“If you mean that I go to hollerin’ an’ jumpin’ around when somethin’ happens, why I ain’t got any. But I’ve seen folks with nerves, ma’am.”
He was looking directly at her when he spoke, his gaze apparently without subtlety. But she detected a gleam that seemed far back in his eyes, and she knew that he referred to her actions of the other night.
She blushed. “I didn’t think you would remind me of that,” she said.
“Why, I didn’t, ma’am. I didn’t mention any names. But of course, a woman’s got nerves; they can’t help it.”
“Of course men are superior,” she taunted.
She resisted an inclination to laugh, for she was rather astonished to discover that man’s disposition to boast was present in this son of the wilderness. Also, she was a little disappointed in him.
But she saw him redden.
“I ain’t braggin’, ma’am. Take them on an average, an’ I reckon woman has got as much grit as men. But they show it different. They’re quicker to imagine things than men. That makes them see things where there ain’t anything to see. A man’s mother is always a woman, ma’am, an’ if he’s got any grit in him he owes a lot of it to her. I reckon I owe more to my mother than to my father.”
His gaze was momentarily somber, and she felt a quick, new interest in him. Or had she felt this interest all along—a desire to learn something more of him than he had expressed?
“You might get off your horse and sit in the shade for a minute. It is hot, you’ve had a long ride, and I am not quite ready to begin shooting,” she invited.