’Rome Ojeda, who lived thirty miles away, heard the news, came the thirty miles at a Spanish canter in a little over four hours, flung the reins over the head of his lathered horse to the ground, walked with jingling spurs on to her veranda and made hearty love to her.
He had intended to marry her ever since she came home from boarding school for the last time and he saw her in a scarlet sport coat and a scarlet tam. He was Aleck’s best friend and Aleck had looked on with satisfaction; he wasn’t keen to give Ginger up to anybody, but it wouldn’t be really giving her up to have her marry old ’Rome, and she’d be mortally certain to marry somebody. Ginger, however, wasn’t at all sure that she was. By and by, perhaps; certainly not now, when she had many much more interesting things to do. So ’Rome Ojeda had bided his time good-naturedly; she was pretty young, and he wasn’t so old himself; just as well, probably, to play around awhile. He let it be rather well known, however, that she was going to marry him as soon as she was ready to marry anybody.
Now he was direct and forceful. “Ginger, look here! You’re old enough now, and you’re all alone, and I’ve waited the deuce of a while. No sense waiting any longer!” He showed his very white teeth in a sudden smile and flung a quick arm about her. He was a big and beautiful creature, Jerome Ojeda, Spanish-American, hot-headed, hot-tongued, warm-hearted. He had almost graduated from the High School at San Luis Obispo; there had been a rodeo in which he wanted to ride, so he rode in it. He took a spectacular first place in the “Big Week” as the affair was called, and he had never experienced the palest pang of regret for the little white cylinder tied with a blue ribbon.
Ginger got herself promptly out of his arms. She wasn’t in the least shocked or resentful but she was disconcertingly cool. “I don’t want to marry—anybody, ’Rome,” she said.
He caught her shoulders in his dark hands and gave her a small shake. “Don’t be a little fool! Of course you want to marry somebody. It’s—what you’re for. You want to marry me, only you don’t know it yet. But you will.” He brought his brown face nearer. “When I make up my mind, I generally put it over, don’t I?” He gave her another little shake. “Don’t I?”
She considered him calmly. “Generally, yes,” she said.
He enveloped her swiftly in a rough, breathtaking hug, and as swiftly let her go again. “All right; I can wait a while longer.” He strode, spurs jingling, toward his horse.
Ginger called after him, hospitably: “Don’t go now,’Rome! Stay for dinner. Look at Pedro—he’s dead tired.”
He swung himself into the saddle without touching the stirrups and smiled back at her. His smile was very white and dazzling in his brown face. “When I stay, querida, I’ll stay—right. And Pedro’ll take me where I want to go; there’ll be horses when I’m gone.” He struck spurs into the dripping horse and was off at a smooth and rhythmic gallop.
Ginger frowned, looking after him. She did like old ’Rome a lot. She liked everything about him except the way he treated his stock. Still, he was no worse than most of them. But she didn’t want to marry him; she didn’t want to marry anybody; she was much too busy and happy.