"Ever thought of a career on the stage?" he inquired with a lazy superiority that made her glad she'd bitten him. "That was some performance in there, darlin'."
"It was no performance, I assure you."
"Then maybe you wouldn't mind telling me more about this Mr.—what was his name again?"
"MacQuade. Garret MacQuade."
"Mmmm." The man drew a wicked-looking gun from the holster slung low on his hips, a thong at the bottom of the leather casing tied about one long thigh.
Ash's heart skipped a beat. Even she knew what a tied-down gun signified—a man who took his target practice in deadly earnest. What in heaven's name was she getting Kennisaw's poor boy into?
She swallowed hard as the dark-haired man tugged a bandanna from his pocket and began polishing his gun.
If only she could find some way to frighten this beast—cure him of any desire to press this confrontation. She searched her imagination, groping for snippets of the countless hero tales she'd spun for the children.
"Go on," the lout urged her. "I'm waiting with baited breath."
"I... he... he's a giant of a man, with... hands big as bear paws, and—and he wears a knife as long as... as my arm."
One night-black brow arched disbelievingly, and Ash's cheeks flamed. "As long as your arm, eh?" the man echoed. "And how does this MacQuade manage to sit down with a knife that size strapped to his middle?"
"He—he doesn't wear it strapped to his middle. He has it shoved in his boot."
"Sounds painful."
Ash loathed the man for mocking her. And she would have given anything to be able to put the lout in his place. "He wears his guns around his waist. Two of them. And a rifle—"
"I can't wait to hear where he keeps his rifle."
"Well, you'll find out soon enough, mister! He can shoot a gnat off of a squirrel's eyelash a mile away."
"Really!"
"But that's nothing in comparison to what he can do with—"
"Don't tell me," the man interrupted. "He pulls a cannon along behind his horse. You really should inform the army about this one-man brigade. Think of the rations they could save."
Ash sensed that somehow she was being badly outdueled in this battle of wits. She knew it was time to beat a hasty retreat. If only she could have the pleasure of smacking him clear into next Tuesday before she did so!
"I have nothing more to say to you." She turned her back on him and started to move away with an icy hauteur.
"Oh, but I think you do, darlin'. See, there's just one problem with your little story here."
His next words struck her with the force of a gale.
"I am Garret MacQuade."
Chapter Five
Ashleen prayed that the earth would split open and swallow her, but it seemed God wasn't disposed to be that merciful. She gaped at the man before her, struggling and failing to reconcile the conceited, lecherous oaf with the sensitive artist who had drawn the picture even now tucked deep within her skirt's pocket.
It was impossible.
"You—you can't be," she stammered. "Kennisaw said—"
"Kennisaw?" The man was grinning at her with the devil's own smile. "Ah, so that explains it. You're one of the old buzzard's harem. Never knew him to pluck 'em so young before."
"How dare you?" Her voice shook.
