The boy blushed. “Oh, sure. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Jenny.”
“Rya, you’ll notice there’s a small brown bag in the bottom of the cage. That’s for you.”
The girl tore open the bag and smiled when she saw the three paperback books. “Some of my favorite authors. And I don’t have any of these! Thanks, Jenny.”
Most eleven-year-old girls liked to read nurse novels, romances, perhaps Barbara Cartland or Mary Roberts Rinehart. But Jenny would have made a serious mistake if she had brought anything of that sort for Rya. Instead: one Louis L’Amour western, one collection of horror stories, and one adventure novel by Alistair MacLean. Rya wasn’t a classic tomboy-but she sure as hell wasn’t like most other eleven-year-old girls, either.
Both of these children were special. That was why, although she had no particular affection for children in general, she had fallen for them so quickly. She loved them every bit as much as she loved Paul.
Oh, yeah? she thought, catching herself in the admission. You’re just brimming with love for Paul, are you?
Enough of that.
Love, is it? Then why don’t you accept his proposal?
Enough.
Why won’t you marry him?
Well, because- She forced herself to stop arguing with herself. People who indulged in extended interior dialogues, she thought, were candidates for schizophrenia.
For a while the four of them fed the squirrel, which Mark had named Buster, and watched its antics. The boy regaled them with his plans for training the animal. He intended to teach Buster to roll over and play dead, to heel when told, to beg for his supper, and to fetch a stick. No one had the heart to tell him how unlikely it was that a squirrel could ever be made to do any of those things. Jenny wanted to laugh and grab him and hug him-but she only nodded and agreed with him whenever he asked for her opinion.
Later they played a game of tag and several games of badminton.
At eleven o’clock Rya said, “I’ve got an announcement to make. Mark and I planned lunch. We’re going to do all of the cooking ourselves. And we really have some special dishes to make. Don’t we, Mark?”
“Yeah, we sure do. My favorite is-”
“Mark!” Rya said quickly. “It’s a surprise.”
“Yeah,” he said, as if he hadn’t almost given away everything. “That’s right. It’s a surprise.”
Tucking her long black hair behind her ears, Rya turned to her father and said, “Why don’t you and Jenny take a nice long walk up the mountain? There are lots and lots of easy deer trails. You should work up an appetite.”
“I’ve already worked one up by playing badminton,” Paul said.
Rya made a face. “I don’t want you to see what we’re cooking.”
“Okay. We’ll sit over there with our backs to you.” Rya shook her head: no. She was adamant. “You’ll still smell it cooking. There won’t be any surprise.”
“The wind isn’t blowing that way,” Paul said. “Cooking odors won’t carry far.”
Anxiously twisting her badminton racket in her hands, Rya glanced at Jenny.
What a lot of schemes and calculations are whirling around behind those innocent blue eyes of yours, Jenny thought. She was beginning to understand what the girl wanted.
With characteristic bluntness, Mark said, “You got to go for a walk with Jenny, Dad. We know the two of you want to be alone.”
“Mark, for God’s sake!” Rya was aghast.
“Well,” the boy said defensively, “that’s why we’re making lunch, isn’t it? To give them a chance to be alone?”
Jenny laughed.
“I’ll be damned,” Paul said.
Rya said, “I think I’ll cook squirrel for lunch.”
A look of horror passed across Mark’s face. “That’s a terrible, rotten thing to say!”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s still rotten.”
“I apologize.”
Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were trying to assess her sincerity, Mark finally said, “Well, okay.”
Taking Paul’s hand, Jenny said, “If we don’t go for a walk, your daughter’s going to be very upset. And when your daughter is very upset, she’s a dangerous girl.”
Grinning, Rya said, “That’s true. I’m a terror.”