No wonder that Major King was hard to wean from her, thought Nola, with all that grace of body and charm of word. Superiority had been born in 134 Frances Landcraft, not educated into her in expensive schools, the cattleman’s daughter knew. It spoke for itself in the carriage of her head there against the light of that fair new day, with the sunshine on the dying cottonwood leaves beyond the windowpane; in the lifting of her neck, white as King David’s tower of shields.
“Well, I am half afraid of you sometimes,” Nola persisted. “I draw my hand back from touching you when you’ve got one of your soaring fits on you and walk along like you couldn’t see common mortals and cowmen’s daughters.”
“Well, everybody isn’t like you, Nola; there are some who treat me like a child.”
Frances was thinking of her father and Major King, both of whom had continued to overlook and ignore her declaration of severance from her plighted word. The colonel had brushed it aside with rough hand and sharp word; the major had come penitent and in suppliance. But both of them were determined to marry her according to schedule, with no weight to her solemn denial.
“Mothers do that, right along,” Nola nodded.
“Here’s somebody else up early”—Frances held the curtain aside as she spoke, and leaned a little to see—“here’s your father, just turning in.”
“The señor boss?” said Nola, hurrying to the window.
Saul Chadron was mounting the steps booted and dusty, his revolvers belted over his coat. “I wonder 135 what’s the matter? I hope it isn’t mother—I’ll run down and see.”
The maid had let Chadron in by the time Nola opened the door of the room, and there she stood leaning and listening, her little head out in the hall, as if afraid to run to meet trouble. Chadron’s big voice came up to them.
“It’s all right,” Nola nodded to Frances, who stood at her elbow, “he wants to see the colonel.”