In the Land of the Long White Cloud

paved. If it had been up to Gwyneira, she would have paved the area in front of the stalls rather than the splendid but rarely used path to the front door. But Gerald probably had other priorities—and Lucas most definitely did. No doubt he was already planning a rose garden too. Gwyneira was happy to see bright light shining from the stalls, as she wouldn’t have known where to find a stable lantern. Voices now issued from the sheds and stalls as well. Obviously the shepherds had indeed gathered here.
    “Blackjack, James!” someone called with a laugh. “Drop your pants, my friend! I’m taking your pay today.”
    As long as the men don’t place other people as bets
, Gwyneira thought, catching her breath and opening the stable door. The path before her led left to the horse stalls; to the right it widened into a depot where the men were sitting around a fire. Gwyneira counted five in all, rough-looking fellows who did not appear to have washed yet that day. Some had beards, while others looked like they’d gone three days without their razors. Three of the young sheepdogs had curled up next to a tall, thin man with an angular, darkly bronzed face that was deeply creased by laugh lines.
    Another man handed him a bottle of whiskey.
    “Here, as consolation.”
    So that was the “James” who had lost the hand.
    A blond giant who was shuffling the cards looked up by chance and caught sight of Gwyneira.
    “Hey, boys, are there ghosts around here? Normally I don’t see such pretty ladies till after the second bottle of whiskey.”
    The men laughed.
    “What radiance in our humble abode,” said the man who had just handed the whiskey bottle around, with a voice that was failing him. “A…an angel!”
    Renewed laughter.
    Gwyneira did not know how to respond.
    “Now be quiet, boys, you’re embarrassing the poor girl.” The oldest among them now spoke up. He was apparently still sober and was stuffing his pipe at the moment. “That’s neither an angel nor a ghost, just the young mistress. The one Mr. Warden brought back for Lucas to…well, you know already.”
    Embarrassed tittering.
    Gwyneira decided to take the initiative.
    “Gwyneira Silkham,” she said, introducing herself. She would have extended her hand to the men but so far none of them had made the effort to stand up. “I wanted to check on my horse.”
    Cleo, meanwhile, had toured the stalls, greeted the sheepdog pups, and waggled from one man to the next. She paused by James, who petted her with adept hands.
    “And what’s this little lady’s name? A beautiful animal. I’ve already heard about her, and just as much about her mistress’s wondrous skill at driving sheep. By your leave, James McKenzie.” The young man stood up and stretched out his hand to Gwyneira, looking at her steadily with brown eyes. His hair was likewise brown, plentiful, and unkempt as though he’d been fussing with it nervously during the card game.
    “Hey, James! Don’t get too worked up,” one of the others teased him. “She’s the boss’s; didn’t you hear?”
    McKenzie rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to the scoundrels; they don’t have any class. But they were baptized at any rate: Andy McAran, Dave O’Toole, Hardy Kennon, and Poker Livingston. He’s pretty lucky at blackjack too.”
    Poker was the blond, Dave the man with the bottle, and Andy the dark-haired, somewhat older giant. Hardy seemed to be the youngest of the lot and had already partaken a bit too much of the bottle to show any signs of life.
    “I’m sorry that we’re all already a bit tipsy,” McKenzie said frankly. “But if Mr. Warden’s gonna send over a bottle to celebrate his return…”
    Gwyneira smiled benevolently. “It’s all right. But be sure to put the fire out properly afterward. Not that you would set my stables on fire.”
    While they were talking, Cleo leaped up at McKenzie, who immediately set about scratching her. Gwyn remembered that McKenzie had asked for the dog’s name.
    “That is Cleopatra Silkham. And the little ones are Daisy Silkham, Dorit Silkham, Dinah Silkham, Daddy, Daimon, and Dancer.”
    “Whoa, they’re all noble,” Poker said, alarmed. “Do we have to bow whenever we see them?” He pointed in a friendly way to Dancer, who was just then trying to gnaw on his cards.
    “You should have already when you received my horse,” Gwyneira returned nonchalantly. “She has a longer family tree than any of us.”
    James McKenzie laughed, and his