Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) by S. K. McClafferty

was not ready to let it go. He grabbed Jackson’s
arm, forcing him around to face him.
    Jackson reacted immediately, instinctively, roughly planting a
broad hand in the center of Strickland’s chest, shoving him forcefully back and
away. “I have counted you among my friends these past eight years,” he warned
in a low voice. “If you wish it to remain that way, then do not attempt to lay
hands on me again. The next time you do, you’ll be picking yourself out of the
Popo Agie.”
    G. D. stood his ground, his jaw thrust forward, yet he wisely
refrained from touching Jackson again. “Damn it, Broussard!” he said. “Don’t
you bring her to grief. She’s suffered enough. Hurt her, and I swear to God
you’ll answer to me.”
    Without a word, Jackson turned his back on his friend and his
recriminations. As he stalked through the buffalo grass, a million stars
shining brightly overhead, his anger slowly waned, yet the tension that had
gripped him through the entirety of the evening remained an unsettling
constant.
    For years he’d kept his feelings bottled up inside him, buried so
deep that at times even he could not find them. The trying little wretch who
had located them so easily and dragged them forth to nag at him had fallen
asleep in his absence, and was curled on her side, her face to the firelight.
Her expression was soft in repose, the last trace of absurdity lent by her
rough talk and ill-fitting garb having miraculously tumbled away. In its place
was a slightly grubby fallen angel, ejected from heavenly grace for unseemly
conduct and landed squarely in the dust and the buffalo dung at Jackson’s
moccasined feet.
    In that moment Jackson’s dilemma loomed incredibly large, and he
began to wonder if perhaps G. D. was right about one thing: she was certainly
different from any woman of his doubtful acquaintance, perhaps any woman that
he had ever known.

Chapter Three
     
     
    When Reagan woke, the dawn was breaking. Scarlet ribbons curled
across a field of robin’s egg blue, bathing the red sandstone bluffs in the
near distance in a deep blood red hue.
    For a brief interval she lay still, a rough trade blanket tucked
closely beneath her chin, certain that she’d fallen asleep in the meadow near
the banks of Allison’s Creek not far from Bloodroot. Then the first rays of the
rising sun turned the snowcapped peaks of the Teton Range a brilliant gold, and
her reluctant benefactor let go a soft snore, mumbling low in his sleep,
drawing Reagan’s gaze and annihilating the sense of false security with which
she had awakened.
    Jackson Parrish Broussard was sprawled on his back in the buffalo
grass, his shirt hanging open so he was half-naked to the waist, his elbows
cocked and his hands pillowing his raven head. The posture enhanced his impressive
breadth of shoulder, displayed to advantage his deep chest and taut pectorals,
attributes that Reagan could not help but admire.
    He was beautifully made, long, lean, and muscular, without the
bullishness that rendered other men of his height graceless and hulking. Unsure
why this realization so surprised her, Reagan let her gaze roam over him, from
head to toe and back again, touching him with her eyes in places no virtuous
maid would acknowledge even existed.
    “Are you merely assuaging your feminine curiosity?” he asked,
opening one green eye a crack, causing Reagan to start, “or is it possible that
you like what you see?”
    Caught, Reagan blushed to the roots of her hair. “Don’t flatter
yourself, Frenchman,” she drawled carefully. “I seen half-naked men b’fore, and
as far as I can tell, you ain’t nothin’ special.”
    A wicked half smile tugged at one corner of his sensual mouth.
“It’s obvious you haven’t seen everything I have to offer... not yet, in any
case.” Leaning close, he stretched his hand toward her and, with a flick of one
lean brown finger, deftly knocked the hat from her head. “Keep looking at me
the way you’ve been,