Outlaw Hunter. Carol Arens

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      “How old are your sisters?” she asked, staring regretfully at the water.

      All she had to do was unbutton her dress, step out of her underclothes and slip down into the warmth. It would take ten seconds.

      “Sarah’s twenty-five and filling her house up with babies. Next there’s Delilah—she’s twenty-three and a schoolteacher. Last is Mildred—she’s only seventeen and full of the dickens.”

      She flicked the water with her toes. The spray caught a glimmer of the full moon before it drifted back into the pool.

      “They must have adored their big brother.”

      She would have, had she had one.

      “Bedeviled is more like it. Go in the spring, Mrs. Travers, I’ll keep watch over the young ones.”

      She stared at the water for another moment, watching the churning surface reflect the silver globe of the moon, which shone directly overhead.

      “Thank you, Marshal,” she said, then stripped off the filthy rags that passed for clothes.

      She glided off the rock slowly, submerging her knees then savoring the tickle of the warm water where it kissed away the cold air pebbling her thighs. Her nipples puckered with the chill but she didn’t hurry.

      This was a moment to savor. Inch by inch she slipped under, the warm water touching her like a pair of tender hands. It slid over her bottom and up her hips; it rushed up her ribs and washed over her back. She felt the tingle in her breasts, which meant that her milk was letting down. She pressed her forearms across her chest to stop it, then went down, down and down, until every last strand of her hair went under.

      She held her breath, feeling the grime lift from her skin. She rubbed her arms and her belly before she broke the surface of the water for air.

      Her toes touched the smooth stones at the bottom of the pool. She lifted her legs then floated for a moment, nearly euphoric at the sense of weightlessness.

      She filled her lungs and ducked under again.

      This time she swished her hair and rubbed her scalp, watching while the strands floated back and forth before her face in the moonlit water.

      She pushed up for another breath then sank down until her bottom rested on the warm stones. Water pulsed against her gently, wiping away all traces of the Broken Brand.

      In her mind she imagined every place that Ram had handled her. The water erased the residue of his touch...washed him from her body and her mind.

      Her husband was dead. He had no power over her.

      She pushed up slowly, feeling energy pulse through her thighs. Hattie Travers was gone, left at the bottom of the pool to dissolve along with Ram.

      She broke the surface, grinning.

      Marshal Prentis didn’t pivot, even though he must have heard the water. The sway of his hips and his shoulders rocking Seth didn’t falter.

      Perhaps she shouldn’t compare all men to her dead husband. It seemed that, maybe, Marshal Prentis was a man to be trusted.

      It wasn’t his fault that her judging ability was faulty where the male species was concerned.

      As soon as the warmth of the pool faded from her skin she began to shiver.

      This was a predicament. She couldn’t put on her dress until she dried off.

      All of a sudden the marshal flung out his arm. A blanket hung from his fist. Still, he held true to his word and didn’t turn, even though he knew she stood only feet behind him, wet, naked and utterly vulnerable.

      “Dry off with this, Mrs. Travers.”

      She took the blanket, wiped off then hurried into her underclothes and her dress. She hated to put the rags back on, but for now, she would have to.

      Even though he wasn’t looking, he must have been listening. As soon as she slipped the last button of her bodice into place he turned and handed Seth to her.

      His eyes blinked wide, almost as though he were startled.

      She knew she looked different. She could feel that she did, from the inside out. New hope coursed through her and it had to show.

      The spring had cleansed her, washed away the ugliness of the outlaw ranch.

      Home was only days away. For the first time in three years she looked forward to the future.

      Only time would tell what it would be, but whatever it was, it would be what she chose.

      She took Seth from the marshal’s arms, glancing up at his face as she did.

      He smiled and she returned the gesture. It had been a long time since she felt her heart light up, but she felt it now, as fragile as a candle flame.

      “My name is Melody, Marshal Prentis...Melody Irene Dawson.”

       Chapter Two

      A pair of lovely, amber-colored eyes gazed up at him in the moonlight. He felt as dumb as a tree stump, with no more knowledge of how to respond than a dried-out piece of wood.

      A helpless sparrow of a woman had gone into the water, but someone else had stepped out.

      She even had another name.

      “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dawson.” He reckoned Miss was the right way to address her. Chances are she had gone back to her maiden name.

      And a good thing, too, in his estimation. The lady taking her child from his arms had a smile prettier than the bright full moon. She resembled a “Hattie” as much a songbird resembled a mud hen.

      “Won’t you call me Melody?”

      It would change things, being on a first-name basis. As it stood now, bringing her home was a part of his job, his obligation as a US marshal.

      Ordinarily, he transported criminals whose first names he didn’t care to know. His only duty was to see them safely to trial and then a jail cell.

      Miss Dawson was offering friendship. It would make the trip more pleasant, no denying that. But once he delivered her to Cottonwood Grove, he’d never see her or the children again.

      Keeping an emotional distance would be proper.

      “I’m Reeve,” he said, and by the blazes, he was smiling when he said it.

      He followed her to the campfire and then sat down beside her, a comfortable enough distance to allow for conversation without things seeming too intimate.

      The evening was cold but with no sign of snow. It felt good to have a fire burning from the branches he’d found scattered among the trees. Nothing was better than a true wood fire. It glowed hot enough so that the part of one’s body СКАЧАТЬ