ht tarnish it. First love, shorn of boy
fallacies, strong, irresistible, protective, passionate. He closed his
eyes and, for the first time in his life, touched leather, gripping the
horn of his saddle as if he would squeeze it to a pulp.

Game and dainty, tender, true, a girl-woman, partner--what a partner she
would make, western-bred...!

He checked himself there. She was western born but, what had the
transplanting done? Would she ever now be satisfied with western ways?
She would come to him, Sandy knew that. Whatever he asked her she would
not refuse. But would that be fair to her? And he did not want her to
come to him out of gratitude. He wanted her nature to fuse with his.
Swiftly maturing as she had done, out of the ruggedness of her early
years, she was still young in Sandy's eyes.

It seemed no time since he had taken her from her saddle and carried
her, a tired heartsore child, in his arms. She must have a fair chance
to see if the East, with all it could offer her of amusement and
interest, would not outbid the claims of the West. He must wait and
watch and hold himself in hand though his love and his knowledge of it
thrilled through him, charging him as if with an electric current that
strove to close all gaps between him and Molly, struggling ever, in mind
and body, to complete the circle.

Molly reined up Blaze and turned in her saddle toward him, her eyes
sparkling, the color of lupines damp with the dew of dawn. Their eyes
met, the glance held, welded. For a moment the circuit was formed,
polarity effected. For a moment Sandy looked deep and then Molly's eyes
hazed with tenderness, with a yearning that made Sandy's heart
constrict, that warned him his emotions were getting beyond control, his
own eyes betraying him. He summoned his will. His face hardened to the
effort, his eyes steeled. Molly's face flushed rose, from the line of
her white linen riding stock up to her hair, then it paled, her eyes
seemed to hold surprise, then hurt. Their expression changed, Sandy
could not read it now as long lashes veiled them. He spoke with an
effort, his voice sounded strange to himself, phonographic.

"How's the saddle?" he heard himself asking.

"It's wonderful. I'm not going to begin to thank you for it, now,
Sandy."

"Glad to be back?"

She shook her head at him.

"No words for that, Sandy." Her eyes crinkled at him, with a hint of
mischief, the old Molly looking out. "If you want to find that out,