There was a faint flush of pink in her cheeks, but her eyes danced. “You don’t make her sound like a really nice girl.”
“Oh, she’s nice enough, when she isn’t a little divvle. The trouble is she isn’t foot-loose.”
“Of course she is tremendously in love with you.”
“She likes me a heap better than she pretends.”
“I’m sure she would adore you if she knew how modest you are,” Ruth answered with amiable malice.
Silcott’s gaze absorbed her dainty sweetness. He spoke with an emphasis of the cattleman’s drawl.
“I’d like right well to take her up on my hawss and ride away with her like that Lochinvar fellow did in the poetry book y’u lent me onct—the one that busted up the wedding of the laggard guy and went a-fannin’ off with his gyurl behind him, whilst the no’count bridegroom and her paw hollered ‘Help!’ ”
“Lochinvar. Oh, he’s out of date.”
“Maybe so. But it’s a great thing to know when to butt in.” He watched her covertly as he spoke.
“And when not to,” added Ruth, with the insolent little tilt of her chin that made men want to demonstrate. “Come on. Let’s go over to the mesa and look at the desert in the moonlight.”