skunkbush and dog-wood, and then they went down a hillside steep as stairsteps as Dick named the green ash, basswood, and bur oak trees. Natalie pointed to green herbs in the shaded understory and asked, âWhatâs that?â
And Dick told her, âWood nettle.â
âAnd this?â she asked.
âWild columbine,â he said. âStops flowering in June.â She shifted in the saddle to look down at a plant near her stirrup and Dick immediately named it, âJack-in-the-pulpit.â
She smiled. âAre you a botanist?â
âWell, Iâve lived here all my life. You just naturally like to know who your neighbors are.â
She faced forward. âNature is not so interesting to Pierre.â
Considerately, he said, âOh, heâs expert in other things, I imagine.â
She seemed not to approve of those other things.
Willows colonized the floodplain of another part of Frenchmanâs Creek where the pebbled sand was hard-going for the horses, but at a turning they strode at a quicker pace toward a spot they seemed to remember. Shade trees and soft grasses moved in the breeze and creek water pillowed over smooth round stones near the bank. Dick jumped down from Shep and helped Natalie down from her horse. âGo ahead and give me your foot. Iâll try not to get too personal with ya this time.â
Natalie smiled. âI am not bothered.â
Dick walked her down to the creek bank with a red picnic blanket that he flung out and let float on the air and softly settle. She sat on it while he squatted beside her, unscrewing a canteen filled with Owenâs wine as he told her, âFrench trappers used to ship pelts from hereabouts to fur companies back east. One fellaâs name was Bernard
LeBoeuf. Had a rough time of it, I guess, and thought he was a goner. Wandered around like a zombie and fell into the water here. Woke up an hour later halfways healed. Had himself a new lease on life.â
âWhat was his problem?â
Dick thought about it. âThirst, for one thing.â He paused. âAnd I guess a grizzly bear before that. Torn up pretty good. Ever since, this has been called Frenchmanâs Creek and tales of its magical powers are still being told.â
âAnd do you believe these tales?â
âWhy I brought ya down here.â
She held out a plastic cup and he poured wine into it. âIs it you want to make love with me?â
He hesitated, and then got a plastic cup for himself and filled it. âWell now, Iâm a tad bit old-fashioned about that.â
âWhat is it you want then, Mister Tupper?â
Skiffs of sunshine rocked on the water as he watched it move. âIâll tell ya what I have. Twelve hundred acres plus farm buildings, machinery, and feeder pens. I have a four-bedroom Victorian house thatâs just had itself done over by an interior desecrator named Mitzi. I have five percent of the last Holiday Inn you passed on the highway, nine percent of the largest Chrysler Dodge and Plymouth dealership west of Lincoln, and half a dozen employees that call me Mister Tupper. What I donât have is a wife.â He paused. âShe left me high and dry.â
âShe was stupid,â Natalie said.
âDonât expect me to argue the matter.â Dick looked sentimentally at her and then was ashamed of his forwardness. âHell, Iâm too old for the hunt anyway.â
Natalie protested, â Mais non! You are not old!â
Dick recited, ââCold are the hands of time that creep along relentlessly, destroying slowly but without pity that which yesterday was young. Alone our memories resist this disintegration and grow more lovely with the passing years.ââ He smiled with some embarrassment. âI got that from a movie.â
Natalie was nodding. âBut yes! The Palm Beach Story . I like very much the films of Preston Sturges.â
Dick considered her with