So he spoke, abruptly, to hold in his heart some permanent comfort from the hour when they had been alone with each other and the voices of the world had been very far and faint.
“Why did you want me to ride?”
It was a simple question, but one not so easily answered. She could have told him the truth, that she did not want Larry Silcott to win. But that would have been only part of the truth. She wanted Rowan McCoy to win, wanted it more than she had wished anything for a long time. Yet why? She was not ready to give a candid reason even to herself, far less to him.
Womanlike, she evaded. “Why shouldn’t I want you to win? You’re my friend. I thought——”
He surprised himself almost as much as he did her by his answer. “I’m not yore friend.”
She looked at him, startled at his brusqueness.
“I’m a man that loves you,” he said roughly.
A tremor passed through her. She was conscious of a strange sweet faintness. The soft eyes veiled themselves beneath dark lashes.
“Have I spoiled everything, little partner?” he asked gently.
“How can I tell—yet?” she whispered, and looked up at him shyly, tremulously.