“Well?” she inquired, icily.
“Good mornin’, ma’am.” He bowed to her, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat from his head with, it seemed to her, an ironical flourish.
“Is there something you want to speak to me about?” she asked, her chin elevated, disdain in her eyes. She assured herself that when he glanced at her as he was doing at this instant, she positively hated him. She wondered why she had tolerated his presence.
“I wasn’t havin’ any thoughts about speakin’ to you, ma’am. Kind of a nice mornin’ for a ride, ain’t it?”
“If one rides alone,” she returned, significantly.
“I enjoy ridin’ a whole lot better when I’ve got company,” he stated, gravely, with equal significance.
“Meaning that you have made up your mind to ride with me, I suppose?” she said coldly.
“You’ve hit it, ma’am.”
“Well,” she declared, her voice quivering with passion; “I don’t want you to ride with me. You came here and usurped whatever power and authority there is; and you are running the Rancho Seco as though it belongs to you. But you shan’t ride with me—I don’t want you to!”
Had she been standing she must have stamped one foot on the ground, so vehement was her manner. And the flashing scorn of her eyes should have been enough to discourage most men.