“Marion—dear—what is it to be?” he asked. “Let’s decide.”
A deeper color flowed into her cheeks, a roguish twinkle into her eyes. Half shyly, she looked up at him.
“Ain’t you scairt to marry a red-headed catamount?” she demanded. “They’re awful critters to git along with.”
“I never married one yet, but I’m not scared,” he smiled. “I’ve held my own with every one I’ve met so far.”
Under the curving brows flamed a daring, tantalizing light.
“Seems to me you—you ain’t holdin’ your own right now,” she teased.
He blinked. Then light shot over his face. One stride, and his arms were around her.
“Who says I’m not?” he challenged.
“That’s—that’s better!”
Her arms clasped tight around his neck. Her lips rose, tremulous, questing, waiting. His head dropped, and his embrace tightened. And then between the crusted crags there stood no longer a girl of the hills and a man from outside. Lip to lip, heart to heart, soul to soul—the twain had become one.