June took Houck’s order and presently served it.
His opaque eyes watched her in the way she remembered of old. They were still bold and possessive, still curtained windows through which she glimpsed volcanic passion.
“You can tell that squirt Dillon I ain’t through with him yet, not by a jugful,” he growled.
“If you have anything to tell Bob Dillon, say it to him,” June answered, looking at him with fearless, level eyes of scorn.
“An’ I ain’t through with you, I’d have you know.”
June finished putting his order on the table. “But I’m through with you, Jake Houck,” she said, very quietly.
“Don’t think it. Don’t you think it for a minute,” he snarled. “I’m gonna—”
He stopped, sputtering with fury. June had turned and walked into the kitchen. He rose, evidently intending to follow her.
Mollie Larson barred the way, a grim, square figure with the air of a brigadier-general.
“Sit down, Jake Houck,” she ordered. “Or get out. I don’t care which. But don’t you think I’ll set by an’ let you pester that girl. If you had a lick o’ sense you’d know it ain’t safe.”