Garret saw one of the drifters make the slightest move toward his gun. Lightning fast, Garret had his own weapon aimed at the man's chest. "Before you do anything stupid, mister, you'd better ask yourself whether this slimy piece of garbage is worth getting killed over." The scraggly bearded one swallowed hard, looking at Garret's gun—a gun held with the ease of one who had used it so often, so skillfully, it was an extension of his hand.
After a moment the drifter shook his head.
"You're real smart," Garret said softly. "I might just let you live."
"Crathy. He'th bloomin' crathy," the injured man moaned.
"That's right, Spader. Don't you forget it." Garret holstered his gun and started to turn away. He glanced over one shoulder, his voice low. "You know, four men have tried to shoot me in the back. They're all dead. Dead like any one of you will be if I ever lay eyes on you again."
Garret tossed a crumpled bill on his table then strode from the saloon.
Hands on hips he stalked down the dark street to where the buildings thinned, giving way to open country. To where Sister Mary Ashleen's wagon sat, serene, peaceful under the stars.
Garret's jaw clenched. He'd like to make that little fool see stars! Shake some sense into her, for God's sake! How could she have been so foolish as to hire someone like that vermin Spader to be her guide?
Or so desperate, his conscience whispered.
Garret snarled, slamming his fist against the wall of the livery stable. He muffled another oath as knuckles, still tender from connecting with Spader's jaw, throbbed.
"Damn Kennisaw. Damn her. Damn me!"
As if he had summoned her up by his words, Garret saw a figure in a sheer white nightgown climb down from the wagon. Hair soft as corn silk tumbled loose about her shoulders, the moon’s glow casting her slender body into relief beneath the fragile white cloth. She bent down to retrieve something, but Garret never knew what it was.
He stared transfixed at the graceful line of a slim leg, the indentation of a waist so narrow he could span it with his hands, breasts full, yet so dainty that the sight of them made sweat bead his upper lip.
His loins tightened, and he ached with need—the need to reach out, to touch, to worship, to plunder.
If Kennisaw Jones had wanted to deal one last hand in the infernal game of wits he loved to play with Garret, he couldn't have devised anything more devious than this—this untouchable angel with a temptress's own body—this trek back to Texas, back to Garret's private nightmare. Kennisaw must've known Garret would be trapped by his own conscience, by the clamoring of his body, by the haunted innocence in Ashleen's sea-blue eyes.
Garret cursed. He should've known better than to try to best the old buzzard at one of his damn games.
Kennisaw Jones was an incorrigible cheater.
There was only one thing to do.
He would take the woman to Texas and then—then try to pick up the Garveys' trail. God knew that shouldn't be too hard. Garret's jaw tightened. Scum like them always left a trail of garbage in their wake.
But before he did either of those things there was something else he had damned well better take care of.
With an oath Garret turned, striding back toward the saloon, making an effort to drive the hardness from his face. He entered the door, scanning the chamber until he found the girl he’d frightened earlier.
He’d be gentle as hell with her now. Please her until she moaned with it. He had to. Had to drive back the savage needs the golden-haired nun spawned in him, had to loose them on another, more willing lady.
Otherwise the weeks ahead would be pure holy hell. Endless weeks seeing Ashleen, eating with her, sleeping a few yards from where she lay as he guided that infernal wagon to the home he’d left behind.
Chapter Seven
Ashleen shifted, restless, beneath the faded quilts, trapped in a hazy half world between wakefulness and sleep.
He was kissing her again, his mouth unlocking secrets deep inside her. She reveled in the dream, threading her fingers through long, dark hair, feeling it slip like silk against her skin as he cradled her closer in his arms.
She knew she should protest, knew she should push him away, but the corded muscles of his body were so hard, so hot, imprinted against her. He was hungry, with groans of pleasure, of need rumbling from that broad masculine chest as he loosed the ties of the velvet cloak that draped about her like liquid midnight.
"Beautiful," he whispered, his voice gritty with desire, gentle with a kind of reverence. "You're so beautiful."
She gasped as he reached out to touch her, grazing her nipple with a rein-callused palm. And she drowned in eyes, not hard and cold as steel, but a silvery wolf gray that shimmered with love.
"Ash... ah, Ash," Garret MacQuade breathed into her mouth, "I've been waiting for you forever."
