Ivy’s sobs broke out afresh. She clung to Robin and would not be comforted. She felt that this clash had come about solely because of her. And Robin couldn’t enlighten her. Outside of himself and her father no one knew what happened that day below Cold Spring, no one knew the motive that was the mainspring of Shining Mark’s actions, nor Robin’s. Telling wouldn’t help. It might easily prove fatal. Let them all, including Ivy, think the trouble arose over her, until time and chance and effort proved Mark Steele a common thief—if he, Robin, lived that long. And he meant to live.
“I hate him,” Ivy wailed. “I’m afraid of him. And still—oh, Robin, it’s awful. When I’m with him I feel—as if—as if—he could do what he liked with me. I wish he was dead! He’ll kill you. I know it. He’s a wolf—a wolf!”
“Wolves get trapped now an’ then,” Robin muttered. “Don’t you worry about Mark Steele no more, hon. I don’t sabe why he should make you feel that way if you really like me. Do you really, truly?”
Ivy put her arms around his neck and held up her tear-wet face.
“You know I do,” she cried passionately. “You know I do. You’re worth all the Mark Steeles that ever wore boots. It’s me that’s no good. Why should I go crazy because another girl looked at you the way May Sutherland did, if I didn’t care? But Robin—say—have you never met with another girl since you’ve loved me that made you feel—oh, I don’t know. As if you’d like to run your fingers in her hair and have her kiss you. You don’t really want to, but, but, you think about it. Oh, Robin, Robin, what’s the matter with me?”
Robin couldn’t answer that except by shaking his head. He was troubled. It hurt him to think of Ivy nursing the least tenderness for another man. And still—Robin remembered himself sitting on a hill with May Sutherland, looking off into a sunset. He did not know whether the thing that troubled him was the beauty of evenfall drawing in across a painted sky, or the girl’s presence, her physical nearness, the deep sweet tones of her voice. Even now, standing with his arms about Ivy, stirred to unsuspected depths of tenderness by her sorrow, he could not shut out May Sutherland’s image. It was there, vivid, alluring. Still May was nothing to him, nor he to her. He was promised to Ivy and he did not desire it to be otherwise.
He shook himself free of these abstractions. Ivy loved him. That was good enough. If Shining Mark could momentarily fascinate her as a snake is said to charm a bird, that was something against which he must protect her. Mayne’s cattle and Mayne’s daughter—who was another man’s promised wife. Shining Mark was decidedly a thief. Robin despised him but he did not make the mistake of under-estimating Mark’s ability and courage in pursuing his desired ends. But for the time——
“Say, hon, I’m famished,” he said presently. “No supper. No breakfast. Forget your troubles and rustle me somethin’ to eat. Everything’s goin’ to be all right.”
Ivy smiled, kissed him, and flew about the kitchen to prepare him food. She sat beside him while he ate. She perched on his knee while he smoked a cigarette and her sorrows vanished. She could laugh again. She promised Robin, assured him repeatedly, that she would never be jealous again. She was glad to think that Shining Mark would not again come riding to the ranch. Robin could assure her of that without telling her more than she already knew. He felt that Mark would not risk bearding both himself and Dan Mayne on their own ground.
In the middle of the afternoon Mayne came home. He sat down to talk it over with Robin.