“I know that,” said Dorothy softly. Then she added, in a sudden rush of feeling for this crude and ingenuous young ranchman with the big heart and devoted attachment to Garry: “And Garry—and I—Lance, appreciate your friendship.”
“Oh, I ain’t the only friend he’s got, not by a long shot,” protested the young fellow, embarrassed, as always in the presence of any genuine emotion. “We’re watching those sharpers, you can bet.”
“With the eyes of a hawk,” murmured Tavia, and Lance Petterby grinned.
“You always was great at expressin’ things, Miss Tavia,” he said.
“But what I can’t understand,” said Dorothy, as though thinking her thoughts aloud, “is why Garry did not come to the station.”
She caught the quick glance that Lance flung at her over his shoulder and could have bitten her tongue out for the admission. Only then did she realize the extent of the hurt Garry had inflicted by his neglect.
“I was wonderin’ that same thing myself, ma’am,” Lance remarked in his gentle drawl. “Reckoned you might have forgot to let Garry know which train you was comin’ on.”
“Maybe he didn’t get your telegram, Doro,” Tavia suggested, shifting the burden of Miss Octavia Susan Petterby to the other arm. “They do sometimes do that, you know, in spite of all beliefs to the contrary. Look at this darling child, Doro,” drawing the white knitted coverlet down from the dimpled chin of Octavia Susan. “Did you ever see anything so adorable in your life? She loves her Aunt Tavia, so she do!” she crooned in baby talk improvised to suit the occasion. “Went to sleep just like a kitty cat, all curled up in a cunnin’ little ball. Oh, look, Doro, she’s smiling in her sleep!”
“That means she has the stomach ache,” said the baby’s mother prosaically. “I’ll have to give her some hot water when I get her home.”
Tavia giggled.