My Darling Gunslinger by Lynne Barron

Pleasure Palace and he could bathe in the small copper tub Uncle Jasper had used before she’d arrived.
    She would take the piano, as well.
    And all the pretty furniture. What did a gunslinger need with brocade-covered chairs and velvet settees?
    She’d certainly pack up all the knickknacks she’d collected during her years as a wandering gypsy, the globes and chess sets, the stuffed lion and the ivory cups, the silk bed covers and rich tapestries.
    The house might belong to him but, by God, it would be the same empty shell it had been when Jasper had lived here alone.
    She would whitewash the walls to the same dull gray and scuff the wood floors and find the old grease-coated wood stove she’d had Akeem haul out of the kitchen. Tyler Morgan could eat charred food and breathe billowing smoke.
    She’d take the modern cooktop oven with her, and the icebox, and the dishes.
    But where would she put everything?
    And why wouldn’t the bloody man wake up so she could ask him how long she and her family had before they must vacate the ranch?
    Last night he’d played checkers with Ethel. Charlotte’s lovely black marble and red teak board had been spread out between them on the bed. He’d seemed fascinated by the small jeweled pieces, holding first a garnet encrusted disk, then an onyx up to the light.
    Of course as soon as he’d spied her peering into the room the round pieces had fallen to the bed and the look of boyish wonder had fallen from his face.
    He’d stared at her as if she was an interloper. In her own house!
    Now he slept, on his back with his hands resting on his chest. He didn’t snore, he didn’t shift about or roll onto his side. He was as still as a statue.
    Charlotte tried not to notice how handsome the man was. Truly, she made every attempt to look away from his sleeping form. It was a useless endeavor. He was a beautiful, dark angel.
    His hair was clean and shiny, the wavy strands glowing like rich sable threaded with the deepest mahogany in the soft light from the bedside lamp.
    Ken Chang had shaved weeks’ worth of whiskers from his cheeks after his bath and Charlotte was mesmerized by the clean lines of his face. His forehead was high and rather noble. His cheekbones were finely sculpted, and she couldn’t help wondering if he had some Indian blood coursing through his veins.
    His nose was…well, it was magnificent—a straight blade with the smallest bump on the bridge.
    His chin was square and strong above his sinewy neck.
    His eyebrows were thick but not bushy, arched in an entirely masculine way.
    Long, thick lashes any woman would covet hid his eyes. But she didn’t need to see them now. They haunted her dreams. As bright as silver in the sunlight and as dark as pewter in the shadows, his eyes were…alive. Yes, that was it exactly. Even when he’d wiped all expression from his face, his gray eyes were alive and aware, seeing everything, missing nothing.
    Charlotte resolutely looked away from his mouth, his sinfully wide mouth with its bottom lip as plump as a pillow.
    Damn the man, would he never awaken?
    She’d been sitting in the silent room for nearly three hours. Her bottom had gone numb in the hard wooden rocking chair. She was hungry and the spicy aroma of curry drifting upstairs had her stomach growling.
    Apparently, not even the delicious smells and the muted laughter from the kitchen would wake the blighted man.
    “Well, fudge,” Charlotte muttered as she jumped to her feet.
    The rocking chair flew back and banged into the wall.
    One, two, three…
    “My lady?” Akeem’s worried voice on the stairs.
    “I’m fine, Akeem,” she called out. “Only a minor mishap with a chair.”
    Charlotte turned to find gray eyes watching her where she stood at the foot of the bed, halfway between the still rocking chair and the door.
    “I apologize for waking you, Mr. Morgan,” she lied.
    He mumbled something then shifted to sit against the pillows propped at the headboard.
    She’d