Abruptly she flung at him a statement that was a question. "You didn't kill Mr. Webb."
"No. I never killed but one man without givin' him an even break. That was Peg-Leg Warren, an' he was a cold-blooded murderer."
A troubled little frown creased her forehead. "I've thought for more than a year now that you—liked me that way. And I've had it in my mind a great deal as to what I ought to do if you spoke to me about it. I wish you had a good wife, Jim. Maybe she could save you from yourself."
"Mebbe she could, Polly."
The lashes of her eyelids fell. She looked down at the bands of iron around his small wrists. "I—I've prayed over it, Jim. But I'm not clear that I've found an answer." Her low voice broke a little. "I don't know what to say."
"Is it that you are afraid of what I'm goin' to be? Can't you trust yore life with me? I shouldn't think you could."
Her eyes lifted and met his bravely. "I think that wouldn't stop me if—if I cared for you that way."
"It's Billie Prince, then, is it?"
"No, it isn't Billie Prince. Never mind who it is. What I must decide is whether I can make you the kind of wife you need without being exactly—"
"In love with me," he finished for her.