“I only thought I was in love—and not many times, either—”
“Many times!” he cried.
“Not really ever,” she assured him, secretly exultant at his unconscious jealousy. “I never was really in love. If I had been I'd be married now. You see, I couldn't see anything else to it but to marry a man if I loved him.”
“But suppose he didn't love you?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she smiled, half with facetiousness and half with certainty and pride. “I think I could make him love me.”
“I guess you sure could,” Billy proclaimed enthusiastically.
“The trouble is,” she went on, “the men that loved me I never cared for that way.—Oh, look!”
A cottontail rabbit had scuttled across the road, and a tiny dust cloud lingered like smoke, marking the way of his flight. At the next turn a dozen quail exploded into the air from under the noses of the horses. Billy and Saxon exclaimed in mutual delight.
“Gee,” he muttered, “I almost wisht I'd ben born a farmer. Folks wasn't made to live in cities.”
“Not our kind, at least,” she agreed. Followed a pause and a long sigh. “It's all so beautiful. It would be a dream just to live all your life in it. I'd like to be an Indian squaw sometimes.”