He made the lounge in the big sunny window his headquarters.From it he could look out on some of the ranch activities when she was not with him, could watch the line riders as they passed to and fro and command a view of one of the corrals.There was always, too, the turquoise sky, out of which poured a flood of light on the roll of hilltops.Sometimes he read to himself, but he was still easily tired, and preferred usually to rest.More often she read aloud to him while he lay back with his leveled eyes gravely on her till the gentle, cool abstraction she affected was disturbed and her perplexed lashes rose to reproach the intensity of his gaze.
She was of those women who have the heavenborn faculty of ****** home of such fortuitous elements as are to their hands.Except her piano and such knickknacks as she had brought in a single trunk she had had to depend upon the resources of the establishment to which she had come, but it is wonderful how much can be done with some Navajo rugs, a bearskin, a few bits of Indian pottery and woven baskets and a judicious arrangement of scenic photographs.In a few days she would have her pictures from Kalamazoo, pending which her touch had transformed the big living room from a cheerless barn into a spot that was a comfort to the eye and heart.To the wounded man who lay there slowly renewing the blood he had lost the room was the apotheosis of home, less, perhaps, by reason of what it was in itself than because it was the setting for her presence--for her grave, sympathetic eyes, the sound of her clear voice, the light grace of her motion.He rejoiced in the delightful intimacy the circumstances made necessary.To hear snatches of joyous song and gay laughter even from a distance, to watch her as she came in and out on her daily tasks, to contest her opinions of books and life and see how eagerly she defended them; he wondered himself at the strength of the appealthese ****** things made to him.Already he was dreading the day when he must mount his horse and ride back into the turbulent life from which she had for a time, snatched him.
"I'll hate to go back to sheepherding," he told her one day at lunch, looking at her across a snow-white tablecloth upon which were a service of shining silver, fragile china teacups and plates stamped Limoges.
He was at the moment buttering a delicious French roll and she was daintily pouring tea from an old family heirloom.The contrast between this and the dust and the grease of a midday meal at the end of a "chuck wagon" lent accent to his smiling lamentation.
"A lot of sheepherding you do," she derided.
"A shepherd has to look after his sheep, y'u know." "You herd sheep just about as much as I punch cows.""I have to herd my herders, anyhow, and that keeps me on the move." "I'm glad there isn't going to be any more trouble between you and theLazy D.And that reminds me of another thing.I've often wonered who those men could have been that attacked you the day you were hurt."She had asked the question almost carelessly, without any thought that this might be something he wished to conceal, but she recognized her mistake by the wariness that filmed his eyes instantly.
"Room there for a right interesting guessing contest," he replied."You wouldn't need to guess," she charged, on swift impulse."Meaning that I know?""You do know.You can't deny that you now." "Well, say that I know?""Aren't you going to tell?"
He shook his head."Not just yet.I've got private reasons for keeping it quiet a while.""I'm sure they are creditable to you," came her swift ironic retort."Sure," he agreed, whimsically."I must live up to the professionalstandard.Honor among thieves, y'u know."
