She dozes in the sun as if enchanted. And refuses to get up, at least for a while. (This has nothing to do with the fact that Johnny West was hell bent for leather on dragging her and her little appaloosa mare up to the ends of the earth on their first real back country ride of the summer.)

And it's almost inexplicable, but gazing up at Redondo Peak from the shores of Lake Johnson (11,200 feet), the hot and squashed sandwiches she excavates from the dark recesses of their saddle bags taste like filet mignon.

Tipsy on creek water, and seeing as how they've got the whole lake to themselves, Jane suddenly envisions herself diving in; piercing the mirror-like reflection of mountains, clouds, and pines like a leaping fish; gliding out to the still, deep center as dragonflies flit by.

Moments later, when the frigid water hits her bare skin like a million tiny needles under the blaring blue sky, she glances back at her boots, t-shirt, jeans, socks, underwear all crumpled into a pile, husband and horses staring in disbelief, blue heeler dog wagging her bobtail on the shore. Jane presses on, wading. Although not very far. After all, she's a cowgirl, not a naiad.

Johnny West is still talking about that naked lady he saw up at Lake Johnson.