It was that trip from Boston last year that had sealed his reputation.  The drummers he’d played poker with on the train and the stage had either ended up in Virginia City or talked to those who eventually did.  Once the local cowhands heard stories from several witnesses of his night in a private compartment on the train with a beautiful blonde widow who drowned her grief in his arms, the fiery Spanish senorita who had taken him almost by force from the train to a hotel room to renew a previous affair and the sweet Irish red-head on the run from her husband who had seduced him at a stage stop, his  reputation had flourished and then inevitably been subject to exaggeration.

    After that Boston trip even Joe had commented on his escapades, not entirely with approval.  When he’d looked Joe in the eye and told him that before he’d left he’d only been with one woman and that nothing had changed, Joe had realized it had all been part of an RJ game.  He’d seen a little envy in Joe’s eyes, not over his relationship with RJ, Joe was too happy in his marriage for that, but over Griff’s ability to immerse himself in RJ’s play.  Edmund told him later that he and RJ’s Ranger friend in Texas were the only men in her life who’d ever been uninhibited enough to play those games.  Edmund, the cook who had replaced Hop Sing after his death, was the only man RJ ever talked to about her relationships with the men in her life.  She never talked about other men to Griff but didn' care if Edmund answered Griff’s questions.

    Griff didn’t think of himself as uninhibited, but two and a half years in prison had given him an ability to live in his imagination. He’d been able to carry that into his interactions with RJ when she was in a playful mood.

    Griff watched the progress of the little caravan as it proceeded toward the drovers’ camp.  He didn’t ride in to greet her of course.  The only rule he had gleaned from her play was that once a game started everything was played in character and they never referred to it later.  So right now she was a stranger to him.

    From the ridge above the camp, RJ spotted Griff on the far side of the herd wearing, as always, her bandana.   He looked up as she rode in trailing the three loaded mules handled by a  man she'd hired. He made no move to come closer.   She smiled.  This was going to be fun.

    RJ’s contact with the trail boss went smoothly.  Adams was a kindly enough sort if rough around the edges.  For fifty dollars he was more than willing to let a French countess exploring the wild American West spend five days riding along with his herd.  For another fifty he was happy to agree to assign the drover of her choice to act as her "manservant" to replace the one who had supposedly deserted her.

    All the men were eating their noon day meal except for Griff and the two others who stayed out with the herd.   She pretended to look them over, but stayed noncommittal.  Before he returned to town, Reddick grabbed a meal with the men.   She knew he would spread the story of this eccentric countess who, although a little crazy, paid well.  She took out a sketch pad and made some preliminary sketches of the chuck wagon, the horses, the men.  It helped her stay in character and broke the ice.  The men had an excuse to talk to her as she sketched them.  She found a couple more than willing to make an extra buck a day to put up her tent each night and take it down each morning.

    Three of the men grabbed a handful of biscuits and headed out to replace the three watching the herd.   As Griff rode in, he gave her a long look, but did nothing that would indicate more than normal curiosity.  R.J. continued sketching, including Griff in her next picture.

    As Griff sat down to eat, she walked over to Adams.  Nodding her head toward Griff, she told the boss in her slightly overdone French accent.  "Zat one.  Ze young one."
 
 

    "That’s Griff Ma’am.  He doesn’t exactly work for me.  He’s delivering some horses for the Cartwrights and signed on with me to take care of our horses as well.    I could spare him from riding herd, but I really need him with the horses.  I can tell him I’ve assigned him to work for you part time, but if he refuses, he doesn’t depend on me for his job."

    R.J. could tell the man was regretting the loss of the second $50.  "Would he not like to work for a woman?"

    "Well, Ma’am, he’s pretty independent.   I don’t think he’d object to working for a woman, especially one as beautiful as you.  But maybe you shouldn’t say you are looking for a manservant.   That doesn’t sound like a job for the kind of man you’re likely to find in this neck of the woods."

    "Ze job of manservant for a countess has prestige in France.  Not here?"

    "No, not here,"  he responded.  "Maybe in San Francisco or Denver."

    "But I ask him.  If he agrees, he takes care of  horses but ze other times, for me?"  Adams nodded.

    R.J.  and Adams approached Griff where he was eating with the other men.   Adams introduced them.  Griff stood up as she extended her gloved hand.   He looked her over, taking in her formal riding habit and suppressing a smile as he gave her his hand.  "Griff, the Countess is going to be with us for the next five days.  She needs someone to help her out while she’s with us.  I told her I could spare you from the herd as long as she gave you time to take care of the horses."

    Griff did an admirable job of looking surprised and a little reluctant.  "Help you out?  What exactly would you want me to do?  And why me?"

    R.J. held on to his hand.  "I am very good with ze horses.  Even ze wild American ones.  But mules . . . . "  She gestured toward the three mules as they stood grazing where Reddick had hobbled them before returning to town.  "Two of your companions agree to unload zem at night and put up my tent.  But I need someone to pull zem along.  I need someone to make my fire, make my bath, sleep nearby to guard me."

    Griff interrupted.  "Guard you from what?" and then a pause, "Make your bath?"

   She answered the second question first.  "I take ze bath in ze evening.  I need someone to bring water, to heat it.  And sometimes at night I must go out to  . . . . for personal things.  I need a man to protect me from ze animals, ze snakes."

    Griff smiled, as did all the men within hearing.  "But why me?" he asked again.

    "Because I need you to pose for me."   She showed him her last drawing, the one with him standing by the chuck wagon.  I come to America to make a book of pictures of a noble Frenchman, a youngest son, who comes to America.  I brought a manservant with me who could pose for ze pictures.  He was tall, and of nice face and body, like you.   I have ze noble clothes, of his size.  Zey fit you. I hope.   He was not liking ze wildness here.  He ran away to New Orleans with a lady gambler.  Most men here, too big.  Too much muscles or too much fat.  At home, when I make ze paintings from ze drawings, I put his face on your body so zey are all the same."   Then she looked at Griff closely.  She traced his face with her hand.   "Or maybe ze other way.  You have a good face.  A strong face.  Maybe when you take off ze hairs from your face, I will see you have ze noble face.  I put your face on his body.  I pay you ten dollars every day to do things for me."

    The other men straightened up at the mention of this figure.  Griff looked skeptical.  "Let me get this straight.  You want to pay me ten dollars a day to fetch and carry for you, to pull your mules and to stand around in some fancy clothes so you can draw my picture.  And I have to shave?"

    "Just so.  You must also bath.  When I am finished at night.  And I draw you doing many things, not only standing."  She extended her portfolio to him.

    Griff looked through the drawings, wondering if the handsome subject was one of R.J.’s other lovers or just someone she had made up.   He was startled when he got to one showing the man standing up to his knees in a stream, totally naked.  There were other nude studies as well.   He looked up at R.J.   "These last pictures.  He has no clothes on.  You don’t expect me to take off my clothes for you?"  The men around him guffawed.
 
 

    "A handsome boy like you never takes your clothes off in front of a woman?"  The men were laughing uncontrollably now.

    "Not so she can draw my picture.  And not in front a bunch of sorry cowhands."  Griff glared at the laughing men.

    R.J. touched his arm as she took back the portfolio.  "We start with clothes.  Zen we see.  If you worry you do not look as well with no clothes as Pierre, I can make certain adjustments" she said as she pointed vaguely to the nether regions on the naked man in the pictures.

    Griff stiffened.  "I’m not worried about how I look without clothes.  And you would not need to make ‘adjustments’. But I take my clothes off in front of a woman for only one reason.  And that’s not to have her draw my picture."

    R.J. smiled as she put her hand around the back of Griff’s head and drew him toward her until their faces were inches apart.  She whispered, but loudly enough for the others to hear, "I see you after you bath.  Maybe, we work something out."  With that she walked off.

    That evening she had her tent put up fifty yards from the main camp.  Griff fetched water and heated it in the pots she had brought.  She bathed as best she could in the fold-out canvas "tub" while he roasted the chickens stuffed with vegetables she had brought from town marinating in wine.  She had brought enough to take some over to the men to eat with their less lavish meal.

    She handed Griff some clean clothes.  "You bath now."  She held up an ivory handled razor Griff had never seen before.  "When you finish, I use zis."

    Griff, grinned, thinking of the first time she had shaved him.  "A countess who knows how to use a razor on a man’s face?  Maybe I should do it myself."

    "No fear.   My big brother, his arm, it was ruined in ze war.  I learned to, what you say, shave his face for him.  Now his wife, she does it.  But I remember."

    "Do you make a habit of shaving your servants?"  Griff teased.

    "I was told you western men cannot be servants.  So you are my model.  I shave you for artistic reasons."

     Griff emerged from the tent, shirtless, tousling his wet hair with a towel.   R.J. took out her pad and sketched him as he stood there rubbing the towel through his hair.  A pretty picture that.   She felt a familiar ache in her groin.  Was she going to be able to play this through or would she give in to the desire to take him to bed right now?  Would the game make it so much better?   She knew it would.  Anticipation, desire delayed, like eating when the hunger is a sharp pain in the belly instead of just a vague response to a certain time of day.  It was so much better.  She motioned him to a canvas chair in front of the tent.  She brushed back his hair and tied it at the nape with a bootlace.  She shaved his face carefully, stroking his cheek a few times to see that it was smooth enough.

   Griff sat there with his eyes closed, smelling the exotic scent of a strange perfume.  Immersed in this game, this little play, sharing her bed tonight was not a sure thing.   Not unless he could figure a way to seduce a countess on the first night of their meeting.  She had opened the door with her last whispered suggestive statement but she would back off a little now, leaving him to figure how to get to that door.  He knew he could simply end the game now, take her in his arms and then to bed.  But if he did that she would be disappointed, even if she didn’t let it affect the enthusiasm of her lovemaking.  And he would rather sleep alone like a dog lying outside her tent for five nights than disappoint her.   Better he should just forget everything between them and just immerse himself in being a young cowhand in the presence of a beautiful French woman who seemed to be open to the possibility of polishing him up until he was suitable for her bed.

    When she finished, he rinsed his face in a basin, dried off and held out the shirt she had handed him.

    "Look, these tight pants are bad enough, but I’m not going to walk around camp in a ruffled shirt.  I’ll never be able to work with these men again."

    R.J. dug around in one of her bags and pulled out another shirt.  "Here is zis one better?"  He took it.   It was plain, but made of some soft fabric and had pearl buttons,  much fancier than the course shirt he had been wearing.   He looked at it dubiously but put it on.  If no one looked close, it would look pretty normal.  He started to button it up.  She stopped him.  "Wait, no buttons.  Sit by ze fire.  Lean against ze log, elbows here so."  She had him prop his elbows on the log, leaning back so the shirt hung open exposing his chest.  "Now look like a young lord.  Master of ze world, except no inheritance."

    Griff grinned at that.   "I’ve got the no inheritance part down pat."
 
 

    "No, no.  No big smile.  Look thoughtful, superior."  She drew him quickly as he tried to obey her.

    When the chickens were done, she had him take all but one over to the main camp.  She could hear the men teasing Griff about his clothes, about being too good to hang around with them because they weren’t royalty, about his new vocation as a butler.   He responded with a voice so low, she couldn’t hear him.  But the way the men laughed she guessed Griff was saying something just crude enough to satisfy them that his motives in working for her had nothing to do with snobbery.  When he got back, she handed him a full plate.  As he reached for a knife and fork, she stopped him.  "No fork.  Fingers.  I draw you eating.  Finger are, are . . .  sensuous."

    "My mother always taught me eating with the fingers was rude.  The sign of an uncouth person."

    "Your mama was right.  She trains a little boy to be polite.  I draw a man who grew up with the table manners of the upper class and is now in the wild of a new world.   You eat with fingers, but slowly, tearing off pieces and placing them to your mouth.  You savor everything.  I promise, it will be good."

    "But you eat with a knife and fork?"

    "I draw.  No grease on the paper."  With that she propped the pad up on a little easel and drew while she speared food with the fork in her left hand.  Griff gave up, ripping off pieces of chicken, eating carrots and potatoes with his fingers, trying to figure out how to look sensuous.

    By nine it was fully dark.  The men in the camp below were turning in.  R.J. stood up and put her drawing materials away.  "I am tired.  I go up – she pointed to a cluster of small trees on the top of a little rise.  You come half way with your gun.  I scream, you come."  She led the way carrying a lantern, leaving him at the half-way point.  While he was waiting, he pissed on a bush.  Most likely the only thing he would be doing with that part of his anatomy tonight.   He had to play by the rules.  It was too early in the game for a cowhand to seduce a countess.

    The next morning, he woke with first light.  She was not up.  Obviously the countess required more sleep than R.J. did.  A few of the men were coming in from the last night watch on the herd.  The cook had already started breakfast.  He saw them look his way, noting the fact that he was sleeping outside the tent, not in it.  He got up and started a fire.  He fetched enough fresh water for morning tea and for her to wash with.   The kettle was at a rolling boil by the time she appeared, looking fresh but still exotic.  He handed her a cup of tea.  She smiled as she sipped.

    "A cowboy who knows how to make tea?"

    "Would have been better if you had a teapot."

    She lifted her eyebrow.  "Griff, perhaps you are a young nobleman, impoverished but still with some polish of ze upper class."  She smiled.  "Now, do you know how to make a big wild breakfast."

    "Wild?"

    "Like hungry cowboys eat.  I want to eat like a cowboy today."

    They rode out with the herd but midmorning she stopped to do some drawing.  She had him pose on his horse, drinking from a stream, looking out over a rise, shooting a few  rabbits for dinner and even gutting and skinning them.  And with his clothes, or rather her clothes, on.  She asked questions about his life as though she knew nothing about him and little about the West.  He asked her questions about her life in France and was fascinated by her answers, never knowing if they were made up whole cloth or came from real knowledge of life in Europe.  He frequently caught himself forgetting that the woman with the accent dressed in the fancy riding habit and riding side saddle, wasn’t a countess.   Just as he was supposed to.

    They caught up with the herd around noon and ate the midday meal with the rest of the men.  The men laughed when Griff made her tea, but stopped laughing when she passed around a tin of cookies she had brought from the last town.  She made several drawings of each of the men, giving them the best ones, knowing that many of them had never had a picture to give a wife or girlfriend.

    They crossed a deep stream midafternoon.  R.J. insisted that they stay behind after they got the cattle across.   Griff started to get a little excited.   He had benefited many a time from R.J.’s affinity for making love in anything that held water.

    He remembered to help her down from her horse this time.   She had waited several times for him to give her a hand up or down until now he realized it was one of his "duties".  To his dismay, she did not have any plans for them to go swimming together.  In fact, she claimed she did not know how to swim and was afraid of the moving water.  She wanted to draw him in the water.  Griff remembered the picture of Pierre standing in the water.  Suddenly, inexplicably, he felt shy, as though she was a stranger who had not seen him naked a hundred times.

    "I’m not going to stand in that water stark naked while you draw.  What if one of the men come back?"

    "Ah, you are a man of great modesty.  I would draw you swimming or bathing or washing your clothes.  Oui, those clothes you were wearing before, zey want washing.  You can keep on your underdrawers if you wish."

    While she got out her easel and drawing materials, he took out his clothes and a bar of soap and took off his boots and shirt.  He made her turn around while he removed the trousers she had given him.  He walked waist deep into the water and scrubbed his clothes against a boulder.  He left them to dry on the top of the boulder and swam lazily against the current, mostly just enough to stay in one place.  When he started getting chilled, he climbed on a boulder, and lay in the sun, not caring by then if she saw him in his drawers.  He pretended to nap, but watched her through slitted eyes.   She seemed to be concentrating on her drawing, looking up at him occasionally.  After 10 or 15 minutes he actually did fall asleep.

    He woke to his name being called in that peculiar accent she was sporting.  "We go now, Griff."  He was so warm by that time, the water seemed refreshing again.  She handed him a towel as he got out of the water.  His shirt was dry, so he packed it away.  He put the damp pants on over his wet drawers, figuring they would both dry before they caught up with the herd.  He looked over the sketches she had made.  The first one was of him undressing.  "You looked."

    She winked at him.  "Of course.  For a French woman not to look at a comely man would be an insult.  Would not you have looked at me under ze same circumstances?"

    Griff swept his hat off his head and made an exaggerated bow.  "I would dare not insult you by doing otherwise."
 
 

    The herd was gathered up for the night by the time they caught up with it.  The men who unloaded her mules winked at Griff as though they knew something.  He kept a stone face.  He checked on all the horses while the men put up her tent.  He had to replace a shoe and clean out a few stones before he could get to her camp.   She had already cut up the rabbits.  There were soaking in wine while she whipped up some kind of sauce.  Where the hell had she learned that?  He’d never known her to cook anything beyond the campfire basics.

    "Where’d you learn to do that?"  Then realizing that was a question to R.J. not the countess, he finished, "I thought you noble types had servants to do your cooking."

    She turned and handed him a knife.  "You are right.  But ze French know everything is good cooked in wine.  Now if you peel potatoes and boil zem, it will be good with ze rabbit."

    He took a big plateful of the rabbit to the men in the main camp while she was bathing. He declared he’d had enough bathing for one day.  Shortly after making that declaration, he realized he might have made a mistake.   Maybe this time she would have insisted on drawing him while he bathed.   Damn.

    While they ate – she let him use a knife and fork this time - he wracked his brain trying to think of another ploy to get into her tent.   He knew she wasn’t going to just invite him into her bed.  That wasn’t part of the game.  He had to do his part in seducing her.

    But she relented enough to make the first move.  After she made her trip into a nearby group of bushes, she busied herself in the tent while he cleaned up the supper things and laid out his bedroll for the night.  She had several lanterns lit inside when she came out to get her easel.   He was already stretched out on his bedroll with his boots off.  She appeared to be wearing a long nightgown with a silk robe over it.

    "Griff, you are ready to sleep so soon?  You did a nap only a few hours ago.  I  hoped to do more drawing tonight."

    Griff jumped up.  "No problem.  What would you like me to put on?"

    She held the tent flap for him.   "You are fine as you are."

    She had the tent looking as comfortable as a boudoir inside.  "Where do you want me"?
 
 

    She set herself up on a little canvas stool and motioned toward the opposite side of the tent where a luxurious pile of blankets, pillows and quilts made up her bed.

    "Griff, we are friends now.  Maybe you are ready to pose for more intimate pictures.  No one will see.  Lanterns make a soft light, lots of shadows.  You will not be so shy.  Your body it is nice, no place for shame.  You had three glasses of wine with dinner.  Did not it make you loose."

    Griff knew he had to take this opening.  But how to play it?  Shy?  Bold?

    "Well maybe it did loosen me up some.  But Ma’am, I have a great fear of offending you."  She cocked an eyebrow at a question she did not voice.  "I don’t know what kind of cold blood that Pierre fellow had flowing through his veins but no red-blooded Western man could stand naked in front of a beautiful woman like you without taking certain, ah . . . risks."

    She caught on.  "Oh, you are afraid you will, how should I say it, become excited.  And you believe I would take offense."

    Griff sighed in feigned relief at her understanding.

    "No need to worry, a French woman would not take offense at a hot-blooded man who cannot resist her.  And I can make my pictures without making a fantasy about what you look like on your marriage night."

    "Are you saying you want me to be . . . to be aroused.  I am afraid if you expect it, I will not be able to do it."

    "If zat is true, you have nothing to worry about."  She put her easel aside and stood up.  "Would it be easier if I helped you undress?  Surely, girls impatient with your shyness have helped you before."

    "Ma’am if you got close enough to help me undress, then I know I wouldn’t be able to control myself."

    To his disappointment, she sat back down.  "All right then, I will make pictures of you as you take off your clothes."

    As he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and then took off his socks, she did make some sketches.  As he hesitated with the buttons on his pants she waved a hand at him impatiently.   He breathed deeply and took them off quickly.  He stood there in his drawers.  She waved her hand again.  He turned his back to her pulled off his drawers and got under the covers on her bed.

    She smiled.  "All right, we’ll start with you waiting for your lover in your bed.  Sit up at least."  He sat up.   She sketched him barechested.  "Now throw the covers down."   When he hesitated, she came over and jerked them off.  "Enough of shyness.  You are not some kind of virgin little boy.  I believe you have been with many women."

    Just as he was responding  "Not so many," she looked down at him.  "Oh, my.  You have something not to be hidden."  She paused and sighed,  "But I am afraid I cannot put something so large in my pictures.  If a young mademoiselle looked at it before her wedding night she might be so frightened she would call off her marriage.  Or perhaps she would be greatly disappointed with her husband on her marriage bed."

    She pulled him to his feet and backed him up against the center post of the tent.  "But I must draw you for myself as you are.  You are quite beautiful."  She picked up her sketchbook and began on a fresh page.

    When she finished that page, she came closer.  "You are quite impressive as you are.  But you were worried about becoming aroused.  Now I must see it."

    Griff decided that now was the time for boldness.   "Sometimes a woman must help a man become aroused."  But even as he said it, he could feel that this was not the case with  him, not here, not now.   But she ignored his rising erection, or seemed to, as she came closer.  Then she reached out and touched him, folding her fingers around him, until he was so hard in her hand, he feared he would burst.  She moved her hand on him, as though to take full measure of his size.  She pulled his face to hers and whispered, "Do you know how to use this beautiful weapon of yours."

    "Maybe you could teach me some new ways.  The French are famous for their knowledge of love."  With that, he kissed her, drawing her to him until her hand, which was still holding him, was pressed between his naked belly and her clothed one.   He untied the cord on her robe and pulled it off her shoulders until it dropped to the ground.  Under it she wore a silky nightgown which left little to the imagination.   He got on his knees and kissed her breasts through the silky material.   She pulled the tie at her neck and the gown fell partially open.  He pressed his lips against her bare skin, running his tongue around her nipples until they were as hard as his cock.   She pulled him to his feet and drew him to the bed clothes.  She sank to her knees and took him into her mouth.  He lost control almost immediately and came so violently his knees almost buckled.  She pulled him down to her.  "How long will it take something so large to become hard again?"

    "If you order it, I will have to obey.  I’m strong and young.  A woman so beautiful as you must do little but touch me.  But please, let’s not be in a hurry."

    Griff  pulled the nightgown over her head and stretched her out on the bedclothes.  He explored her body with his mouth working down from her neck until he put his tongue at that secret place between her legs.  He worked with his tongue until she arched her back and grabbed his hair, pulling him away as she came.

    "I believed you were too young to have such knowledge of a woman’s body.  I picked you for your youth, your slender body and your ways more gentle than your course friends.  I see I got more than I could hope.  Now we will see if I have ze skill to make you ready again."

    Griff pulled himself up until he was supporting himself on his hands placed above her shoulders.  He dropped his hips to her belly so that she could feel him hard against her.  "Oh, I see.  You do not need my skill zis time.  But I need a few moments to recover from ze pleasure you just gave me.  Can you stay so or must you come again so fast?

    In answer, he dropped his head to her breasts and suckled on one while he gently brushed his thumb against the nipple of the other.   After a moment, she drew his head up to hers and kissed him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth.  "I am ready now, young Griff.  I want you inside me."

    "Is that an order?"

    "It is a request which will become an order if you do not do as I ask."

    Griff put his arms around her and turned over until she was on top of him.  She arched her pelvis, took him in her hand and guided him inside her.  Griff put his hands on her buttocks pulling her to him, pushing himself further inside her.  She gasped.  "Young Griff, you fill me up.  I have never been so filled up before.  I barely have to move to feel ze pleasure."

    She moved on him slowly at first, then harder and faster until he could not contain himself.  Then she slowed a little.  "Now Griff, come now if you have control."  He did come, but not because he had control.  She collapsed on top of him, breathing hard.  She rested against him, keeping him inside her.

    He slept in her tent that night but left while it was still dark so no one would see him leave.  He found out later his discretion was wasted.  The lanterns had cast shadows in the tent that were visible to the men below.  They may not have been able to make out exactly what Griff was doing, but apparently they could see that they were doing it together and that he was there all night.

    They had three more nights before the horses and cattle were delivered.  Exquisite nights.  Breathless nights.  But even so, by the end of the five days he missed RJ, the real RJ.  He wanted to talk to her.  So he wasn’t unhappy to have the five days come to an end.  He knew she would be waiting for him in Virginia City when he got back.

    Her last ploy before she left on the stage, supposedly for Boston, was to share a meal with him at a private table in the same saloon where all the men from the drive were eating and drinking.  And many of them were close enough to hear her when she spoke to him.

    "Griff, come back wiz me."

    "To Boston?"

    "No, to France?"

    He laughed, "And what would I do in France?"

    "The man I will marry has a country home where he keeps many horses.  You could work there.  It would be nice to have you there."

    "But you will be married."

    "He is not so young.  I would still need you.  And I have friends you would like to meet.  Women who have married much older men or men with many lovers or men who do cannot properly please a woman."

    Griff sputtered, "You want . . . you want , , , ,"

    One of the men at the next table leaned over and whispered loud enough for everyone at his table to hear, "She wants to put you out to stud Griff."

    Griff hid his face in his arms on the table.  He would never, never, never live this down.  She was a crazy woman.

    He got control of himself to some extent.  He stood up and took her arm.  As he escorted her outside, he said, "I have a ranch here, a life, a job."

    And when he put her on the stage east, that was the end of the countess.  When he got home, RJ was there to meet him, excited as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.  The countess would never be mentioned between them.  But the story would be spread by every man on that drive.

    Come December Joe drove up to the corral where Griff was working a couple of horses.   "Expecting a package Griff?"  When Griff looked up, Joe used his thumb to indicate a big crate in the back of the wagon.  "Sent from Paris to you in care of the Ponderosa."

    A group of men gathered around the wagon.  "Open it Griff" several of them called out.  So he pried the lid off the crate and pulled out all the packing material inside.  He pulled out two flat rectangular items boxed separately.  He opened them carefully. The first one was an oil painting, a portrait of him sitting on his horse wearing the clothes he had been wearing on that summer’s cattle drive.  The signature on it was difficult to read, but he recognized the phony name RJ had given him as the countess.  He smiled broadly.  That woman would go to any lengths.  She didn’t paint in oils.  She must have had someone paint this from her sketches.  And somehow she had made the box look like it had come from Paris.  And it was a nice portrait.  A little better looking than he'd ever thought of himself, a little more rugged looking maybe, but it was him.

    He wished later he had stopped with opening that one.  The men gathered around the wagon got a good laugh over the second one.  That one showed him sitting on a big thoroughbred wearing formal hunting clothes of a French nobleman, or at least what he imagined such clothes would look like.  He remembered the sketches that had probably been the basis for this portrait.  She had him sitting up straight and proud, snobbish he’d thought.  He tried to slip the portrait back in its case before anyone else saw it, but Joe had jumped into the back of the wagon when he’d pulled out the first picture.  Joe pulled it away from him and displayed it for the group gathered around.  Griff had always thought Joe’s laugh was infectious.  He realized now it was nothing but irritating.

    But he kept both portraits.  And looked at them often.