by Murray, Anna
Roy knew anger wouldn't solve his problems. Thanks to the scandal in Wounded Colt, the sun had set on Sheriff Roy Easton. Move on. He'd live alone and die alone.
Still, a part of him was driven by a lust for redemption, for a territory's forgiveness of a sin he didn't commit. Somehow, beneath the pain, desire burned. He needed a last chance at reconciliation with the town that had served as judge, jury, and executioner when they found him guilty and imposed this sentence of exile.
Chapter 2
Roy staggered out from the store under the weight of his purchases, grateful he had the mules to haul his load. Dusk closed in, and he made ready to quit himself of that two-bit town.
He was busily inspecting the mules' rigging when a palm lit on his forearm. The perfumed flesh massaged a tight trail up to his shoulder.
"Leavin' so soon, honey?" crooned the voice attached to the caress. The hand slid forward and rubbed seductively across the stubble on his cheek.
Roy, already half-turned, rotated himself more fully and looked down into an aging puff-and-powder whore's smile. He ruefully reckoned this was likely to be the only breed of pleasure he'd get, and the thought grated more than he wanted to admit. It would take getting used to -- this life of drifting, bounty-seeking solitude.
"Gal, I gotta move on."
"Aw honey, we can have a fine time, jus' you an' me." Her painted lips pouted. Pressing her pitch, she ran her hands brazenly across the taut muscles of his broad chest, and skillfully she arched her back to thrust her heavy bosom into full view.
Roy stared his annoyance past the harlot's offer, to yonder, beyond the edge of town, into the scrub pine-covered hills, where he spied a cloud of dust. The fire-haired woman. He tipped his hat back.
"Too early for a man to sap his strength," he drawled.
As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed on that far hill, absent-mindedly tracking the movement of the mystery lady and her outfit. He was only dimly aware of the powder-burn frown strafing across the saloon gal's rosy face, and he barely felt the kick of her frustration as it nudged against his chest.
"Sweetsome, you got enough fer five men." She tilted her head sideways and coyly peered up through veiled lashes. "Golly, yer that run-out sheriff, ain't ya'? Yer no gentleman . . . but," she giggled, "I's no lady."
And persistent as hell, Roy thought as he lifted his eyes back to the distant drifters. A cold chill suddenly climbed up his neck. His lawman's intuition gnawed; it told him something was askew. What?
Meanwhile the aging whore continued her patter. But now she'd pulled his string taut; uneasiness and fatigue combined to explode in exasperation.
"I can't," he growled, and released sharply, and the woman jumped back as if spattered with hot bacon grease. "I mean, I won't," he quickly amended.
The whore flashed a knowing grin and winked. Then, quick as she'd swooped down, she cackled and flew away.
Roy set his jaw in resignation, leaned back against Thursday, and watched the soiled dove in her bright ruffled plumage saunter across the street. She didn't miss a beat -- she didn't even look back. Business was business, and she beamed a come-hither smile at a group of cowpunchers congregating near the saloon.
Oh hell. He hurriedly finished his task.
Roy swung into his saddle with an ease that testified to past ranching days, and he clucked gently to woo his stallion into motion. With his weeklong string of mules plodding behind, Roy took the trail that headed west, the whole time insisting inwardly that seeing the fire lady riding that direction had absolutely nothing to do with his choice of route.
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Anna Murray blogs at www.annamurrayauthor.blogspot.com