Reardon person see her embarrassed blush. "If you should ever lay a hand upon me again, I shall not be held accountable for my response."
"I'd say your response was pretty much like I figured it'd be."
She lifted her hand to slap him but he grabbed her wrist between his thumb and forefinger and held her fast.
"I'd think twice about that, Miss Caroline," he said with an infuriating drawl. "I let you get away with kickin' me in the shin but don't think I'll let you get away with anything more than that."
"The risk would be worth it."
He released his hold on her and slid closer to where she lay in the dirt. "Go ahead," he said, his voice a menacing growl. "Hit me."
"I would not debase myself by striking you."
"What if I kissed you again?"
"Mr. Reardon, so help me, if you—"
"You folks ever comin' out from under there?" The stagecoach driver peeked in at them. "I got three more stops to make before nightfall and my horses is gettin' testy."
"Shootin's over?" Reardon asked.
"As over as it ever is in Silver Spur," the driver answered.
Reardon flipped on his side and with one agile motion rolled out from under the coach and stood up, providing Caroline with a bird's eye view of the toes of his fancy leather boots. Those boots seemed strangely at odds with his rough-and-tumble demeanor and she could quicker imagine them on her dandified father than this outlaw cowboy.
"Better come out, lady," he said, laughing, "or that pretty dress of yours ain't gonna be so pretty any more."
"I'm covered with a layer of dirt and grime," she muttered. "My dress is fit for the dustbin."
"Miss Caroline? Are you alright, Miss?" Abby's high-pitched voice rang out. "You just be sayin' the word and I'll call a sheriff to put this monster behind bars."
Abby's plain black boots appeared next to Reardon's ornately decorated ones, and they were quickly joined by four pairs of scuffed kid pumps, the Reverend's highly-polished brown brogans, and two dirty bare feet.
"I believe I'll stay here until nightfall," Caroline announced, struggling with her skirts which were twisted up around her hips and thighs. No matter how hard she tugged she was unable to move more than a few inches and she knew utter humiliation was close at hand when there came the sound of a gentle rustling, followed by a soft thud and a chorus of voices.
To her dismay, Reardon hunkered down and peered under the stagecoach at her. "Driver's gettin' ready to move out. Unless you're looking to be part of the road, I'd hightail it out of there."
"I can't," she hissed, face flaming as she wondered why Abby had so callously deserted her in her hour of need. "My petticoat is hooked on something."
Reardon flattened himself on the dirt and started sliding toward her exposed calves and knees.
"Don't you dare, Mr. Reardon! Call my maid over."
"Your maid is busy helpin' the preacher's wife. Seems the excitement was too much for her." His breath was hot against the curve of her leg and she feared she would swoon same as Penelope Nelson. "It's either you let me help you or you get dragged all the way up to Reno."
"Then do it," she ordered, summoning up her best Bostonian arrogance. "This is most unseemly."
"Not from where I'm sittin'." Reardon leaned over her torso and reached for the snagged hem of her petticoat. "In fact, I'd say it's right seemly."
"Unhook my hem and keep your comments to yourself, Mr. Reardon." Her best Bostonian manners were forgotten along with her modesty. "I didn't travel two thousand miles to be accosted by a filthy cowboy."
"Gotta correct you on that," he said as she heard the distinctive sound of ripping lace. "I'm no cowboy."
She tugged at her skirts in a vain attempt to cover her limbs. "But you admit to being filthy?" she snapped.
"Why don't you come up to my room at the King of Hearts for supper and find out."
"I would rather starve." Even in the shadowy light she could see the glimmer of danger in his eyes, danger that should be avoided at all
"I'd say your response was pretty much like I figured it'd be."
She lifted her hand to slap him but he grabbed her wrist between his thumb and forefinger and held her fast.
"I'd think twice about that, Miss Caroline," he said with an infuriating drawl. "I let you get away with kickin' me in the shin but don't think I'll let you get away with anything more than that."
"The risk would be worth it."
He released his hold on her and slid closer to where she lay in the dirt. "Go ahead," he said, his voice a menacing growl. "Hit me."
"I would not debase myself by striking you."
"What if I kissed you again?"
"Mr. Reardon, so help me, if you—"
"You folks ever comin' out from under there?" The stagecoach driver peeked in at them. "I got three more stops to make before nightfall and my horses is gettin' testy."
"Shootin's over?" Reardon asked.
"As over as it ever is in Silver Spur," the driver answered.
Reardon flipped on his side and with one agile motion rolled out from under the coach and stood up, providing Caroline with a bird's eye view of the toes of his fancy leather boots. Those boots seemed strangely at odds with his rough-and-tumble demeanor and she could quicker imagine them on her dandified father than this outlaw cowboy.
"Better come out, lady," he said, laughing, "or that pretty dress of yours ain't gonna be so pretty any more."
"I'm covered with a layer of dirt and grime," she muttered. "My dress is fit for the dustbin."
"Miss Caroline? Are you alright, Miss?" Abby's high-pitched voice rang out. "You just be sayin' the word and I'll call a sheriff to put this monster behind bars."
Abby's plain black boots appeared next to Reardon's ornately decorated ones, and they were quickly joined by four pairs of scuffed kid pumps, the Reverend's highly-polished brown brogans, and two dirty bare feet.
"I believe I'll stay here until nightfall," Caroline announced, struggling with her skirts which were twisted up around her hips and thighs. No matter how hard she tugged she was unable to move more than a few inches and she knew utter humiliation was close at hand when there came the sound of a gentle rustling, followed by a soft thud and a chorus of voices.
To her dismay, Reardon hunkered down and peered under the stagecoach at her. "Driver's gettin' ready to move out. Unless you're looking to be part of the road, I'd hightail it out of there."
"I can't," she hissed, face flaming as she wondered why Abby had so callously deserted her in her hour of need. "My petticoat is hooked on something."
Reardon flattened himself on the dirt and started sliding toward her exposed calves and knees.
"Don't you dare, Mr. Reardon! Call my maid over."
"Your maid is busy helpin' the preacher's wife. Seems the excitement was too much for her." His breath was hot against the curve of her leg and she feared she would swoon same as Penelope Nelson. "It's either you let me help you or you get dragged all the way up to Reno."
"Then do it," she ordered, summoning up her best Bostonian arrogance. "This is most unseemly."
"Not from where I'm sittin'." Reardon leaned over her torso and reached for the snagged hem of her petticoat. "In fact, I'd say it's right seemly."
"Unhook my hem and keep your comments to yourself, Mr. Reardon." Her best Bostonian manners were forgotten along with her modesty. "I didn't travel two thousand miles to be accosted by a filthy cowboy."
"Gotta correct you on that," he said as she heard the distinctive sound of ripping lace. "I'm no cowboy."
She tugged at her skirts in a vain attempt to cover her limbs. "But you admit to being filthy?" she snapped.
"Why don't you come up to my room at the King of Hearts for supper and find out."
"I would rather starve." Even in the shadowy light she could see the glimmer of danger in his eyes, danger that should be avoided at all
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