Clara stopped far shorter with Bob Allen, the large, silent horse trader, despite two years of courtship, Mr. Allen had not yet touched her hand. Augustus, who considered Mr.

Allen an ignorant fool, would never have put up with such restraints. Gus had to touch her and kiss her, to dance with her and swim with her, and was sulky and sometimes rude when she refused him more.

"It's your fault I'm a drunkard and a whorer," Gus told her, more than once. "If you'd just marry me I'd be sober forever, and I'd stay home besides." Clara didn't believe the part about staying home; Gus McCrae was by nature much too restless for her taste. The rangering was just an excuse, she felt. If there were no Indians to chase, and no bandits, Gus would still find reasons to roam. He was not a settled man, nor did she feel she could settle him. He would always be off with Woodrow Call, beyond the settlements somewhere, adventuring.

Still, she felt a little guilty, where Gus was concerned--she knew there was some justice in his complaint. Though she suffered when he was in the whore tents, somehow she could not resign herself, or commit herself, to begin the great business of married life with him. Though Gus moved her in ways no other man ever had or, she feared, ever would, something in her still refused.

Clara tried to look at life honestly, though, and when she thought closely about herself and Gus, and Maggie and Call, she could not feel that her refusals gained her any honor or moral credit. Was she any better than Maggie Tilton, who at least gave an honest service for money paid, and met an honest need?

Clara didn't think she was better, and she knew she was as hard on Gus McCrae--whom she dearly loved--z Woodrow Call was on Maggie Tilton.

Clara didn't like--indeed, couldn't abide-- Woodrow Call. His appearance, even on the mildest errand, brought out a streak of malice in her which she could not restrain. She seldom let him leave her company without cutting him with some small criticisms. Yet Woodrow Call was a much respected ranger, courageous and even in judgment, the last being a quality that Augustus McCrae could not yet lay claim to, though he was as courageous as any man. Perhaps Call even loved Maggie, in his way; he sometimes bought her small trinkets, once even a bonnet, and had twice come to fetch medicines for her, when she was poorly. There must be good in the man, else why would Maggie pine so, when he was away? She surely didn't pine for every man who paid her money and used her body.

Still, the one thing Maggie needed most was marriage; it might be the one thing Gus McCrae needed most, as well. But Call couldn't or wouldn't give it to Maggie, and she couldn't give it to Gus. It was a linkage that irked her, but that she could neither ignore or deny.

When Maggie stepped in the door, after giving herself a thorough inspection, Clara smiled at her, and Maggie, surprised as she always was by Clara's frliness, shyly smiled back.

"Why, it's you. How I wish we were sisters," Clara said, surprising herself and startling Maggie so deeply that she blushed. But the store was empty; what harm could the remark do? Besides, it was what she felt--it had always chaffed Clara that she was expected to live by rules she hadn't made; all the rules were made by men, and what dull rules they were! How much pleasanter life would be if she could treat Maggie as she would treat a sister, or, at least, as she would treat a friend.

"Oh, Miss Forsythe, thank you," Maggie said. She knew she had received a great compliment, one so unexpected that it left her abashed and silenced; for years she was to remember Clara's impulsive statement and felt happiness at the memory. She also felt a little puzzlement. Clara Forsythe was the most respected and sought after young woman in Austin. Many of her own customers, the young ones particularly, worshipped Clara; several had even proposed to her.

Maggie could not imagine why a woman in Clara's position would even want her friendship, much less want her for a sister.

Clara realized she had embarrassed her customer and tried to put her at ease by directing her attention to the stoneware.

"We just got these cups and plates from Pennsylvania," she said. "My pa thinks they're too fancy, but I think they're the very thing." Maggie agreed, but she only let her eyes linger on the nice brown crockery for a moment.

She had to be cautious when shopping, so as not to start yearning for fine things she could never afford.

She did like pretty things too much; once her fancy seized on a particular ring or dress or trinket, she could scarcely think of anything else, for days. She especially wanted to impress on Woodrow that she was a good manager. She didn't owe a cent to anyone, and had never asked Woodrow--or any man--fora cent more than she was due. She had long since stopped wanting Woodrow Call to pay her, when he came to her--but he insisted, leaving the money under a plate or a pillow if she refused to take it.

Maggie, just for a moment, wished she could be Clara Forsythe's friend. If they could talk freely she felt sure Clara would understand why she no longer wanted Woodrow's money.

Clara's smile was frank and friendly, but before Maggie could even enjoy her little fancy an old man with a stringy beard came in and stomped right between them.

"Horseshoe nails?" he asked Clara.

"Yes sir, in the back--it's the bin on the right," Clara said.

With a customer in the store Maggie didn't feel she ought to be talking to Miss Forsythe about crockery--mch less about anything else. Besides, the man was a customer of hers as well. His name was Cully Barnstone--he had visited her frequently in the last year. His presence, as he sacked up horseshoe nails, drove home a point that Maggie knew she should not, even momentarily, have forgotten. She and Clara Forsythe weren't sisters, and couldn't be friends.

Clara had never been offered money for the service of love, and never would be. She might have her own difficulties with Augustus McCrae, but she would never experience the shame of being given money by the one man in the world she wanted to give herself to.

Clara was annoyed with old Cully Barnstone, for coming in just when she might have had a ^w of conversation with Maggie; but there was nothing she could do about it. The store was open; anyone who wanted to buy something was free to come in. When Mr. Barnstone came to the counter to pay for his nails, Maggie turned away. She wandered listlessly around for a bit, keeping well to herself; she picked up a bonnet and a little hat but put both back without trying them on. In the end she merely bought a packet of darning needles and some red thread.

"Thank you," she said, when Clara gave her her change.

"There's no news from those wild ranger boys," Clara said. "I suppose they're still up on the plains, freezing their ears." "Yes, it's been sharp weather--I expect they're cold," Maggie said, as she went out the door.