Hoofbeats rang through the yard. Lucas stood, taking the two steps to the door, one hand reaching for the rifle as usual.

He did not see Mark's glance, following his movement with more contemplation than was usually seen in the boy's face.

"G' day, Mr. McCain."

"Mr. Valance."

"Saw your fields… Been a while… Your trip to the markets was … fruitful?"
"Made a small profit, yes. Yourself?"

"Same for me, glad to say. Listen… d'you have a moment?"

Lucas frowned. "Sure."

"Heard anything from your farmhand?" Valance sounded hesitant.

Lucas frowned: "Nothing…?"

"But he left here in good health?"

The rifleman bristled. "Sheriff Torrence was here the day he left…"

"I didn't mean to imply anything." Valance shook his head gently. "You're an honourable man."

So then… "What do you want, Valance?"

"Read the papers recently?"

"Not yet?" damn it, what was the man getting at? It would have taken him and Mark much longer to get through the whole Emery-debacle, if there had not been the mandatory trip to get the herds sold. That always distracted the boy… if not his father.

The dark eyes scanned the farm. "Lundy. The man who tried to force Miss Schuler…"

"I remember." Lucas propped his gun on his shoe. Oh yes, he remembered that day.

"He escaped from San Antonio."

"He did what?"

"Seems he had help. That's a dangerous man."

McCain tilted his head. "Think he might come back for revenge?" Was that why the neighbour had taken the detour?

Valance grimaced. "To be honest, it's not so much for your sake that I am – shall we say slightly uneasy. I'm thinking he might go after Eirik. And that boy carries no gun."

Lucas grimaced right back. Ah… "And – he went to Albuquerque."

Valance pursed his lips, surprised: "So you have heard from him?"

It took the rifleman a moment to catch his mistake. Eirik had gone north, to the townsmen… Emery had travelled west.

Valance' stared at him in wary intent. "McCain, I don't mean to intrude on something I don't understand, but let me confide – I know Eirik had a secret. I don't know what it was, but something was off about that young man. And the way he left here, after everything, the Sheriffs face every time the name cropped up those first weeks. Your boy's demeanor… No, don't say anything. You yerself don't have a liar's face, nor a pokerface. I'ts a good thing."

Lucas considered his neighbour for a long moment. "Then you'll understand that I would rather change the subject. I'll keep your warning about Lundy in mind, though. Care for some coffee?"

"Pa?"

Mark sat down at the table with his homework. Sometime in the two months since they were alone on the farm again it had occurred to him that finishing the work quickly gave him more free time for his guitar. Emery's good-bye present had been a stack of music sheets.

Only a few more weeks and he'd approach his dad about trying to earn some money playing at church or some such.

"Pa? What's your favourite colour?"

Lucas looked up from the daily paper with a faraway expression in his eyes.

"Green. Why?"

Mark turned back to his work, but hesitated.

"It's for my homework. But Pa…"

"What, son?" Lucas turned a page.

"I always thought your favourite colour was blue."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched his Pa rifle through the paper – always the same. He quickly scanned the headlines, impatient, eyes roving over the columns almost in a hurry. And always a frown followed, he'd throw the paper down, get up from his chair and find some chore to do – something that required his hands and his muscles. It always took the tall man a while to work through this mood.

Mark didn't understand all of it, but he had an idea what made Lucas so cranky. He had many ideas.

"For God's sake, son, what is the matter with you?"

Mark looked up guiltily. "What, Pa?"

"Something's the matter – you've been distracted and staring out windows for days now! Just you be glad your teacher was speaking favourably of you today!"

"You spoke with Miss Schuster?"

"It was a chance thing. She passed me in town."

"Oh."

"Still doesn't answer my question, boy. What's up?"

"Nothing, Pa."

"That's why you're looking so guilty?"

"Pa, please. I'm real sorry, I'll be better. But…"

Lucas fought against the fondness creeping up on him. The boy had a secret – let him keep it. He was entitled to some things… maybe there was a girl at school.

But the thought stayed with him.

Lucas returned late one evening from the outer fields. Late enough that there was only the lantern burning in the living room, Mark's silhouette visible through the window. The boy was reading.

A sharp pain went thought the rifleman. How long would it be that he didn't miss the farmhand? The slender figure bent over some task or other in the yard, a ray of light from the barn, or fallen asleep at the table waiting for him to come home.

Now it was back to the two of them, and while that was fine with them, with him, still… he'd gotten used to the shy humour. To the sparse conversation, the quick brain. The slender hands…

Emery… it had gotten easier to think of her name. He could hardly remember Eirik's face under the hat and the scarf. Or didn't want to remember? Rather think of the heavy braid, the gentle curls over the pillow? The green eyes that spoke so clearly that he had to wonder how he could ever have taken her for a man…
He swiped the hat from his head impatiently, as if he might remove the errant thoughts with it.

Mark was reading the newspaper. It hit him only after the distracted greeting. By the time he turned to the boy, Mark had closed the papers and folded them, leaning back with a faraway expression on his face. But when he noticed his father's gaze, he shrugged and smiled. His question after the animals was guileless.

Another three days went past, with Lucas watching his son with a mixture of amusement and increasing frustration. He'd been more, no, very diligent, no questions. He'd also been very quiet. They'd been to church in the morning, and Lucas had tried to spy the suspected girl somewhere in the crowd. He thought it might be a blonde, the Rikers girl, but he couldn't be certain. He remembered too well the soulful moon-eyes Marc had made at Marianne Hayworth, his old friend's daughter, when they'd passed through.

No such display now. If anything, his son had seemed distracted.

Chores done for the day, he found the boy on the raised terrace. Sitting on his three-legged contraption of a chair, the little stand for his music sheets plucked against the railing so that the late afternoon sun would fall on the paper, he was deeply engrossed in a melody.

McCain decided it was time for a cigar, and a moment of quiet enjoyment of the boy's talent.

It was a strange melody. First simple and joyful, something the children might whistle in the streets, but then it turned haunting, almost dramatic, making the tall man frown slightly. The funny little tune returned at the end, but with a mournful note that left the listener aching.

Mark played the song three times, working through the quick chords with increasing suppleness. At first he had hummed the melody, now he was whistling it.

"That's a new song, Mark?"

"And a mighty difficult one."

"You're doing good. That last time was almost without mistake."

"I gather it should be played much faster. Says moderato."

Lucas frowned. "And that means?"
"Measuredly. But that's the melody. The accompaniment is four times faster."

That was a bit more sophisticated than he'd expected.

"It's from a European composer. He's dead."

Most of them were, weren't they? "One of the famous ones? Mozart? Are you learning it for church?"

"Nnno? I…"

"What, son?" It came out infinitly gentle.

"Its… it's a special melody, don't you think?"

"I agree, I haven't heard anything like it before, not even from your mum."

The big blue eyes regarded him with the same expression Margaret had had.

"I think… I think I will keep this one for myself for a while." The boy's voice was wistful. Music had always touched him differently than most folks.

A long while later, the sun had already set, Marc took up the conversation again.

"Pa, why can't she come back?"

Lucas went cold. "What do you mean?"

"She writes she won't come, even though…"

"You got a letter…" from Emery?

"I pick up the post, remember? She sent me music sheets. Pa… I miss… I miss her so much. Him – her – does it matter so much that she's a girl? Can't she just come back and be Eirik, and nobody would have to know? If she can't live here as a woman?"
Lucas almost choked on his whiskey. "Son… Mark…" He swallowed. "First of all, you yourself weren't comfortable lying to people, were you?"

When the boy wouldn't answer that, he went on gently: "Can you imagine Micah going along with any scheme like this? Doc Burrage is still looking at me funny for keeping her here."

"But you've thought about it?"
"Son, it can't be. And remember also, that her home is in the north. She has an opportunity to get back what is hers. She won't throw that away. You heard how she spoke of the valley she grew up in."

"But she liked it here! She liked you – and me…"

God, this boy… "Mark, she loved you. This has nothing to do with you, and everything with her finding her way. She has a huge trial before her, and then the … Mark… what did she write to you?"

The boy didn't seem to hear his question. "But when the trial's over… couldn't she come home? You got along well, didn't you? She's nice, and handsome, you could-"

Glad the darkness was hiding his furious blush, Lucas interrupted somewhat sharply: "Remember what I said about playing match maker, Mark. There are way more things to consider before taking this subject any further. An arrangement of the sort you are suggesting…" he felt as if the air was too heavy to breathe. This was not something he meant to discuss with his son. "Leave it, Mark," he spat, before the boy could voice whatever he was taking a breath for. "-we are not talking about this anymore. It's time for bed anyway."

The look his son gave him was lost in the darkness. Mark gathered the music sheets, stand and stool, and shuffled off. A long while later the small head poked through the door with a gentle: "Good night, Pa."

"G'night, Son." It didn't come grudgingly. It didn't.

It wasn't just that Mark missed Emery – her handiwork was everywhere they chanced a glance. Even the stupid mouth organ lying forgotten in the corner brought memories…