Only You by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

grabbed his hat and pulled it down over his unruly black hair.
    “I am a gentleman.”
    Eve looked from the crown of Reno’s black hat to the worn fleece-lined leather jacket that came to his hips. His pants were dark and had seen hard use. His boots were the same. He wore blunted brass cavalry spurs. Their metal had been so long without polish that they no longer were the least bit shiny.
    Nothing about Reno gleamed or flashed, and that included the butt of the six-gun he wore. The holster was the same; it had been oiled for use rather than for looks. The bullets, however, were quite clean.
    In all, Reno didn’t appear to be a gentleman. He looked every bit the dangerous gunfighter Eve knew him to be, a man drawn in shades of darkness rather than light.
    Except for his eyes. They were the vivid green of early spring leaves, as clear and perfect as cut crystal against the sun-darkened skin of his face.
    But a person had to be close to Reno to discover the light in his eyes. She doubted that many people got that close.
    Or wanted to.
    “Jessi is married to one of my best friends,” Reno said flatly. “Otherwise, I’d have been happy to try my hand at courting.”
    “’Courting.’”
    Eve looked at the tangled bedroll where she had known her first taste of passion.
    “Is that what you call it?” she asked dryly.
    “Courting is for a woman you want to make your wife. That—” Reno jerked his thumb at the bedroll “—was a little rolling around before breakfast with a saloon girl.”
    The blood left Eve’s face. She couldn’t think of anything to say except the kind of words that would give Reno a lower opinion of her than he already had. Silently she turned to her saddlebags, grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans, and started walking away.
    Reno’s hand shot out with startling speed, grabbing her arm.
    “Going somewhere?” he asked.
    “Even saloon girls need privacy.”
    “Tough. I don’t trust you out of my sight.”
    “Then I’ll just have to pee in your boots, won’t I?” she asked sweetly.
    For an instant Reno looked shocked. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
    Eve jerked free of his fingers and stalked off into the nearby forest as Reno’s words followed her.
    “Don’t be long, gata , or I’ll come hunting you—barefoot.”
    W HEN Reno came back from the forest with more dry wood, he looked approvingly at the small, hot, nearly invisible fire Eve had made. Woodsmoke from the hat-sized fire drifted no more than a few feet into the air before it dissipated.
    He dumped the fuel near the fire and sat on his heels by the small, cheerful flames.
    “Who taught you to make that kind of fire?” he asked.
    Eve looked up from the frying pan where bacon sizzled and pan biscuits turned crisp brown in the fat. Since she had returned from the forest dressed in men’s clothing, she hadn’t spoken to Reno unless asked a direct question. She had simply gone about preparing breakfast under his watchful eyes.
    “What kind of fire?” Eve asked, looking away from him.
    “The kind that won’t attract every Indian and outlaw for fifty miles around,” Reno said dryly.
    “One of the few times Donna Lyon took a cane to me was when I put wet wood on the fire. I never did it again.”
    Eve didn’t look up as she spoke.
    Irritation prodded Reno. He was tired of being made to feel as though he had offended the tender sensibilities of some shy little flower. She was a cardsharp, a cheat, and a hussy, not some cosseted child of strict parents.
    “Did the Lyons have a price on their heads?” Reno asked bluntly.
    “No. If they had, they wouldn’t have worried about attracting outlaws and gunmen and thieves to their fire, would they?”
    Reno made a noncommittal sound.
    “They just would have shot a buck and roasted it whole,” Eve continued acidly, “and then robbed everyone who followed the smell of cooking meat back to their camp.”
    “Too bad Donna didn’t tell you about the difference between