He was punctilious about his appearance. Invariably he changed shirts and overalls before riding to the town, and he had reserved one gorgeous green silk scarf for those occasions. He never appeared before the woman unshaven and, since his one confessional outburst, he was as careful of his speech, his manner, as he was of his person.
Ann had taken to Arizona whole heartedly and dressed suitably for the new life she was leading--divided skirts, simple blouses, a brimmed hat that would shade her eyes. Her cheeks bronzed from sun and wind, the blood pumped closer to her skin from the outdoor life and her eyes, above the latent pain in their depths, took on the brilliance of health. Her new manner of dress, the better color that came to her face and accentuated her beauty, the growing indications of vitality about her, served only to fan the flame in Bayard's heart, for as it made her more attractive to him, it also made her more understandable, brought her nearer to his virile kind.
[Illustration: Ann had taken to Arizona whole-heartedly and dressed suitably for the new life she was leading.]
"I've come to tell you about him, ma'am," he always said, by way of opening their conversations.
Not once again did he call her by her given name, but, though he was always formal, stiffly polite, never allowing an intimation of personal regard to pass his lips, he could not hide the adoration in his eyes. It came through his dogged resolution to hold it back, for he could not keep his gaze from following her every move, every bend of her neck, change of her lips, lift of her arms and shoulders or free, rhythmic movement as she walked.
Ann saw and read that light and, though something in her kept demanding that she blind herself to its significance, that, if necessary to accomplish this, she refuse to give Bayard gaze for gaze, she could no more have hidden the fact of that evidence of his love from her understanding than she could have stopped the quickening of her pulse when he approached.
Nora saw that light, too. She saw the trouble with it in his face; and the realization of what it all meant was like a stab in the breast. He had ceased entirely to laugh and banter with her as he had done before Ann Lytton came to Yavapai; in other days he had always eaten at the Manzanita House when in town, and his humorous chiding had been one of the things in which the girl found simple delight. Now, he came and went without eating; his words to her were few, almost without exception they were of the other woman and, always, his speech was sober.