeply, savoring the moment. Snow swirled around his head and gently bit his cheeks.

It was a far cry from the toy-cluttered intimacy of Gus's home, warm with love and the smell of the garlic chicken Dan had made for the Salvador family. The salad he'd carried in along with dinner was from Diana, as were the various herbal medicines she'd made to help them fight the flu.

Usually Diana made her own deliveries, or had John do it for her, but tonight Dan had volunteered-even though half of the packages had been destined for the Quintrell ranch. His willingness to drive miles over a rough road on a cold night had surprised everyone, including himself. Like attending the Senator's funeral, Dan didn't know why he'd acted on the push of his instincts and taken the herbs from his mother; he only knew that he had.

Maybe it was simply the full hunter's moon overhead that made him restless, unable to sit in the small adobe house he'd rented on the edge of town or in the warmth of his parents' kitchen or in the gentle chaos of Gus's home. Outside of the buildings there were pastures glistening with snow and moonlight, dark fences and tree shadows where hunters waited in ambush, the soundless flight of an owl seeking a warm mouse. Dan had needed the living night in a way he didn't question.

But even now, standing in the midst of it, he was still restless.

As he walked toward the kitchen entrance, scents from the packets of dried herbs he carried tickled his nose, bringing memories of hiking the valley and mountains with his mother during the snow-free months, gathering plants and seeds, shoots and roots and leaves. Some were used fresh, in teas and tinctures. Some were dried and pounded together with various fats to make salves, like the one weighing down his left jacket pocket right now. Others were tightly wrapped and stored for future use.

He'd never asked about the source of his mother's countless recipes for easing the pain of daily living among people who were too poor to be able to afford-or who didn't want to use-Anglo doctors and pills. Probably he hadn't questioned simply because he'd learned by the time he was six that his mother appreciated silence more than chatter. As for questions, they'd better be about the present, not the past.

A stranger opened the back door in answer to Dan's knock. The way the man moved and measured Dan told him that this was one of the unobtrusive bodyguards who kept the nutcases away from the governor of New Mexico. Just part of the price of being a public figure.

"I'm Dan Duran," he said. "Miss Winifred is expecting me."

"I'm new around here," the man said, "so if you don't mind, I'd like to see some photo ID."

The bodyguard's soft Georgia accent didn't fool Dan; he could show ID or he could stand outside until he froze solid. And if he wanted to make an argument out of it, there was another bodyguard just inside the door, watching.

"No problem," Dan said easily. He pulled out his wallet and showed his driver's license.

The guard compared Dan's face to the one on the license, nodded, and stepped aside. "Come in out of the cold. The cook left some coffee if you're interested."

The combination of no-nonsense bodyguard and Southwest hospitality with a southern accent almost made Dan smile. "Thanks, but I

want to catch Miss Winifred before she goes to bed. I hear she's feeling a little under the weather."

"You know the way?"

"Is she with her sister?"

"Yes."

"Then I know the way."

Dan went through a kitchen that could have been in a medium-size restaurant. The ranch had always been a popular place to host contributors, supporters, reporters, fellow politicians, and anyone being wooed for money or votes. The place went from nearly deserted to overflowing with little warning. Folks in town could always tell by the helicopter traffic when there was something going on at the Senator's-now the governor's-ranch.