“No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently. “Lassiter, why do you say that so often? I know you’ve teased me at times, and I believe it’s only kindness. You’re always trying to keep my mind off worry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?”
“I reckon so.” Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting the silver pieces on the band. “Well, Jane, I’ve sort of read a little that’s passin’ in your mind.”
“You think I might fly from my home—from Cottonwoods—from the Utah border?”
“I reckon. An’ if you ever do an’ get away with the blacks I wouldn’t like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn’t got him now.... Besides—things are happenin’, an’ somethin’ of the same queer nature might have happened to Venters.”
“God knows you’re right!... Poor Bern, how long he’s gone! In my trouble I’ve been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I’ve little fear for him. I’ve heard my riders say he’s as keen as a wolf.... As to your reading my thoughts—well, your suggestion makes an actual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I’ve strange dreams. I’m not always practical and thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance—if I dared—if I dared I’d ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me—and hide me.”
“Jane!”
The rider’s sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seen Lassiter’s cool calm broken—when he had met little Fay, when he had learned how and why he had come to love both child and mistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne’s grave. But one and all they could not be considered in the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiter turn white—not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose his coolness, but also he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her to his breast.
“Lassiter!” cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which she took sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released her. “Forgive me!” went on Jane. “I’m always forgetting your—your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I’m always making you out more than human... only, let me say—I meant that—about riding away. I’m wretched, sick of this—this—Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!”
“Jane, the hell—of it,” he replied, with deep intake of breath, “is you can’t ride away. Mebbe realizin’ it accounts for my grabbin’ you—that way, as much as the crazy boy’s rapture your words gave me. I don’t understand myself.... But the hell of this game is—you can’t ride away.”
“Lassiter!... What on earth do you mean? I’m an absolutely free woman.”