She turned toward the shelves. “How many air-tights did you say?”
“I didn’t say.” He leaned forward across the counter. “What’s the hurry, little girl?”
“My name is Melissy Lee,” she told him over her shoulder.
“Mine is Phil Norris. Glad to give it to you, Melissy Lee,” the man retorted glibly.
“Can’t use it, thank you,” came her swift saucy answer.
“Or to lend it to you—say, for a week or two.”
She flashed a look at him and passed quickly from behind the counter. Her father was just coming into the store.
“Will you wait on Mr. Norris, dad? Hop wants to see me in the kitchen.”
Norris swore softly under his breath. The last thing he had wanted was to drive her away. It had been nearly a year since he had seen her last, but the picture of her had been in the coals of many a night camp fire.
The cattle detective stayed to dinner and to supper. He and her father had their heads together for hours, their voices pitched to a murmur. Melissy wondered what business could have brought him, whether it could have anything to do with the renewed rustling that had of late annoyed the 68 neighborhood. This brought her thoughts to Jack Flatray. He, too, had almost dropped from her world, though she heard of him now and again. Not once had he been to see her since the night she had sprained her ankle.