As the meadow wound upward it had grown increasingly narrow, hemmed in by the creek on one side and the steep mountain slope on the other, the swath of wind-rippled grass surrounding outcroppings of granite boulders like flood waters swirling around islands in their path. On one of these islands of piled rocks, Sage sat cross-legged, naked to the waist, his long straight hair loose down his back and blowing in the breeze. But for that slight telltale movement and the music he was making, he might have been part of the earth itself. She halted and stood rooted in the meadow grass, her breath stolen by the sheer beauty of him, and the sound of the wooden flute he played. He had to have seen her; from where he sat his view of the meadow, the ranch and the valley below must have been all-encompassing. But the music of the flute continued as though she were no more an intrusion than the sun on his shoulders or the wind in his hair. So, after a moment she hitched in a breath and went on climbing, making her way toward him and the rock pile he commanded like a prince his castle.
