limbs. She felt her stomach flip, and told herself that his gun was to blame.
Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around the cool walnut-inlay butt. The gun was a work of art, a custom-made piece. The butt itself had been designed for the hand that used it most.
Forcing such distractions from her mind, she aligned the gunsight with the bottle. His Colt was weighted differently. She didn't know much about six-shooters, but she suspected his Peacemaker was balanced better than her old Smith & Wesson.
She hesitated, uncertain once more.
"You can do it, Aurora," he said quietly. "Go on. Just like before."
He was still behind her, around her, his heat flowing through her. The sensation was unnerving—and strangely comforting. She realized then just how much she wanted to strike that bottle. She wanted to do well, really well, and not just for the sake of the children.
Releasing a ragged breath, she focused. She relaxed. She did everything he had instructed her to do.
And when at last she pulled the trigger, she forced herself to stand like stone.
The bottle exploded into a hundred pieces.
"I did it!" She laughed, spinning toward him, so excited that she nearly danced. "I did it, Wes!"
"You sure did."
He smiled, and she caught her breath. For a moment she stood spellbound, absolutely dazzled by the coppery shimmers that sparked like fire in his hair. In that instant, with the rays of morning ablaze around him, he looked like Apollo stepping out of the sun.
"Want to try again?"
His voice had turned husky. She felt rather than heard it, and a wave of tingles gusted over her skin.
"Uh..." She realized, to her embarrassment, that she was staring. "I don't have another bottle."
"Too bad." He cocked his head, and his eyes, peridot green now with a trace of wistfulness, seemed to delve past all her pretenses. "Another time, then?"
She nodded, still too dazed to command herself.
He chuckled, retrieving his Colt. With a speed and a flare that appeared second nature, he spun the .45 over his forefinger and into its holster. She felt her heart trip, then it sank to her toes. Clearly, she'd been nursing false hopes.
Her Apollo was a gunfighter.
Chapter 4
After retrieving his gear and breaking camp, Wes set off a half hour later toward the Boudreau homestead.
Only he didn't do it at Aurora's breakneck pace.
The woman had gotten a burr under her saddle again, he mused. Over what, he wasn't certain, considering he'd been about as fine a gentleman as he knew how to be. After all, he'd taught her how to shoot straight, hadn't he? And he'd kept his peace while she'd tried to gun down half the county's chokecherry trees.
Wes shook his head. Maybe he was an idiot for teaching her how to defend her children with a Peacemaker. After all, town gossips would like him to believe she'd conspired in Boudreau's murder. But after seeing her ineptitude with a gun twice in two days, he doubted whether she herself could have shot down a renowned deadeye like the sheriff.
There was the possibility, however, that she could have masterminded a conspiracy to kill Boudreau. Wes had no doubt she was clever enough for such a crime, even though she didn't lie particularly well. Her blush gave her away every time.
In fact, her blushes made her appear too damned vulnerable and appealing for his peace of mind.
The woman was an enigma, that was certain. Part ferocious mother, part wide-eyed innocent—and part murdering Jezebel? The puzzle pieces just didn't fit. If she'd conspired to kill Boudreau, what had been her motive? According to the less discreet people he'd talked to in Elodea, Aurora had flaunted herself as Gator's mistress, serving openly as lady of the house after Mrs. Boudreau's death. Had Aurora and Gator had a falling out? Had he threatened to throw her and her orphans into the wilds?
Wes had a hard time believing even a desperate Aurora would murder to keep a roof over her children's heads. Still, he'd heard of
Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around the cool walnut-inlay butt. The gun was a work of art, a custom-made piece. The butt itself had been designed for the hand that used it most.
Forcing such distractions from her mind, she aligned the gunsight with the bottle. His Colt was weighted differently. She didn't know much about six-shooters, but she suspected his Peacemaker was balanced better than her old Smith & Wesson.
She hesitated, uncertain once more.
"You can do it, Aurora," he said quietly. "Go on. Just like before."
He was still behind her, around her, his heat flowing through her. The sensation was unnerving—and strangely comforting. She realized then just how much she wanted to strike that bottle. She wanted to do well, really well, and not just for the sake of the children.
Releasing a ragged breath, she focused. She relaxed. She did everything he had instructed her to do.
And when at last she pulled the trigger, she forced herself to stand like stone.
The bottle exploded into a hundred pieces.
"I did it!" She laughed, spinning toward him, so excited that she nearly danced. "I did it, Wes!"
"You sure did."
He smiled, and she caught her breath. For a moment she stood spellbound, absolutely dazzled by the coppery shimmers that sparked like fire in his hair. In that instant, with the rays of morning ablaze around him, he looked like Apollo stepping out of the sun.
"Want to try again?"
His voice had turned husky. She felt rather than heard it, and a wave of tingles gusted over her skin.
"Uh..." She realized, to her embarrassment, that she was staring. "I don't have another bottle."
"Too bad." He cocked his head, and his eyes, peridot green now with a trace of wistfulness, seemed to delve past all her pretenses. "Another time, then?"
She nodded, still too dazed to command herself.
He chuckled, retrieving his Colt. With a speed and a flare that appeared second nature, he spun the .45 over his forefinger and into its holster. She felt her heart trip, then it sank to her toes. Clearly, she'd been nursing false hopes.
Her Apollo was a gunfighter.
Chapter 4
After retrieving his gear and breaking camp, Wes set off a half hour later toward the Boudreau homestead.
Only he didn't do it at Aurora's breakneck pace.
The woman had gotten a burr under her saddle again, he mused. Over what, he wasn't certain, considering he'd been about as fine a gentleman as he knew how to be. After all, he'd taught her how to shoot straight, hadn't he? And he'd kept his peace while she'd tried to gun down half the county's chokecherry trees.
Wes shook his head. Maybe he was an idiot for teaching her how to defend her children with a Peacemaker. After all, town gossips would like him to believe she'd conspired in Boudreau's murder. But after seeing her ineptitude with a gun twice in two days, he doubted whether she herself could have shot down a renowned deadeye like the sheriff.
There was the possibility, however, that she could have masterminded a conspiracy to kill Boudreau. Wes had no doubt she was clever enough for such a crime, even though she didn't lie particularly well. Her blush gave her away every time.
In fact, her blushes made her appear too damned vulnerable and appealing for his peace of mind.
The woman was an enigma, that was certain. Part ferocious mother, part wide-eyed innocent—and part murdering Jezebel? The puzzle pieces just didn't fit. If she'd conspired to kill Boudreau, what had been her motive? According to the less discreet people he'd talked to in Elodea, Aurora had flaunted herself as Gator's mistress, serving openly as lady of the house after Mrs. Boudreau's death. Had Aurora and Gator had a falling out? Had he threatened to throw her and her orphans into the wilds?
Wes had a hard time believing even a desperate Aurora would murder to keep a roof over her children's heads. Still, he'd heard of
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