Bitterroot Valley A Strange Kindness

He only gave a nod at her echo. Didn't want to say it. Or, maybe couldn't, because he knew that he certainly wanted to say it, certainly wanted to say it to her. He swallowed, then. Swallowed hard.
Not fer ya to wear, fool, he chuckled now, looking to the pelt and imagining it slung around her shoulders. Hardly slung, more like sitting on her back with all the grace possible of an ant. He wondered, then, if he took down, say, an elk, or better yet, a deer, for her small figure—would she wear the pelt? Flaunt his catch? His skill, that he dedicated to her, and only her?
He was taken aback, then, by a comment that she shared. The illusion, hey? It was a murmur lined with humour, as if he himself was processing the statement. Why not the real thing? And it was this that he shot back with a sly smile, and the mask of purposefulness. Yes, this was all a facade, for he knew what he was doing. Of course he was confident in this, why would anyone ask such a thing? He felt warmth flush his skin.
Notta be forward, he chuckled, laughter rocking his shoulders as he returned his gaze to the hare. See, I don't sleep with girls on tha secon' date, he shot her a faux apology in his gaze. Sorry 'bout that, princess.