The good-bys were said. She found herself walking rebelliously by his side. “No, thank you!” to the offer of his arm.
The night was bright with stars. “Bright as day, isn’t it?” Because her voice was curt, and she had not used his name, the rising inflection helped a little! Hateful, to stumble over a rut in the road! Of course, he’d make her take his arm! Of course!
Rickard grasped her elbow. She walked along, her head high, her cheeks flaming, anger surging through her at his touch.
Stupid to press this companionship, this awkward silence on her. If he thought she was going to entertain him, as Gerty did, with her swift chatter, he’d be surprised! Any other two people would fall into easy give-and-take, but what could she, Innes Hardin, find to chatter about with this man stalking along, grimly grasping her arm? Close as they were, his touch reminding her every minute, between them walked her brother and her brother’s wife—and there was the Mexican—hateful memory! Of course, she could not be casual. And she would not force it. He had brought this about. Let him talk, then!
Oppressive that silence. Then it came to her that she would ask him the question that his coming had aborted. A glance at his face found him smiling. He found it amusing? Not for worlds, then, would she speak. And they stalked along. Unconsciously, she had pulled herself away from him. He took her hand, and put it in the crotch of his arm. “That’s better,” he said. She wondered if he were still smiling.
Their path led by his tent. Neither of them noticed a subdued light through the canvas walls. As they reached the place, a figure darted from the door.
“Oh, señor, I thought you would never come.” It was the wife of Maldonado. Her expression was lost on Innes. The face was quivering with terror.
“Mr. Rickard,” Innes’ words like icicles, “I will leave you here. It is quite unnecessary to come farther.” Quite unveiled her meaning!
It came so quickly that he was not ready; nor indeed had Gerty’s innuendos yet reached him. But the situation was uncomfortable. He turned sharply to the Mexican. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Oh, señor,” she gasped. “It is the worst. The señor said I was not to go home; and I tried, Dios mio, how I tried to obey. But the children, little Rosita, not yet four? How could I know that that woman fed them, or combed their hair? I crept in, just to see—and Dios mio!” She covered her face with her hands.