reddish-brown, the slender form, the pert nose, all seemed familiar. But he had seen that girl only at a side view and from a distance. This one was much more mature, her hair elegantly coiffed, and she looked older. He guessed she was twenty—a woman full grown.
Her creamy white skin made him think she might be from the East. Or perhaps she just didn’t like the sun. Yet she knew something of Mexico, having guessed right about his bloodlines. His mother, an American, had had ancestors in England. It was she who had named him Hank, his father later changing it to Enrique and adding considerably to the name. His father had beena Mexican Spaniard, though very little of Mexico had run in his veins. Hank’s great-grandfather had been half mestizo, had married a Spanish doña , and their son Victoriano had married into the Vega family, newly arrived from Spain.
Hank didn’t dwell much anymore on his ancestry: everyone who mattered was dead except for his older sister. But Samantha Blackstone had brought his family to mind. What a curious lady she was! The talkative Adrien Allston had certainly been shocked. Hank did not mind, though. He admired a woman who was not afraid to speak her mind or satisfy her curiosity.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Long brown lashes fanned her cheeks, and, as she slept, a short stray curl fell on her temple, shining red in the lamplight. He recalled with relish her embarrassment when she caught him admiring her full breasts. He had enjoyed her embarrassment, and liked making her blush. She was not indifferent to him if he could make her blush.
He was certainly not indifferent to her. In a way, she reminded him of Angela, though there was no physical resemblance except perhaps for the shade of hair. He had made Angela blush easily, too. He remembered her face turning bright crimson when, robbing her stagecoach, he had searched inside her bodice for valuables. She had slapped him soundly, and he had been compelled to respond to the slap with a kiss he had wanted never to end.
For the first time in his life, Hank truly wanted to rob a stage—this one, just so he could search the dark-haired woman across from him. Just looking at her made him want her, and he had to place his hat over his lap to hide the stirring there.
What was wrong with him? He had never before reacted so strongly, so physically to a woman without even touching her. Not even Angela had aroused him so quickly. And the woman was only sleeping. She wasn’t even influencing him with her eyes!
Hank shut his own from the sight of her, hoping to cool his blood. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t stop dreaming about her.
It was going to be a long way to Elizabethtown.
Samantha was the last one out of the stage. Jeannette had had to wake her, chiding that she wouldn’t get any sleep that night. Samantha didn’t care. The journey was so boring, and there was nothing to do but sleep. And then she remembered Señor Chavez and was instantly wide awake.
But he had gone with the other men. They were at a dismal coach stop, the only building for miles around. There was a barn where extra horses were kept, and a house, really just one large room. There, passengers could get a hot meal and bed down on benches for a few hours’ sleep.
Samantha followed Jeannette inside. She wouldn’t sit down. Her backside was numb. The food wasn’t ready yet. It was late at night, and the old man had to be wakened to fix them something.
Only Jeannette, Mr. Patch, and the old timer were in the large room. The others had gone out back to wash up. Samantha walked, stretching as much as possible without being unladylike. Jeannette sat down in the only high-backed chair near the fireplace. She was tired and looked it.
The driver and Adrien came in the back door, but Hank Chavez was not with them. Samantha wished he would hurry so she could wash at the well. It wouldn’t be proper for her to go outside while he was still there.
Adrien saw
Her creamy white skin made him think she might be from the East. Or perhaps she just didn’t like the sun. Yet she knew something of Mexico, having guessed right about his bloodlines. His mother, an American, had had ancestors in England. It was she who had named him Hank, his father later changing it to Enrique and adding considerably to the name. His father had beena Mexican Spaniard, though very little of Mexico had run in his veins. Hank’s great-grandfather had been half mestizo, had married a Spanish doña , and their son Victoriano had married into the Vega family, newly arrived from Spain.
Hank didn’t dwell much anymore on his ancestry: everyone who mattered was dead except for his older sister. But Samantha Blackstone had brought his family to mind. What a curious lady she was! The talkative Adrien Allston had certainly been shocked. Hank did not mind, though. He admired a woman who was not afraid to speak her mind or satisfy her curiosity.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Long brown lashes fanned her cheeks, and, as she slept, a short stray curl fell on her temple, shining red in the lamplight. He recalled with relish her embarrassment when she caught him admiring her full breasts. He had enjoyed her embarrassment, and liked making her blush. She was not indifferent to him if he could make her blush.
He was certainly not indifferent to her. In a way, she reminded him of Angela, though there was no physical resemblance except perhaps for the shade of hair. He had made Angela blush easily, too. He remembered her face turning bright crimson when, robbing her stagecoach, he had searched inside her bodice for valuables. She had slapped him soundly, and he had been compelled to respond to the slap with a kiss he had wanted never to end.
For the first time in his life, Hank truly wanted to rob a stage—this one, just so he could search the dark-haired woman across from him. Just looking at her made him want her, and he had to place his hat over his lap to hide the stirring there.
What was wrong with him? He had never before reacted so strongly, so physically to a woman without even touching her. Not even Angela had aroused him so quickly. And the woman was only sleeping. She wasn’t even influencing him with her eyes!
Hank shut his own from the sight of her, hoping to cool his blood. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t stop dreaming about her.
It was going to be a long way to Elizabethtown.
Samantha was the last one out of the stage. Jeannette had had to wake her, chiding that she wouldn’t get any sleep that night. Samantha didn’t care. The journey was so boring, and there was nothing to do but sleep. And then she remembered Señor Chavez and was instantly wide awake.
But he had gone with the other men. They were at a dismal coach stop, the only building for miles around. There was a barn where extra horses were kept, and a house, really just one large room. There, passengers could get a hot meal and bed down on benches for a few hours’ sleep.
Samantha followed Jeannette inside. She wouldn’t sit down. Her backside was numb. The food wasn’t ready yet. It was late at night, and the old man had to be wakened to fix them something.
Only Jeannette, Mr. Patch, and the old timer were in the large room. The others had gone out back to wash up. Samantha walked, stretching as much as possible without being unladylike. Jeannette sat down in the only high-backed chair near the fireplace. She was tired and looked it.
The driver and Adrien came in the back door, but Hank Chavez was not with them. Samantha wished he would hurry so she could wash at the well. It wouldn’t be proper for her to go outside while he was still there.
Adrien saw
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