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Antonio, he realized he was in something of a dilemma. No doctor was going to believe Angel if she told him she was from the past. Most likely she’d end up committed to some mental institution. And if the doctor did believe her? She’d end up under a microscope in some top-secret government laboratory.
    The possibility that Angel had come from thepast seemed slight to nonexistent. The only thing in her favor was the quaint language she used. It had been in evidence long before there had been any discussion of where—or when—she had come from.
    Unfortunately the cowboys who had surrounded Angel hadn’t looked much different from cowboys today. It was unusual that they’d been on horseback, but not entirely unlikely even in this day and age. Dallas tried to remember distinguishing features about the men who had held Angel at bay. It was hard because once he had caught sight of Angel, he hadn’t been able to drag his eyes off her.
    Then he realized that there had been an usual yellow stripe down the outside seam of two of the men’s trousers. Gray trousers. Confederate trousers? His memory must be playing tricks on him. He realized that he wanted to believe her, because he didn’t want to contemplate the fact that she was really hurt or crazy.
    It was too bad Angel had lost the rucksack he had seen her set down outside the cave. Maybe there would have been something in it either to prove or disprove her claim. Dallas hadn’t thought to check the pockets of her trousers, but he would have her do that—or do it himself—as soon as he got her home.
    Home.
    Dallas shoved a hand through his hair in agitation. Where had the idea come from to take her home with him instead of directly to San Antonio? He had no business even considering it. He made the turn to take him west to his ranch on the Frio River outside Uvalde, even as he told himself it was a dumb thing to do.
    â€œWhere am I?”
    Dallas looked over his shoulder and felt relieved to see Angel sitting up.
    â€œYou’re in the back of my pickup—my truck,” he explained when she looked confused.
    She winced as her fingertips found the wound on her forehead. “I wasn’t dreaming?”
    He shook his head ruefully. “I’m afraid not, Angel.”
    Angel’s attention had been focused on the man; now it shifted to her surroundings. Her jaw dropped in amazement. She swallowed hard and said, “We’re moving awfully fast.”
    â€œNo more than sixty miles an hour.”
    â€œThat isn’t possible! What’s making this…truck…go?”
    â€œNowadays the horses are under the hood,” Dallas said with a wry smile. He caught a glimpse of Angel’s horrified expression in the mirror. This was no time for an explanation of the internalcombustion engine, so he said, “A mechanical contraption inside the front of the truck makes it go.”
    Angel waved a hand at all the dials and knobs in front of him. “What do all those buttons do?”
    Dallas punched a knob and a country and western tune started playing. “Radio,” he said.
    Fascinated, Angel asked, “How does it work?”
    â€œDon’t ask me,” Dallas said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand the innards of most of the modern conveniences I use.”
    He punched another button and a blast of cool air hit Angel in the face.
    â€œAir-conditioning,” he explained.
    Another button made windshield wipers scrape across the bug-spattered glass; yet another sent water spraying up to clean off the bugs.
    â€œThings have certainly changed a lot,” Angel said, in perhaps the understatement of the century.
    â€œLady, you don’t know the half of it. Why, we can fly across the entire country in a couple of hours.”
    Angel’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Now you’re making fun of me. We both know men can’t fly.”
    â€œMen can’t.