Chapter One
Pearl, Colorado
Autumn 1869
The tall, broad man standing on her back porch didn’t remove his hat. He braced his hand, callused and rough, against the frame above her head and said her name. “Miss Emma.”
Emma Morgan knew the words he hadn’t spoken. Beneath her flannel gown, her nipples tightened to hard peaks. His voice did that to her body every time, stroking her skin, slow and firm, as if it had every right to touch her. He’d never once offered for her hand in marriage. He had no rights in her bed. She welcomed him into it anyway. Most times. Tonight…
She inhaled, exhaled a sigh. He smelled like coffee and wood smoke. He’d probably spent the better part of the night beside a campfire. Unfortunately for both of them, she’d have to send him back to the campsite instead of inviting him inside. Her throat closed around a lump of disappointment. She’d rather keep him through what remained of the night and take him through two or three climaxes. Instead of stepping aside to grant him entrance, she studied his tall frame.
Mickey Lowe, foreman of Ethan Carver’s ranch, dressed for cowboy duty. He wore a thick sheepskin coat over his flannel plaid shirt and his denim pants were stiff, good-quality cotton despite the dirt that would never come out of them. Mouth dry, she studied the open collar of his shirt, the curl of dark hair that she would have mistaken for a trick of the shadows if she hadn’t known his body so well. His nipples wouldn’t be as hard as hers. They didn’t respond to the idea of her touch the way her body responded to the idea of his. She could coax them however, first with her mouth, later with the curves of her bottom as she sat atop his chest and teased him with the scent of her arousal. She so enjoyed the heavy-lidded sight of his eyes as she rubbed her spread pussy on his skin before rising over his hungry mouth, opening to his wonderfully strong tongue.
“Lucy’s visiting me,” she said to the buttons that marched down the front of his shirt, replying to the words he hadn’t spoken and banishing her errant fantasies. The house she kept was small. She and her niece shared the bed when the young woman came to stay. If she took Mickey inside, Lucy would surely know.
“How is she?” he asked politely.
“Well.” Emma bit her lip, hesitating before she added, “She’s going to spend the winter here.”
On the other side of the doorway, Mickey shifted his weight and reached for her. He touched her chin, tilted her face toward his. She couldn’t see his eyes but she knew the color. Hazel. Emma drew a deep breath, let it out, and answered his wordless request by stepping out onto the porch. Fall had settled upon Pearl and the night nipped at her toes and the tips of her ears. She’d dressed for bed but had not yet released her hair. The heavy weight, pinned in a coil at the back of her head, left her neck bare to the cold. At her back, the warmth from the fire in the kitchen beckoned her to return to the house. She ignored the fire. It didn’t offer the same comfort this man could provide.
“The whole winter’s a long time,” he murmured, dragging the backs of his fingers along the soft underside of her chin, down her throat. “Christ, you’re soft. You’re the first bit of quiet I’ve found in weeks. What are you still doing awake? You should’ve been long asleep.”
“I heard a noise.” Emma raised her chin, loving the warm intimacy of his touch. The proprietary way of it. The thrill that coursed all the way to her toes in response to his rough praise. Suddenly, the winter seemed too long. She’d not given thought to her own needs when her niece, her only brother’s daughter, had requested an extended stay. Her hospitality, given freely the day before, tightened restrictively around her chest now.
Mickey unfastened the topmost button of her gown. The second button. Emma held herself still, ignoring the cold, listening for sounds that would
Pearl, Colorado
Autumn 1869
The tall, broad man standing on her back porch didn’t remove his hat. He braced his hand, callused and rough, against the frame above her head and said her name. “Miss Emma.”
Emma Morgan knew the words he hadn’t spoken. Beneath her flannel gown, her nipples tightened to hard peaks. His voice did that to her body every time, stroking her skin, slow and firm, as if it had every right to touch her. He’d never once offered for her hand in marriage. He had no rights in her bed. She welcomed him into it anyway. Most times. Tonight…
She inhaled, exhaled a sigh. He smelled like coffee and wood smoke. He’d probably spent the better part of the night beside a campfire. Unfortunately for both of them, she’d have to send him back to the campsite instead of inviting him inside. Her throat closed around a lump of disappointment. She’d rather keep him through what remained of the night and take him through two or three climaxes. Instead of stepping aside to grant him entrance, she studied his tall frame.
Mickey Lowe, foreman of Ethan Carver’s ranch, dressed for cowboy duty. He wore a thick sheepskin coat over his flannel plaid shirt and his denim pants were stiff, good-quality cotton despite the dirt that would never come out of them. Mouth dry, she studied the open collar of his shirt, the curl of dark hair that she would have mistaken for a trick of the shadows if she hadn’t known his body so well. His nipples wouldn’t be as hard as hers. They didn’t respond to the idea of her touch the way her body responded to the idea of his. She could coax them however, first with her mouth, later with the curves of her bottom as she sat atop his chest and teased him with the scent of her arousal. She so enjoyed the heavy-lidded sight of his eyes as she rubbed her spread pussy on his skin before rising over his hungry mouth, opening to his wonderfully strong tongue.
“Lucy’s visiting me,” she said to the buttons that marched down the front of his shirt, replying to the words he hadn’t spoken and banishing her errant fantasies. The house she kept was small. She and her niece shared the bed when the young woman came to stay. If she took Mickey inside, Lucy would surely know.
“How is she?” he asked politely.
“Well.” Emma bit her lip, hesitating before she added, “She’s going to spend the winter here.”
On the other side of the doorway, Mickey shifted his weight and reached for her. He touched her chin, tilted her face toward his. She couldn’t see his eyes but she knew the color. Hazel. Emma drew a deep breath, let it out, and answered his wordless request by stepping out onto the porch. Fall had settled upon Pearl and the night nipped at her toes and the tips of her ears. She’d dressed for bed but had not yet released her hair. The heavy weight, pinned in a coil at the back of her head, left her neck bare to the cold. At her back, the warmth from the fire in the kitchen beckoned her to return to the house. She ignored the fire. It didn’t offer the same comfort this man could provide.
“The whole winter’s a long time,” he murmured, dragging the backs of his fingers along the soft underside of her chin, down her throat. “Christ, you’re soft. You’re the first bit of quiet I’ve found in weeks. What are you still doing awake? You should’ve been long asleep.”
“I heard a noise.” Emma raised her chin, loving the warm intimacy of his touch. The proprietary way of it. The thrill that coursed all the way to her toes in response to his rough praise. Suddenly, the winter seemed too long. She’d not given thought to her own needs when her niece, her only brother’s daughter, had requested an extended stay. Her hospitality, given freely the day before, tightened restrictively around her chest now.
Mickey unfastened the topmost button of her gown. The second button. Emma held herself still, ignoring the cold, listening for sounds that would
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