Velvet Thunder by Teresa Howard

dress, you could probably convince him to do just about anything.”
    â€œNot you too?” Stevie scoffed. “I don’t even own a dress, as you well know.” She paused, frowning. “S’pose I could wash my face though.”
    â€œWell, don’t get carried away.” Pilar teased, patting Stevie’s cheek. “We wouldn’t want him to think you’re running after him.”

Ten
    Stevie decided to have money in hand, just in case Pilar was wrong and Lucky Diamond’s gun was for hire.
    The sun was high overhead as she pushed through the door to the Adobe Wells Bank, where her pa kept his rapidly dwindling bank account. Having helped Sandy with his bookkeeping, she knew they had five hundred thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents in their account. Five hundred, her father insisted, was for her dowry. The remaining thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents was earmarked for running the Rocking J.
    If Stevie had a nickel for every time she told Sandy she wouldn’t need a dowry, they would own the Adobe Wells Bank. But her pa was as stubborn as his daughter. No matter what she said to the contrary or how many times she said it—he insisted the five hundred dollars belonged to her.
    Well, today she would avail herself of it. Lifting her head high, she strode past the gawking patrons, stepped up to a teller’s cage, slapped her short black gloves against her palm to gain the fastidious banker’s attention, and informed him that she wished to withdraw five hundred dollars from her father’s account.
    â€œI’m sorry, Miss Johns. But I must have your father’s authorization to release such a large sum.”
    â€œSomebody bushwhacked my pa yesterday. And he ain’t in much shape to be authorizin’ nothin’. I’m the head of the Rocking J now. And I need five hundred dollars.” She took a small step backward, placing her hand on the gun riding her slim hips for emphasis.
    The teller gulped, reddened, but held his ground. “I’m sorry, Miss Johns. But I cannot release the funds.”
    A peg-legged rowdy leaning in the corner had been watching the transaction with interest. He hobbled up to the cage,.palmed his gun, shoved it against the teller’s left nostril, and growled, “Give the little lady her money.”
    â€œWhatever you say,” was the banker’s nasal reply. With trembling hands he counted out five hundred dollars. Instead of handing the money to Stevie, however, he thrust it at her unlikely knight in dusty buckskins.
    Leathering his gun, he accepted the funds on Stevie’s behalf, presented it to her with a flourish, and bowed at the waist.
    â€œThanks, mister,” Stevie murmured. She squared her slender shoulders and addressed the teller again. “Please deduct that amount from my father’s account.”
    â€œYes, Miss Johns.”
    The sound of a booted foot, alternating with the dull thud of a wooden peg, faded away. Stevie stuffed her money into a beaded bag and rushed outside. But Peg-Leg Smith had disappeared.
    Â 
    Â 
    Pilar led Heath into the kitchen, where Stevie awaited him. Even though the weight of the money in her reticule was reassuring, Stevie was as nervous as a cat. Just being in the same room with the gambler unnerved her.
    At first she refused to look at him. When she did, she wished that she hadn’t. The word that came to mind was beautiful. But how could a man so masculine, so physically overpowering, be beautiful? If Preacher Black could be believed, Lucky Diamond was a violent man—a man who ate innocents like her for breakfast.
    â€œ Senor Diamond. . .” Pilar began. “You remember Señorita Stephanie Johns.” She widened her eyes in mock innocence.
    Heath smiled down at Stevie. She just stood there, looking up at him, resembling a wide-eyed, frozen goddess. He reached for the small bare hand fisted at her side. He pulled it forward,