When The Heart Beckons (47 page)

The shirt, the hair ... it came to her with
a jolt, it looked just like ...

“Tommy!” she whispered with a breath of
horror, and then she pitched forward like a rag doll straight into
the stranger’s arms.

The stranger caught her just before she hit
the ground. Cursing, he was forced to release his hold on the dead
man’s shirt and to sweep an arm about the swooning girl before she
crashed onto the boardwalk.
Just what I need
, Cole Rawdon
thought in disgust.
A fool woman to slow me down
.

“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered under his
breath as her hat fell off and a tumble of gold curls cascaded
down, nearly touching the ground.

A crowd was gathering. Rawdon hated
crowds.

“What are you staring at?” He glared at the
sea of faces, and the onlookers scattered. With a grimace he turned
back to the woman, really seeing her for the first time. She was a
slip of a thing, no more. And pretty as pie. Pretty? No, Cole
decided. Pretty didn’t quite describe her. She was beautiful. For a
moment he forgot about the dead man and the crowd, and found
himself studying the girl.

Cole didn’t remember ever seeing skin so
creamy and smooth, or hair quite so pure and dazzling a gold. Or
features so elegant—as though they’d been cut from fine crystal.
Breakable, that’s how she looked. Like she belonged on a china shop
shelf, not the streets of Denver. For a moment he just stared at
her, mesmerized. Then he came to his senses with a start. Hell, it
was damned inconvenient to be stuck holding on to this female in
the middle of Denver when he had to get Gus Borden’s corpse to
Sugar Creek pronto. A two-hundred-dollar reward was waiting at the
end of that four-hour ride—and Cole meant to claim it, and get rid
of Gus, before the outlaw’s body started to rot. For a moment
longer he let his eyes slide over the girl’s willowy form, admiring
the soft curves beneath her fancy dress, the way her breasts
strained against the tight fabric.
Damn, she is something. Too
bad I’m in a hurry
, he thought, his eyes narrowing with
regret.
If I had more time, I’d wait around to see if she knows
how to show a man proper gratitude
. He doubted it. Any girl
who fainted at the sight of a little blood was sure to be too
weak-spined and silly to be any fun at all. Besides, Ina Day was
dancing in the Red Feather Saloon in Sugar Creek tonight and she
always knew how to show him a good time.

Cole tore his gaze from the delicate planes
of the girl’s face with an effort. A thin man with dark whiskers
was watching him warily from ten paces down the boardwalk. “Hey,
you, come here,” he ordered. “Grab ahold of this woman and ... do
something with her.”

As the man nervously approached, Cole saw
the girl’s eyelashes flutter. About time. Suddenly she opened her
eyes and gazed up at him in a dazed fashion. He felt his insides
tighten. She had the most exquisite eyes he’d ever seen—huge,
expressive, green as a Montana valley, and filled just now with a
touching uncertainty that, if he’d been any other man, would have
tugged at his heart. But Cole had been delayed long enough, and
life’s hard blows had toughened whatever he’d once had of a
heart.

“Been a pleasure getting acquainted with
you, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’ve got to be going now,” he drawled,
and dumped her without ceremony into the bewhiskered man’s aims.
Without another glance at the girl who had interfered with the
orderly execution of his business, he seized Gus Borden’s shirt
collar and dragged him over to the sorrel horse tethered in front
of the saloon. Flinging the body over the saddle and tying it
securely in place, Cole forced himself to avoid looking at the
little knot of bonneted women, curious children, and silent men who
had gathered around the girl. He mounted Arrow and spurred the
horse forward, directing the sorrel through the town. Denver,
pretty much inured to violence in the streets and saloons, was
already getting back to normal.

So much for Denver, and fainting women. As
he left the town behind for the solitude of sagebrush and plains,
Cole tried not to think about the girl with the golden cloud of
hair.
Tommy
, she had said, just before she fainted, She’d
been looking at Borden when she said it. Strange. Equally strange
was the fact that the girl had been about to enter the saloon. She
didn’t look like any fallen dove he’d ever seen; she looked damned
respectable—aristocratic, even—but then, Cole thought, spurring
Arrow on across the foothills, what did he know about women? Only
what he’d learned from Liza, and that was all bad. Ina Day and the
other dance-hall girls and whores he frequented now and then were
fine and dandy conveniences for fulfilling the needs of a man’s
body, but he didn’t know a damned thing about any one of them, and
he didn’t care to, either. Women were tricky, cunning, and
treacherous creatures, that’s all he knew or needed to know. The
prettier they were, the more dangerous they could be. According to
this way of figuring things, that gold-haired beauty back there
could be downright fatal.

Cole knew one thing. The sooner he forgot
about her, the better off he’d be...

Continue on for an excerpt from
Daisies in the
Wind

W
olf Bodine looked
like he was in the mood to pick a fight with
someone
.
Why
shouldn’t he target me?
she wondered wearily. But his next
words came as a surprise.

“It looks like I’m the one who’s beholden to
you, Miss Rawlings.”

His tone was soft. Downright pleasant.

Caught off guard, she nearly dropped the
cups. Hastily she set them in the sink and spun to face him,
suspicion darkening her violet eyes. What was he up to now? “Not at
all,” she said warily. “It was nothing.”

“You’re wrong.” Wolf had been trying hard
not to notice how pretty she looked in her yellow-and-white calico
dress, her cheeks flushed from the excitement of the night, her
eyes overbright in her lovely, pale face. Every instinct told him
to stop thinking so much about Rebeccah Rawlings. But she seemed to
be haunting him these days, and he couldn’t figure out why.
Frustrated by his own weakness, he nevertheless couldn’t keep his
mind off how fresh and angelic she looked, how like summer flowers
she smelled, how her slim eyebrows drew adorably together when she
was thinking hard about something. And about how her feet fidgeted
when she was nervous. They were fidgeting right now, Wolf noticed,
and wondered with half amusement, half consternation if
he
made her nervous.

Lightning flashed beyond the window. Wolf
stepped closer to her and saw her foot wiggle.

“You went out into the storm to rescue Joey,
and you kept Billy from catching pneumonia,” he said, keeping his
voice even and dispassionate, even when she turned those
intoxicating eyes on him. “You took care of them both. You kept
them warm and dry. I’d say that’s something.”

“Well—”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m trying to thank
you.”

“It isn’t necess—”

“Rebeccah,” he cut her off. “Just say,
‘You’re welcome’.”

Confused, Rebeccah only gazed at him,
feeling ridiculous. But it was hard to think when he was staring at
her like that, hard to protect herself against his steady, powerful
brand of charm.

Suddenly he grinned. Rebeccah’s heart turned
over. He closed the distance between them with one stride, and
before either of them seemed quite aware of what he was doing, he
seized her with a firmness that would not be deterred and stared
intently down into her face.

“It’s easy,” he continued, his tone more
patient now, his vivid gray eyes glinting into hers with hypnotic
warmth. She noted that his chestnut hair was damp, and this made it
look even darker in the lamplight. He smelled of autumn rain and
crisp leaves and good polished leather. His dimples deepened as he
smiled, and he looked almost boyish, Rebeccah thought, her heart
melting—yet not like a little boy at all.

“You’re ... welcome,” he prodded her gently.
He sounded amused. His mouth curled in a slow smile. His face was
only inches from hers. “Say it, Miss Rawlings.”

“You’re ... welcome, Sheriff.”

“Wolf,” he corrected swiftly.

“Wolf,” she murmured. A dizzy sense of
unreality gripped her.

He leaned toward her.
What the hell am I
doing?
Wolf wondered at the last moment, and paused. He told
himself to pull away. But a force stronger than his own common
sense kept him rooted to the spot, holding Miss Rebeccah Rawlings
firmly by the arms, gazing directly into those brilliant eyes.

Then his lips touched hers. Lightly,
tentatively.

“Wolf,” she breathed again, and her hands
crept shyly against his chest.

That slight movement, the softness of her
touch, was his undoing. Casting reservation aside, he deepened the
kiss, and his warm, rough mouth captured hers. His powerful arms
locked around her slender form before either of them realized what
was happening. He inhaled the fresh, flower scent of her as he drew
her close. Held her tight. Tasted deeply.

Rebeccah felt her senses swooning. Her full
mouth clung eagerly to his. From her temples to her toenails she
suddenly quivered all over with hot, glowing pleasure. Was this a
dream—one of her many thousands of dreams since that night years
ago when she’d stared into the jeweled heart of a campfire and
hungered for him?

No, it was real.
Real
. His hands at
her waist were strong, hot even through the fabric of her gown. His
lips deliciously imprisoned hers, and she clung to the warmth of
his mouth as if to sweet life itself.

“Sheriff ...” she gasped when he stopped for
breath.

“Wolf,” he corrected her roughly, and kissed
her again.

* * * * * * * * *

Jill Gregory is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
best-selling author of more than thirty
historical and contemporary novels and has been honored with the
Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as with
back-to-back Reviewer’s Choice awards for Best Western Historical
Romance. Her books have been published in more than twenty-four
countries. Jill grew up in Chicago and received her bachelor of
arts degree in English from the University of Illinois. An animal
lover, Jill loves long walks, reading, hot tea on a winter’s day,
and the company of friends. She lives in Michigan with her husband,
and enjoys her home overlooking the woods where the deer, rabbits,
squirrels, and an occasional owl or hawk come out to play. Visit
Jill on the web at
www.jillgregory.net
.