They finished the dance without further talk, and when the music ended, Danner escorted her from the dancing area. Wainright waited, a cup of punch in his hand, bright flames of fury in his eyes.
Danner returned Wainright's curt nod, then thanked Melinda for the dances. She eyed him thoughtfully before nodding. He crossed the floor to the stage and found Lona and McDaniel standing in front of the chairs. Lona glared at him angrily. Without a word to him, she turned to McDaniel.
"I believe you wanted another dance, Billy."
"Huh?" McDaniel showed his bewilderment with slack jaws. "But you said—"
"I changed my mind."
"Is it okay, Jeff?"
Danner spread his hands.
"Of course."
Happily, McDaniel whirled Lona onto the floor.
Danner eased into his chair, knowing he shouldn't antagonize Lona by showing any interest in Melinda. Lona really couldn't help the jealousy she felt toward Melinda. Or was that really it? He wondered if maybe it really wasn't a jealousy of his love for railroading, with Melinda a personification of what Lona disliked the most. He abandoned the thought when he saw Wainright striding up, glaring at him.
"Could I have a moment with you outside?" The unmistakable indignation in Wainright's face held Danner's attention for a moment, then he nodded and led the way through the crowd and across the porch to the yard. Halting by a buggy, he waited for Wainright to speak. Even in the semi-darkness the face of Wainright shone whitely, his mouth a thin and compressed line, and Danner began to feel his own self-control ebb.
"Mr. Danner," Wainright broke the heavy silence. "I think you need a lesson in company policy." He leaned close, his face not more than two feet away from Danner.
"There are two kinds of people in the Great Plains Central family—the hired hands and the employers. There's a distinct line between the two, and GPC doesn't approve of hired hands attempting to cross that line. Do I make myself clear?"
"Company policy, or your policy?" Danner asked.
"Don't be insolent, mister," Wainright choked. "Miss Richfield is now a stockholder in GPC, as well as a member of the board of directors. Back East you wouldn't even be attending the same social functions. But since it is necessary for us to attend some of the public events in this uncouth country, you'll kindly be good enough to stay away from Miss Richfield. Otherwise, you are in for trouble."
Danner straightened. Bitterness could drive a man to great lengths, he thought. "You're pushing me too hard," he said.
"That'll be enough," Wainright stormed. "Just stay where you belong." He stalked back toward the schoolhouse. After a few strides his empty left coat sleeve worked loose from the pocket of the coat and swung like a pendulum.
Danner gripped the edge of the leather-covered buggy seat with his left hand, waiting for his anger to cool. The whistle of the late train reached him from far away, yet sharply clear. The sound comforted him somehow.
How long he waited there in the darkness Danner didn't know. Finally, he became aware that the music inside had stopped. The couples began drifting outside, calling goodnight to others, and Danner knew the dance was over. Shaking off the dead remains of his tension, he worked his way inside.
Lona sat by the bandstand, staring vacantly across the room and toying with the cameo brooch at her throat. McDaniel stood uncomfortably beside her, searching the dwindling crowd. When he saw Danner, his slow smile erased the worried look.
"Been looking for you, Jeff."
Danner ducked his head in greeting. Lona ignored him as she gathered her coat from the back of the chair and stood up. McDaniel seemed at a loss for anything else to say; his jowls moved as he swallowed.
"Well, thanks for the dances, Miss Lona. Good night. See you around, Jeff."
Danner nodded, then reached out to help Lona as she struggled with the light coat. She moved just enough to avoid his assistance, then started toward the door.
The trip to the Ralston home was a silent affair. Danner escorted Lona to the porch, then removed his hat. The night was dead still except for a prowling cat. Light streaming from the window in the door caught Lona in the face and she stepped back into the darkness.
"Lona," Danner ventured, not sure how to handle this. "We shouldn't be at odds like this all the time." He moved through the rectangle of light and stopped near her.
"No, we shouldn't be," she murmured, staring off the porch into the night.
Danner caught her by the shoulders and drew her close.
"Please, Jeff." She shook loose and moved away. Her husky voice barely reached him. "I'm not a fool—or maybe I am at that, for loving you."
"Dammit, Lona, that's—"
"Don't use profanity on me. I've been humiliated enough already tonight." Then she turned away, moving to the end of the porch.
Frustration took hold of Danner, shaking its way roughly into his chest. It was like fighting a shadow, it never stood still.
Before he could reply the front door opened and Lona's father came out on the porch—Olie Swensen, small for a Swede, and lacking the genial warmth of his ancestors. Light glistened atop his hairless head.
"Daughter," he growled, "if you're through spooning, we'd best be heading home."
"I'm through, Papa. All through."
CHAPTER FOUR
Since the Swensens hadn't stayed over for morning church services, Danner slept late. By the time he reached the hotel cafe the church crowd had come and gone. He ate alone, then wandered down to the depot.
The eastbound left a single bag of mail and no passengers, and soon faded into the distance. Only the clatter of the telegraph key broke the early afternoon stillness. The Sunday relief telegrapher was a new man, and Danner didn't feel like getting acquainted just now so he lounged against the side of the depot, warmed by the sun. A smell of dryness and dust in the air indicated the beginning of another scorching summer. Danner missed the throb of life now absent from the Sunday-silent workshops and motionless yard engines.
Nothing stirred along the length of the main street except once when a swamper came out the rear of the Silver Dollar Saloon and emptied some trash into a large barrel. The clatter of the lid sent an old tomcat streaking along the alley. Then a rider broke the dust along the south road, drawing in toward Richfield. Danner watched idly while the speck grew larger. Another ten minutes crawled by before Danner could make out the oversized shape of a man bouncing out of motion with his horse. Only McDaniel rode a horse like that; McDaniel coming in from the little shack he lived in by the breaks along the Richfield River. Town living would have been more convenient for the railroader, but he couldn't forget the pleasantness of his childhood on an Illinois farm.
When McDaniel turned into the main street, Danner moved away from the depot to intercept him. McDaniel rode head down, uncomfortably, his jowls jouncing. When he spotted Danner his heavy features broke into a wide smile.
"Afternoon, Jeff."
Danner nodded, watching his big friend dismount. Outside of time spent with Lona, Danner's only social contact consisted of occasional games of Casino with McDaniel and Sheriff Brant. With mutual understanding they moved along the walk to the courthouse. Brant lay asleep on a cot, but instantly awakened when Danner tramped through the open door.
"Afternoon, boys." Brant scrubbed back his tousled, thinning gray hair, then forced on his boots. Danner nodded to him, dropped into a chair by the desk and loaded his pipe. By the time he had it going Brant began shuffling the cards. Danner jerked his head toward the cell block.