Dolan of Sugar Hills (15 page)

“They’re watching,” she panted, though still not caring.

“And why not?” he laughed, his teeth white in that black face. “Now they’ll know you’re my woman, they only thought so before.”

He looked down on her, charcoal eyes demanding ... appealing.

“Well?” He waited. “Well?”

“I answered the advertisement, didn’t I?” she said indistinctly. How could one be distinct, crushed like sugar in a mill against a black shoulder as big, it seemed, as a hill?

The men, having watched and understood, began the cut again, their deep swathes going to and fro across the field leaving the cane lying crosswise to the cut.

And, because the wind had scattered the newspaper, as well, the little paper was cut with the tall grasses, cut to confetti.

Which was as it should be, thought Sheila indignantly, the idea of anyone being so
barbaric
even in this
primitive
land to write a
crude
thing like that. To write:

Take Notice: If the girl who stole my heart at Roma Street station calls back will she take my name as well? Dolan of Sugar Hills.