. . loyalty to you and to me."
"No," said Florence, her voice shaking. "I am going. . . ."
"You will marry me when the priest comes," he cut in sternly.
"Otherwise, if you make me, I will take you with me anyway, unmarried.
And I will make you marry me when we have crossed the border. And
now . . . now you will kiss me. I have waited long, Florence."
He came toward her; she slipped behind the table, crying out to him to
stop. But he came on, caught her, drew her into his arms. And
Florrie, some new passionate, terrified Florrie, beat at him with her
fists, tore at him with her nails, hid her face from him, and with the
agility born of her terror slipped away from him again, again put the
table between them. Galloway, a thin line of blood across his cheek,
thrust the table aside. As he did so the man came back into the room
and stood watching, a twisted smile upon his lips. Galloway lifted his
thick shoulders in a shrug and stood staring at the girl cowering in
her corner.
"Married or unmarried, you go with me," he told her. "Your kisses you
may save for me. Think it over. You had better ask for the priest
when I come back." He turned toward the Mexican. "All ready, Feliz?"
The man nodded.
"Tell Castro, then. It's time to be in the saddle.
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