“I can’t be takin’ the time to read them, Mr. Holliwell,” she said, that extraordinary, over-expressive voice of hers running an octave of regret; “an’ someway Pierre don’t like that I should spend my evenin’s on them. Seems like he thinks I was settin’ myself up to be knowin’ more than him.” She laughed ruefully. “Me—knowin’ more’n Pierre! It’s laughable. But anyways I don’t want him to be thinkin’ that. So take the books, please. I like them.” She paused. “I love them,” she said hungrily and, blinking, thrust them into his hands.
He put them down on the table. “You’re wrong, Joan,” he said quickly. “You mustn’t give in to such a foolish idea. You have rights of your own, a life of your own. Pierre mustn’t stand in the way of your learning. You mustn’t let him. I’ll speak to him.”
“Oh, no!” Some intuition warned her of the danger in his doing this.
“Well, then, keep your books and talk to Pierre about them. Try to persuade him to read aloud to you. I shan’t be back now till spring, but I want you to read this winter, read all the stuff that’s there. Come, Joan, to please me,” and he smiled coaxingly.
“I ain’t afeared of Pierre,” said Joan slowly. Her pride was stung by the suggestion. “I’ll keep the books.” She sighed. “Good-bye. When I see you in the spring, I’ll be a right learned school-marm.”
She held out her hand and he took and held it, pressing it in his own. He felt troubled about her, unwilling to leave her in the snowbound wilderness with that young savage of the smouldering eyes.
“Good-bye,” said Pierre behind him. His soft voice had a click.
Holliwell turned to him. “Good-bye, Landis. I shan’t see either of you till the spring. I wish you a good winter and I hope—” He broke off and held out his hand. “Well,” said he, “you’re pretty far out of every one’s way here. Be good to each other.”
“Damn your interference!” said Pierre’s eyes, but he took the hand and even escorted Holliwell to his horse.
Snow came early and deep that winter. It fell for long, gray days and nights, and then it came in hurricanes of drift, wrapping the cabin in swirling white till only one window peered out and one gabled corner cocked itself above the crust. Pierre had cut and stacked his winter wood; he had sent his cows to a richer man’s ranch for winter feeding. There was very little for him to do. After he had brought in two buckets of water from the well and had cut, for the day’s consumption, a piece of meat from his elk hanging outside against the wall, he had only to sit and smoke, to read old magazines and papers, and to watch Joan. Then the poisonous roots of his jealousy struck deep. Always his brain, unaccustomed to physical idleness, was at work, falsely interpreting her wistful silence—she was thinking of the parson, hungry to read his books, longing for the open season and his coming again to the ranch.