"It was your own fault, Webb. You know it."
He turned on her, and again his face had the look of a mean dog. "That," he said, "is none of your damned business."
She faced him stubbornly, her sapphire eyes meeting his slitted grey-green ones with just a hint of anger.
"You wouldn't be a bad sort, Webb," she said steadily, "if you weren't so lazy and so hell-fired selfish!"
Cold rage rose in him, the rage that had shaken him when Madge told him she was through. His hands closed into brown, ugly fists.
Joan met him look for look, her bright hair tangling over the collar of his sweater, the strong brown curves of cheek and throat catching the early sunlight. And again, as it had in that moment on the cliff, something turned over in Fallon's heart.
"What do you care," he whispered, "whether I am or not?"
For the first time her gaze flickered, and something warmer than the sunlight touched her skin.
"You saved my life," she said. "I feel responsible for you."
Fallon stared. Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. "You fool," he whispered. "You damned little fool!"