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steps, enough to give him a commanding height from which to survey us.
    He stood quite still, his wire-rimmed glasses flickering as he sized us up. His right arm was in a sling. When Aunt Buzzy said, “Come and join us, dear,” he sauntered down the three steps.
    â€œSauntered” is a show-offy word, but it suited him. He wore corduroy pants stuffed into Western boots, a herdsman’s jacket with deep pockets, and a hat just big enough to give his game away: he was dressing up. And, with the sling and all, I must say he was the picture of rugged Westernness until Aunt Buzzy asked him, “What do I always say about wearing hats indoors?” He tugged it off with an irritated sigh, just as the heel of his boot snagged on the bottom step and he barely saved himself from landing on his face.
    While Aunt Buzzy was making introductions, he recovered his dignity, bowing in a downright courtly manner to Mother and smiling indulgently at Sylvie. Coming around to me, he took my hand and bent his head, then looked me square in the eye. Without the hat he wasn’t so tall, and with that crinkly, gingery hair going every which way, he wasn’t so old either. But his eyes behind the glasses were so dark and keen that they startled me, and they were set in a face of exotic hue. I had thought him to be merely tan, but the color was deep-dyed, a smoky bronze that whispered of foreign shores.
    Then he bugged his eyes at me.
    Which seemed very fresh, but I had it coming, staring at him like that.
    â€œOh, thank you, Esperanza,” said my aunt as a partridge-plump woman with long, black braids brought in a tray of tea cakes and icy-green melon balls. Solomon followed with a frosty pitcher of lemonade. Suddenly I was ravenous, but we had to go another round of introductions for Esperanza’s sake, after which she made a little bob and smilingly excused herself.
    We tucked into the refreshments and conversation languished, save for small talk about the weather. After two tea cakes and a half-dozen melon balls, I asked Ranger, “Have you been out riding?” That getup made him look as horsy as Buffalo Bill.
    He opened his mouth to reply, but Aunt Buzzy intercepted: “His father’s declared the saddle off-limits until September, since Ranger took that tumble and broke his collarbone.”
    â€œVery sensible,” Mother commented as Ranger shifted awkwardly in his chair and draped one leg over the arm—which seemed to be made from the horn of a yak.
    â€œThat explains the sling,” Aunt Buzzy went on. “If you’re wondering about the outfit, he’s adopted the style of his latest hero, Mr. D—”
    â€œ Please , Buzzy,” Ranger interrupted.
    Mother’s eyebrows, which were certainly being worked today, jumped again. I wondered if, when my aunt was tutoring him, Ranger had at least addressed her as Miss Buzzy.
    But the lady herself didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, all right. I’ll admit you’re much less trouble since school let out for the summer.” She smiled at him with affection and he managed a weak grimace in return.
    Talk then turned to Mr. Titus Bell and what he was doing back east—something to do with investors and a new company. It went over my head but I was further distracted by the boy’s behavior. For one thing, the foot on the floor couldn’t hold still, but hammered out a restless tattoo with the heel of his boot. For another, he kept looking at me. Glances at first, then more intently, and finally through a circle made by the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Like he fancied himself as Leonardo framing the Mona Lisa , for heaven’s sake.
    â€œRanger, please ,” said Aunt Buzzy, noticing at last. “You’ll absolutely spook poor Isobel. Put your lens away.”
    Lens? I wondered. Meanwhile Sylvie had finished her lemonade and gone looking for mischief. She found it by pulling a rose from a vase on