When I see the bull charging, all the cowherd instincts of a lifetime, born in me from my father and grandfather and buried when I became an outlaw, return in a flash of instinct. Still barefoot, I grab the cloak spread for lovemaking and hasten down from our trysting place to meet this bull - again. One deft wave of the cloak draws his attention enough to make him cease his mindless romping. He rolls to a dead stop and stares at me with flaring nostrils and red-rimmed eyes.

My attention-getting trick worked much better than I expected. I drop the cloak and slowly approach him. One of the first lessons I learned from being around bulls is how to keep looking at the bull and at the same time, look everywhere else at once. If the temperamental animal chooses a sharp change in moods, as they often do, a clear line of escape can mean the difference between being gored to death or escaping alive. I watch him without meeting those rolling eyes, and I see the rider who was chasing him dismount with a rope and halter in his hand.

Pushing my luck, I dare to put my hands on his horns. He doesn't even flinch. He lowers his massive head as if bowing to me. I can't trust him but I stay where I am. "Is this your bull?" I ask the man who is cautiously closing in on us. "Toss me that halter!"

In no time, the bull is secured. He begins grazing peacefully. My question has gone unanswered. The bull's chaser hasn't even thanked me for saving him a lot of trouble. He just stares at me rudely and quickly looks away when I try to stare back. '

"Is this your bull?" I repeat loudly. Maybe the man is deaf.

"Yes! No need to shout," he snaps and turns his back. Apparently he wants to watch the bull. I size him up from behind. Tall, rather slender and not very broad in the shoulders, yet he carries himself like a warrior. Under the loose-fit leine and leggings, there could be solid muscle. And he wears a sword, very plain looking but well kept.

I take my chances, snatch him by the arm and spin him around. "You're a liar! That bull is mine."

"He's mine. You lie." He speaks very low. His hand is on the sword handle. He looks at me with a cold, flat expression that shows not a tiny spark of anger. He could kill me and forget it before tomorrow.

Baine picks that moment to emerge from the pine grove. She must think its safe to come out, since the bull is tied. "Your boots, m'chroi!" she calls out sweetly.

"My wife," I explain to the would-be bull owner. His hand releases the sword hilt but rests uneasily there. I turn to my beautiful Baine, whose loose flowing hair and swaying hips take the breath from me.

"My bull," insists the stranger. "Now I will take him home."

"My sword!" Baine gasps, "You have my sword!" A flick of her wrist and her dagger flashes out. Stupidly, I've left my axe under the pines. I clench my fists.

The three of us stand poised in silence, waiting to see who will make the first move.