“He’s in the bunkhouse, ma’am.”
She got up, and, holding her head very erect, began to walk toward the room in which she had left her hat.
But half-way across the porch the puncher’s voice halted her:
“Squint was sayin’ you didn’t expect him to be here, an’ that I’d have to do the explainin’. He couldn’t come, you see.”
“Ashamed, I suppose,” she said coldly.
She was facing the puncher now, and she saw him grin.
“Why, no, ma’am; I don’t reckon he’s a heap ashamed. But it’d be mighty inconvenient for him. You see, ma’am, this mornin’, when he was gittin’ ready to ride to the south line, his cayuse got an ornery streak an’ throwed him, sprainin’ Squint’s ankle.”
The girl’s emotions suddenly reacted; the resentment she had yielded to became self-reproach. For she had judged hastily, and she had always felt that one had no right to judge hastily.
And Taylor had been remarkably considerate; for he had not even permitted her to know of the accident until after noon. That indicated that he had no intention of forcing himself on her.
She hesitated, saw Martha grinning into a hand, looked at the puncher’s expressionless face, and felt that she had been rather prudish. Her cheeks flushed with color.