"But you'll let me know about Ned?" she asked, trying to rally her composure.
"I'll come to-morrow, ma'am," he promised.
"That'll be so kind of you!"
"You don't understand, maybe, that it's no kindness to you," he said. "It might be somethin' else. Have you thought of that? Have you thought, ma'am, that maybe I ain't th' kind of man I'm pretendin' to be?"
Then, he walked out before she could answer and she stood alone, his words augmenting the disquiet his manner had aroused. She moved to the window, anxiously waiting to see him ride past. He did, a few minutes later, his head down in thought, his fine, flat shoulders braced backward, body poised splendidly, light, masterly in the saddle, the wonderful creature under him moving with long, sure strides. The woman drew a deep breath and turned back into the room.
"I mustn't ... I mustn't," she whispered.
Then wheeled quickly, snatched back the curtains and pressed her cheek against the upper panes to catch a last glimpse of him.
Next day Bayard was back and found that the hours Ann had spent alone had taken their toll and she controlled herself only by continual repression. He urged her to talk, hoping to start her thinking fresh thoughts, but she could think, then, only of the present hour. Her loneliness had again broken down all barriers. Bayard was her confessor, her talk with him the only outlet for the emotional pressure that threatened her self-control; that relief was imperative, overriding her distrust of the day before. For an hour the man listened while she gave him the dreary details of her married life with that eagerness of the individual who, for too long a period, has hidden and nursed heart-breaking troubles. She was only twenty-four and had married at twenty. A year later Ned's father had died, the boy came into sudden command of considerable property, lost his head, frittered away the fortune, drank, could not face the condemnation of his family and fled West on the pretext of developing the Sunset mine, the last tangible asset that remained. She tried to cover the entire truth there, but Bayard knew that Lytton's move was only desertion, for she told of going to work to support herself, of standing between Ned and his relatives, of shielding him from the consequences of the misadministration of his father's estate, of waiting weeks and months for word of him, of denying herself actual necessities that she might come West on this mission.
At the end she cried and Bayard felt an unholy desire to ride to his Circle A ranch and do violence to the man who had functioned in this woman's life as a maker of misery. But he merely sat there and put his hands under his thighs to keep them from reaching out for the woman, to comfort her, to claim a place as her protector....