right.” She picked up another letter and slid her finger along the seam.
Nick started toward the door linking the old house and the expansion wing,
complete with Melinda’s parlor. Try as he did though, he couldn’t dismiss Romeo
altogether. After several steps, he stopped and turned. She was reading another
letter. Judging by the frown of concentration between her eyebrows, it was
interesting, but not upsetting.
“Miz Montgomery?”
She raised her head. “Yes?”
“’Bout that shootin’ lesson. You ask your Pa?”
Her eyes darkened a bit—she knew why he mentioned it—but a
seductive smile walked across her face, eclipsing concern. “Yes, I did. He said
he couldn’t care less as long as I took pains not to shoot him . Why, are
you willing to teach me, then?”
Stupid, stupid idea. The woman was just fine and didn’t need
a damned bit of help from him. She had a father and two brothers to care for
her. “Sure. When?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Her gold eyes gleamed with mischief. “Whenever it is convenient
for you.”
“Tomorrow afternoon sound good? Right after dinner.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He turned, trying not to think about
the way her voice had become a low purr, which heated his blood and made his
idiotic heart pound.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was so free with him as not to mince the matter.
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha
My honor is my life; both grow in one;
Take honor from me, and my life is done.
Shakespeare, King Richard II
Star easily kept pace with Nicholas, who guided her through
a small section of trees to the shooting range situated about a half mile
southeast of the ranch house. Their feet crunched on a thin layer of snow,
while the early afternoon sun started its decline in a light blue sky. As a
cool breeze wafted under her plain straw hat, Star cast a sidelong glance at
Nicholas. Dressed in his tan leather coat and blue jean pants, he covered the
ground quickly in that confident, mile-eating jaunt of his, cradling his rifle
in his right arm. He wore a pair of tan leather gloves, and he’d slung a small
sack containing boxes of bullets over his left shoulder. It swung gently with
each stride. Under the shadow of his Stetson, his face showed a half-day’s
growth of beard.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her hands, encased in light kid gloves, itched to feel the
rasp of whiskers against her bare skin as she ran her fingers across his
strong, stubborn chin and over his cheek, cold from the afternoon chill. And
then further back, through his hair to push off his hat, just seconds before
covering his mouth. . . .
She jerked her mind away from the image, scolding her
overactive imagination. Having spent almost two weeks in Nicholas’s company,
her desire for him had reached an almost fevered pitch. She was about to shoot
a rifle, she reminded herself firmly, which ought to be the prime focus of her
attention. It only added to that wanton craving, however, for she clearly
remembered the kiss that the rabid cougar had interrupted. In the middle of the
night, when the demon-nightmares woke her, recollection of that kiss helped put
her back to sleep.
Come morning, though, she’d remember his indifference
afterwards.
The contrast was driving her to distraction.
“This is it,” he said, as they emerged from the woods into a
clearing. He halted.
“It” was horseshoe shaped and large, the size of a couple of
tennis courts. At one end, someone had piled hay bales, one on top of another,
against a steep hill. At the other, several crates lay lined up next to each
other.
“I’m going to shoot hay bales?”
He crossed to the crates and leaned his rifle against them,
then laid the sack of bullets on the ground. “No ma’am, you’re going to shoot
cans.” He strode across the clearing to a pile of cans. She eyed the rifle and
then leaned over to touch it. He looked up from gathering an armful of cans.
“You’ll want to hold off
Nick started toward the door linking the old house and the expansion wing,
complete with Melinda’s parlor. Try as he did though, he couldn’t dismiss Romeo
altogether. After several steps, he stopped and turned. She was reading another
letter. Judging by the frown of concentration between her eyebrows, it was
interesting, but not upsetting.
“Miz Montgomery?”
She raised her head. “Yes?”
“’Bout that shootin’ lesson. You ask your Pa?”
Her eyes darkened a bit—she knew why he mentioned it—but a
seductive smile walked across her face, eclipsing concern. “Yes, I did. He said
he couldn’t care less as long as I took pains not to shoot him . Why, are
you willing to teach me, then?”
Stupid, stupid idea. The woman was just fine and didn’t need
a damned bit of help from him. She had a father and two brothers to care for
her. “Sure. When?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
Her gold eyes gleamed with mischief. “Whenever it is convenient
for you.”
“Tomorrow afternoon sound good? Right after dinner.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He turned, trying not to think about
the way her voice had become a low purr, which heated his blood and made his
idiotic heart pound.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was so free with him as not to mince the matter.
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha
My honor is my life; both grow in one;
Take honor from me, and my life is done.
Shakespeare, King Richard II
Star easily kept pace with Nicholas, who guided her through
a small section of trees to the shooting range situated about a half mile
southeast of the ranch house. Their feet crunched on a thin layer of snow,
while the early afternoon sun started its decline in a light blue sky. As a
cool breeze wafted under her plain straw hat, Star cast a sidelong glance at
Nicholas. Dressed in his tan leather coat and blue jean pants, he covered the
ground quickly in that confident, mile-eating jaunt of his, cradling his rifle
in his right arm. He wore a pair of tan leather gloves, and he’d slung a small
sack containing boxes of bullets over his left shoulder. It swung gently with
each stride. Under the shadow of his Stetson, his face showed a half-day’s
growth of beard.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her hands, encased in light kid gloves, itched to feel the
rasp of whiskers against her bare skin as she ran her fingers across his
strong, stubborn chin and over his cheek, cold from the afternoon chill. And
then further back, through his hair to push off his hat, just seconds before
covering his mouth. . . .
She jerked her mind away from the image, scolding her
overactive imagination. Having spent almost two weeks in Nicholas’s company,
her desire for him had reached an almost fevered pitch. She was about to shoot
a rifle, she reminded herself firmly, which ought to be the prime focus of her
attention. It only added to that wanton craving, however, for she clearly
remembered the kiss that the rabid cougar had interrupted. In the middle of the
night, when the demon-nightmares woke her, recollection of that kiss helped put
her back to sleep.
Come morning, though, she’d remember his indifference
afterwards.
The contrast was driving her to distraction.
“This is it,” he said, as they emerged from the woods into a
clearing. He halted.
“It” was horseshoe shaped and large, the size of a couple of
tennis courts. At one end, someone had piled hay bales, one on top of another,
against a steep hill. At the other, several crates lay lined up next to each
other.
“I’m going to shoot hay bales?”
He crossed to the crates and leaned his rifle against them,
then laid the sack of bullets on the ground. “No ma’am, you’re going to shoot
cans.” He strode across the clearing to a pile of cans. She eyed the rifle and
then leaned over to touch it. He looked up from gathering an armful of cans.
“You’ll want to hold off
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