“You’re such a good detective. Maybe I could 31 get you to invent one for me,” he suggested maliciously.
Her indignation flashed. “I’m no such thing. But I’m not quite a fool. A babe in arms wouldn’t swallow that fairy tale.”
Awkward as her knowledge might prove, he could not help admiring the resource and shrewdness of the girl. She had virtually served notice that if she had a secret that needed keeping so had he.
They looked down over a desert green with bajadas, prickly pears, and mesquit. To the right, close to a spur of the hills, were the dwarfed houses of a ranch. The fans of a windmill caught the sun and flashed it back to the travelers.
“The Bar Double G. My father owns it,” Miss Lee explained.
“Oh! Your father owns it.” He reflected a moment while he studied her. “Let’s understand each other, Miss Lee. I’m not what I claim to be, you say. We’ll put it that you have guessed right. What do you intend to do about it? I’m willing to be made welcome at the Bar Double G, but I don’t want to be too welcome.”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
“So long as I remember not to remember what I’ve seen.”
The blood burned in her cheeks beneath their Arizona tan. She did not look at him. “If you like to put it that way.” 32
He counted it to her credit that she was ashamed of the bargain in every honest fiber of her.