“Dad, José wants you to look at the hoof of one of his wheelers. He asked if you would come as soon as you could.”
Beauchamp still frowned at Morse, rasping his unshaven chin with his hand. “Ce’tainly, honey. Glad to look at it.”
“Dad! Please.”
The ranchman went out, grumbling. Five minutes later Morse took his seat on the stage beside the driver, having first left seventy-five cents on the counter.
The stage had scarce gone when the girl looked up from her bookkeeping to see the man with the Chihuahua hat.
“Buenos tardes, señorita,” he gave her with a flash of white teeth.
“Buenos,” she nodded coolly.
But the dancing eyes of her could not deny their pleasure at sight of him. They had rested upon 66 men as handsome, but upon none who stirred her blood so much.
He was in the leather chaps of a cowpuncher, gray-shirted, and a polka dot kerchief circled the brown throat. Life rippled gloriously from every motion of him. Hermes himself might have envied the perfect grace of the man.
She supplied his wants while they chatted.