the saloon.
He moved slowly toward her, and she was taken aback by how handsome he was, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a fit, muscular build.
Closing the distance between them, he pushed his open black coat to the side. His purpose was clear as he rested his large hand on an ivory-handled revolver holstered to his leather gun belt.
His trousers—also black—were snug and worn at the knees, and his boots were spurred.
Jessica hadn't actually looked at his feet, but as he walked, the sound of the spurs jingling alerted her senses to everything about him.
Someone moved aside, and a gentle stream of light reflected off the shiny star pinned to the man's lapel.
It read: Sheriff .
Thank God.
He angled his head and spoke in low voice – sort of like Clint Eastwood, but not exactly.
"Ma’am, you look a little distressed. Can I be of some assistance?"
His observation, which couldn't have been closer to the truth, melted all her cool bravado in an instant, and she was so relieved, she could have grabbed hold of his shirt collar, pulled him toward her, and kissed him square on the lips.
"Yes, you can,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly."
He chuckled softly, but the smile in his eyes was cold and calculating.
“I wouldn’t thank me just yet,” he drawled, as he wrapped his big hand around her arm and tugged her closer. “Because by the look of things here, missy, you’re gonna be spending the night in my jailhouse.”
The crowd murmured approval, while Jessica glanced up at his ruggedly handsome features, bronzed by wind and sun, then cautiously lowered her eyes to the gun at his hip.
He shook his head at her, as if she’d been a very naughty girl, and said, “Tsk tsk tsk,” while she paused to think carefully about the best way to handle this.
He moved slowly toward her, and she was taken aback by how handsome he was, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a fit, muscular build.
Closing the distance between them, he pushed his open black coat to the side. His purpose was clear as he rested his large hand on an ivory-handled revolver holstered to his leather gun belt.
His trousers—also black—were snug and worn at the knees, and his boots were spurred.
Jessica hadn't actually looked at his feet, but as he walked, the sound of the spurs jingling alerted her senses to everything about him.
Someone moved aside, and a gentle stream of light reflected off the shiny star pinned to the man's lapel.
It read: Sheriff .
Thank God.
He angled his head and spoke in low voice – sort of like Clint Eastwood, but not exactly.
"Ma’am, you look a little distressed. Can I be of some assistance?"
His observation, which couldn't have been closer to the truth, melted all her cool bravado in an instant, and she was so relieved, she could have grabbed hold of his shirt collar, pulled him toward her, and kissed him square on the lips.
"Yes, you can,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly."
He chuckled softly, but the smile in his eyes was cold and calculating.
“I wouldn’t thank me just yet,” he drawled, as he wrapped his big hand around her arm and tugged her closer. “Because by the look of things here, missy, you’re gonna be spending the night in my jailhouse.”
The crowd murmured approval, while Jessica glanced up at his ruggedly handsome features, bronzed by wind and sun, then cautiously lowered her eyes to the gun at his hip.
He shook his head at her, as if she’d been a very naughty girl, and said, “Tsk tsk tsk,” while she paused to think carefully about the best way to handle this.
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