“I’ve done a study of graphology.” She smiled self-consciously, realizing too late that this might not seem as normal to him as she might have wished. Farilane then wondered why she cared what Kile thought of her. Never before had she worried about anyone’s opinion. She knew that most found her irritating, arrogant, critical, self-absorbed, and insensitive, so there was nothing to be gained by seeking others’ approval. Also, as there was no taking it back, she pressed on unabashed, “On average, men have bigger hands, which usually results in a wider gap on the right margin—as most people are right-handed and like to keep the heel of their palm on the page for stability while writing. A woman’s script is generally neater, more open, easier to read, and contains more curves and arcs as opposed to straight lines. I’ve determined these variances are mostly due to the prevailing cultural differences between the sexes. The notion that women should be friendlier and cleaner in their daily lives can cause them to unintentionally strive to meet this ideal. Men, on the other hand, are not held to the same standard. Quite the opposite. They are expected to be messy and indifferent, so as a result, their writing often is less careful. It looks cramped, hurried, and displays a certain consistent degree of contempt for the reader’s efforts to understand them.”

Kile smiled, and Farilane wondered why. Was it humor, the precursor to a laugh? His eyes didn’t say so. They didn’t roll or look away.

I’m talking too much. The thought intruded on Farilane like a dispatch from an estranged relative—that largely maligned part of her mental makeup that sought respect, appreciation, and affirmation. She wanted Kile to like her. What happened to putting him through his paces? My tradition of torturing the new guy?

He lay close to her, the fire on one side, the heat of his body on the other, keeping her more than warm. The stars and the moon shone from above. The only flat note was that of the clearly disgruntled Sheldon Faust whose mood had gone from poor to awful company. But the carpenter was suffering from a long day’s ride and a tumultuous encounter with Ethan’s bottle of rye, and he was showing distinct signs of falling asleep.

She thought of Kolby and Ethan, gods among men, whom she had slept alongside on dozens of similar nights. Never once had she thought, What would I do if he offered to share one of those bottles of wine with me, or his blanket, or both? Or if he put his hand on my back, letting it rest there casually, as if he had the right? What if he suggested we go for a walk in the moonlight?