She was a young woman who liked to keep things straight and orderly and in proper perspective in every way, but Quaid Shafter had disturbed this equilibrium. As she sat on the far side of the seat so that she would not brush against him, she cast a sideways glance at the young man. One thing that troubled her was that he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen. He wasn’t neatly handsome in the way of Len Pennington, but there was a ruggedness about him that drew the eyes of women. She studied Shafter as he sat loosely in the seat, whistling cheerfully. His eyes were apparently fixed on nothing more important than the horses. He was clean cut, deeply tanned, and his light blue eyes seemed to leap out from that darkness. They were deep-set, very light, and she felt uncomfortable when he looked at her. It was his hair that set him off from all other men, pure silver and soft, cut now so that it fell on the back of his collar. Shafter slapped the back of the mules with the line and suddenly turned to face her.
