This rose garden was one evidence of her enterprise. No ranch in the county could show such a riot of bloom as the Circle C. The American Beauty, the Duchess, the La France bowed gracefully to neighbors of a dozen other choice varieties. Kate had brought this glimpse of Eden into the desert. She knew her catalogues by heart and she had the loving instinct that teaches all gardeners much about growing things.
The rider who cantered up to the fence, seeing her in her well-hung corduroy skirt, her close-fitting blouse, and the broad-rimmed straw hat that shielded her dark head from the sun, appreciated the fitness of her surroundings. She too was a flower of the desert, delicately fashioned, yet vital with the bloom of health.
At the clatter of hoofs she looked up from the bush she was trimming and at once rose to her feet. With the change in position she showed slim and tall, straight as a young poplar. Beneath their long lashes her eyes grew dark and hard. For the man who had drawn to a halt was Cass Fendrick.
From the pocket of his shirt he drew a crumpled piece of stained linen.
“I’ve brought back your handkerchief, Miss Cullison.”
“What have you done with my father?”
He nodded toward the Mexican boy and Kate dismissed the lad. When he had gone she asked her question again in exactly the same words.
“If we’re going to discuss your father you had better get your quirt again,” the sheepman suggested, touching a scar on his face.
A flush swept over her cheeks, but she held her voice quiet and even. “Where is Father? What have you done with him?”
He swung from the horse and threw the rein to the ground. Then, sauntering to the gate, he let himself in.