“Hello, baby!” Rock answered and doffed his hat. “You don’t seem to find me a fearsome object, anyway.”
“Nor do I.” The woman suddenly had found her voice—a deep, throaty sound, like water rippling gently over pebbles. “But I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Rock grinned. His interest quickened at the tone, the clean-clipped words. No semiliterate range beauty this. Education had done one thing for Rock Holloway. It had made his ear sensitive to enunciation. “I’m a pretty substantial spook, I wish to remark. Rock Holloway is my name. I hail from Texas, via the Canadian Northwest and way points. I’m poor, but honest, and my intentions are reasonably honorable, even if my performances aren’t always up to par. No, lady, I’m no ghost. I’m a stock hand in search of occupation. I stopped in here because this was the first ranch I’ve seen to-day, and it’s near sundown. But, if I make you uncomfortable, I’ll ride on.”
“No, no!” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. Come in. I’ll show you what I mean. I think you’ll understand. It may startle you, too.”
Rock stepped into the room. The baby generously offered her doll in token of amity.
“I’s hung’y,” she announced, with juvenile directness. “I wan’ my suppah. Nona just sits an’ cwies. Make her ’top, Doc.”
The girl—Rock decided she could be no more than twenty-one or two—gathered the child up and set her on a chair.
“Sit right there till I come back, honey,” she murmured. “Then you shall have your supper.”
The fair-haired, blue-eyed mite obeyed without question. The girl beckoned Rock. She walked to the other end of the room, through a doorway. Rock followed her. He found himself in a narrow hallway that bisected the house. She opened a door off that and motioned him to enter.
He found himself in a woman’s room. No man ever surrounded himself with such dainty knickknacks. It was an amazing contrast to the bare utility of the kitchen.