“Pearse!”
Into the shaken light of Hilda’s fire came stepping a tall young fellow in chaparajos and sombrero, his spurs clanking as he strode toward her. The blood checked all through Hilda’s body, making it tingle; her breath seemed to stop. She jumped up and ran stumblingly toward him, pushing him back into the shadows. The year that had gone by since she hid him in the cyclone cellar was wiped out—she was still trying to hide him.
“The others mustn’t see you,” she whispered.
“They won’t”; his voice seemed deeper than she remembered it; he was more self-reliant. “They’re all over there with the cattle. My coming through must have started the herd moving. Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I was just bringing in your Sunday pony, with the saddle and bridle; meant to turn him in to the corral at the Sorrows to-morrow night, and maybe get a word with you. How are you? How’s everybody at the ranch?”
“Oh, Pearse,” unconsciously Hilda was going with him toward the rope corral which held the remuda. “Just pull the saddle off Sunday and throw it in the wagon, and—and turn Sunday in here—and—and you’ll stay and see Uncle Hank this time, won’t you?”
“I hadn’t intended to—‘this time.’” Pearse repeated her words with a hint of a laugh in his voice. “You see, I’ve got the pony with me. He’d know in a minute all about my having been at the ranch before—hidden.”
“Oh,” said Hilda impatiently. “I wish you’d kept Sunday—and the saddle and bridle, too. You’d have been more than welcome to them.”
But in her heart was relief. Not yet—not yet was the big secret to be told. She could still have it to dream of—all her own. Now that Pearse was here, her heart pounded way up in her throat and choked speech, but she knew that when he was gone—if he got away without any of them seeing him, there would be a precious memory added, of romance and adventure. He was speaking:
“You’re a good friend, Hilda, and the pony was everything to me—got me over to New Mexico in short order. I’m sure my coming in well mounted helped me with those folks I was going to see about my job and all. Sunday and I are mighty good pals—and I thought of you every time I looked at him—and that was every day.”
“Every day—and Sunday,” Hilda laughed softly in sheer happiness. “If you were thinking about me so much—I think you might have written. You said you would. Why didn’t you?”