“Home at last, Miss Messiter. Let me offer you a thousand welcomes.”
An icy hand seemed to clutch at her heart. “Home! What do you mean? This isn’t the Lazy D.”
“Not at all. The Lazy D is sixty miles from here. This is where I hang out—and you, for the present.”
“But—I don’t understand. How dare you bring me here?”
“The desire for your company, Miss Messiter, made of me a Lochinvar.”
She saw, with a shiver, that the ribald eyes were mocking her.
“Take me back this instant—this instant,” she commanded, but her imperious voice was not very sure of itself. “Take me home at once, you liar.”
“I expect you don’t quite understand,” he exclaimed, with gentle derision. “You’re a prisoner of war, Miss Messiter.”
“And who are you?” she faltered.
But before he spoke she found an answer to her question, found it by a flash of divination she could never afterward explain.