“But I don’t want––You’ll pardon me?––I don’t want to win your admiration.”
What could she say to that? There was a moment of silence.
“When?” she asked quietly.
“I’m waiting for Farrish, my foreman. He’s the only man I can absolutely depend upon. He’s in Omaha. He’ll be back next week.”
“And you won’t begin without him?”
“No.”
She had no choice but to be satisfied with a few days of grace. Moreover, something might happen before the return of Farrish; the outlaw might escape, or she might find another opportunity to plead with Haig, or––What was she thinking of? Something was going to happen that very evening; and she had almost forgotten it, in her absorption!
She had meant to do, long before now, what he had prevented her doing at the stable,––to confess her deception, to plead for mercy, to beg him to go back. Failing in that, there was Tuesday trotting behind the trap; she could leap out, prove to Haig that her foot was uninjured, and insist upon riding home alone. But now 92 the confession seemed ten times more difficult than it had seemed in the first flush of her resolution. They were far up the Brightwater by this time; a few minutes more would bring them to the branch road that led to Huntington’s. Yet how could she tell him?
“My foot doesn’t hurt any more,” she began, compromising with her resolution.
“That’s because you’ve been sitting still,” he replied.