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and when I give my word, I keep it. And I..." His fingers tightened on his hat, as if he struggled for the words to impress upon her that there was more to him than the cowboy she saw. He couldn't know that what she saw she thought was wonderful.
    But when he looked back up at her, his eyes were laughing. "And I'm not usually one of those mannerless rascals that cusses in front of a lady, even if you did manage to pull three hells out of my mouth in the space of as many minutes."
    She tried to act indignant, but inside she wanted to clap her hands and spin around on her toes and laugh over the delight of him. "You are unfair, sir, to lay the blame for your sins at my feet."
    "Oh, but it is all your fault, ma'am, every bit of it. For I've never in all of my life come across a girl prettier than you. And when you smile... when you smile, my, but you are truly something wonderful to see."
    He was the wonder. The way he talked and the brightness of his laughter that was like a glow on his face. And the way he simply was: built tall and broad-shouldered and strong, as a cowboy was meant to be.
    "Now that I've given you my name," he said, "why don't we make it a fair swap?"
    "What? Oh, it's Clementine... Clementine Kennicutt."
    "And will you come with me and watch me race tomorrow, Miss Clementine Kennicutt?"
    "Oh, no, no... I could never."
    "Of course you can."
    A strange, tingly excitement bubbled inside her. She didn't smile at him again; she only wanted to.
    "What time do you race, Mr. McQueen?" she heard herself ask.
    "Straight up noon."
    "Do you know where the Park Street Church is, just down the block from here?" The daring of what she was doing left her lightheaded, making all of her feel lighter than air, making her fly. "I'll meet you beneath the elms in front of the Park Street Church tomorrow at eleven."
    He put his hat back on and he looked at her from beneath the shadowed brim of it, so that she couldn't see the expression in his eyes. "Well, I don't know if I feel right about that," he said. "Not meeting your father and getting his permission to court you proper."
    "He would never give his permission, Mr. McQueen." She punctuated the words with sharp shakes of her head, while her throat grew so tight with wrenching disappointment that she could barely breathe. "Never. Never."
    He looked down at her, stroking his mustache with the pad of one thumb. She waited, staring back up at him with her still, wide-open gaze. She wanted to see that race, and she wanted other things, too, things having to do with him that made her stomach clench with excitement. She wanted to see him again, to talk with him and make him laugh.
    "I suppose," he finally said, "that we'll have to do it your way."
    He held out his hand, and she placed hers within it. His hand was large and rough, and it swallowed hers. He rubbed his thumb over her palm, as if he knew of the scars hidden by her glove and was trying to erase them. "Just one more thing... Will you marry me, Miss Clementine Kennicutt?"
    She stiffened and pulled her hand from his. Something caught at her chest, something that tore through her and hurt and left her feeling empty. "You are ridiculing me."
    "Oh, no, never that. Not that I don't enjoy a good joke— there's too much pain and sadness in living not to crack wise about it every now and then. But when things get real bad..." He flashed a sudden smile. "Say I'm trailing cows through a blue norther and the snow is stinging my face and the wind is howling like a lost soul in hell, it's the dreams I make up in my head that see me through it. Dreams like having someone waiting at home for me, with a fire going and a pot of some good-smelling thing cooking on the stove. A gal, say, with wheat-colored hair and big green eyes..." His words trailed off as he stared at her face, and though she blushed, she could not look away.
    He shook his head, his eyes still smiling at her. "Nope, when it comes to my dreams, Miss Clementine Kennicutt,