She put up a hand and drew it across her mouth, which was pale as ashes with sudden rage.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll tell him.”
“Do,” said Courtrey, and swung away around the wall of the house.
There were no more artless songs that day at Last’s Holding. Anita was awake and peering with dim eyes when Tharon came in from the door sill.
“Mi querida,” she asked, “what happened?”
“Nothing,” said the girl, “it’s time to begin supper. Th’ boys’ll soon be comin’ in.”
“Si, si,” said Anita, “I’ll ask José to cut the fresh beef––it has hung long enough in the cooling house.”
Supper at Last’s was a lively affair. At the 10 long tables in the eating room the riders gathered, lean, tanned men, young mostly, all alert, quick-eyed, swift in judgment. Their days were full and earnest enough, running Last’s cattle on the Lost Valley ranges. The evenings were their own, and they made the most of them. The big house was free to them, and they made it home, smoking, playing cards on the living room table under the hanging lamp, mulling over the work of the day, and begging Tharon to sing to them, sometimes with the instrument, sometimes sitting in the deep east window, when the moon shone, and then they turned out the light and listened in adoring rapture.
For Last’s girl was the rose of the Valley, the one absolutely unattainable woman, and they worshipped her accordingly.
Not that she was aloof. Far from it. In her deep heart the whole bunch of boys had a place; singly and collectively. They were her private property, and she would have been inordinately jealous of any one of them had he slipped allegiance.