by Zane Grey
Keven’s unprepared hand sagged markedly.
“Gold!” he whispered.
“Wal, it ain’t anythin’ else. Son, I reckon we can keep the wolf away from the door…. Now go out an’ fetch Beryl into breakfast.”
Keven slowly crossed the yard like a man in a trance. He approached Beryl, gazed down upon her. Old brown blouse, overalls, heavy shoes, all the worse for water and wear, signified her intentions this first morning at home after her honeymoon. Her lap was full of fishing tackle, comprising envelopes full of flies, packets of leaders, reels and lines—a showy assortment. She was examining a shiny fly rod, which she had not yet jointed. These articles were part of the precious pack she would not trust to the mule drivers they had engaged at West Fork.
“Morning, old dear. Gosh, you look funny,” she said brightly, and this was one of the occasions when she imitated his peculiarities of speech.
“So I’ve married an heiress?” he asked, in awed accents, putting his hands in his pockets to keep them off her.
“So Dad’s told you? … Kev, I’m afraid you have married an heiress—in a small way. Aren’t you glad?” She seemed somewhat concerned about this amazing circumstance, though there shone a twinkle in her eyes.
“No gold could make you more precious, Beryl. I’m so happy that—thta-”
“Oh, so am I. Isn’t it lovely to be home again? Indian summer at Solitude! And I’ve come back your wife! Dear God, I don’t know why I deserve to be so happy.”
Keven knew, but he could not find words to express his knowledge.
“Hey, you turtledoves,” called Aard. “Come to breakfast.”
Keven listened with many a thrill to Beryl’s recital of their trip to Portland and Grant’s Pass. And Aard, with eyes both glad and sad, lived in her story over his own poignant past.
“Come down to the river and watch me try out my new rod,” invited Beryl afterward.
On the way down the trail she turned to Keven with soft dark eyes.
“I’m sorry for Rosamond Brandeth. She found out too late that she loved you best.”
“Don’t waste your pity, Beryl.”
“Well, if you made love to her like you did to me—and villain that you were, you must have!—I don’t see how she could ever, ever get over it.”
“Don’t block the trail,” retorted Keven, and as Beryl continued to walk backwards, suddenly he seized her in his arms and carried her.
He expected a protest, not to say more. But she liked it. She nestled her head against his shoulder.
“Kev, darling, do you know—when you first came back to Solitude and for a long time after—you couldn’t have packed me like this?”
“No, indeed. But it’s easy now.”
“I’m a husky piece. One hundred and twenty-eight!”
“You’re a feather…. Beryl, you haven’t kissed me yet this morning.”
She rectified that neglect. And her kiss brought on the impending deluge of Keven’s bursting love and pride. As always with Beryl, his surrender to emotion induced a corresponding lapse in her.
“Oh—honey—am I riding or flying?” she murmured, at least breaking away and slipping down. “Listen, Kev, once for all,” she went on, very sweet and grave. “It’s heavenly for me to hear you rave like that, but I’m no goddess, no noble creature, no angel. I’m just ordinary Beryl Aard, lovesick for you. Please don’t spoil me.”
“Gosh, there comes the pack train,” ejaculated Keven, gazing up the trail. “I’ll bet those half-breed drivers saw us. They have eyes like hawks.”
“What do we care? … Say, they sure rustled along. We’ll have to go back and unpack all that stuff. Such fun! But I’ve time to make a few casts. You stay here, you critical, masterful fisherman. My fisherman, whom I’ve promised to love, honor, and obey all my life. Oh, dear!”
Soon Beryl stood back from the edge of the bar, casting down alongshore with her inimitable grace. She forgot the arrival of the pack train. She no longer heard the bells on the mules. She grew oblivious of Keven. He, too, fell under the spell. And the river glided on in an endless solitude, its eternal song, low and musical, near at hand, droning sweet melody from the rapid at the bend, and filling the distant drowsy air with its soft thunder.