Read Online Anna Finch and the Hired Gun by Kathleen Y'Barbo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathleen Y'Barbo
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Mitchell? Your name
is
Mitchell, isn’t it?” She paused to enjoy his obvious discomfort. “For a journalist to bend the truth—well, perish the thought.”
“All right, then.” He sighed heavily, then made a great show of bowing before her. When he straightened, the amusement had returned to his face. “Miss Finch, I intended neither to offend nor to upset your delicate sensibilities in any way.” He paused and glanced around the lobby before his gaze met hers. “I am asking your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it, wretch that I am. Would you do me the great and glorious honor of accepting my apology?”
When she merely crossed her arms in response, unwilling to let him get away with mocking her yet again, the awful man fell to his knees. All around her, people stopped to stare. Some whispered comments to companions while others merely indicated displeasure with a raised brow or a frown. Still others seemed amused.
“Get up this instant,” she demanded. “You’re making a scene.”
“Forgive me, Miss Finch!” Mitchell cried loudly. “I beg you!”
Wishing she’d just ignored him from the moment he appeared, Anna turned to flee and slammed into a wall of buckskin and brawn. The man, obviously fresh off the trail and far out of his element in this place, grasped her by the shoulders to keep her upright.
“So sorry,” she said as her gaze collided with eyes the same smoky gray as a Colorado winter sky.
A jolt of recognition hit her. She had looked into those eyes before. How could that be?
The mountain man said nothing, but his grip remained firm, his stance unwavering. When he released her, Anna stumbled backward. Once again the stranger saved her from landing anywhere but on her feet, this time by wrapping his arm around her back and hauling her against him.
Anna looked up. The vantage point was familiar, as was the feel of muscle beneath rough cotton. The stranger, his face covered with a month’s growth of whiskers, looked down. He had saved her from hitting the floor, but he couldn’t save her from her shaking knees.
Or from losing her brand-new hat in the scuffle. She looked down at the creation, its feathers hopelessly ruined by the oversized boot that had stomped it nearly flat.
The mountain man gently released her, though his palm remained at her waist as he reached down to sweep up the remains of her hat and offer it to her. “My apologies, ma’am.”
That voice. She knew it, had heard it yesterday morning at the river when it bristled the air with words of surprise then made quick amends by soothing her fear that she’d done him in with her panicked shooting.
Anna stared at the man’s midsection.
Him
. It had to be.
Anna braved another glance at his face and found the scar on his chin. The lobby began to spin. “You.”
She blinked hard, remembering what lay under the layers of clothing, the damage her Smith & Wesson had done.
Looking for a way—for words—to right the wrong she had inflicted on him, she pressed her hand against the spot where she’d drawn blood. His quick intake of breath told her she’d either shockedthe poor man or hurt him once again. Even through her glove she could feel the bandage.
His hand covered hers, and she froze. Her gaze trailed up the length of him, darting across a shirt that deserved to be thrown in the rubbish bin rather than washed one more time, up the tanned skin of his neck. Finally she met his gaze. The mountain man lifted her hand and held it, then released her.
The man she’d shot.
The room tilted and faded away.
When Anna snapped back to herself a few seconds later, she realized the mountain man had once again saved her from falling. Somehow, he’d also managed to remove her from the middle of the Windsor Hotel. From the humiliation of being seen foolishly fainting over some strange man.
He’d tucked her into a curtained alcove off the main lobby, where a hallway likely meant for employees lay hidden. Anna found the
is
Mitchell, isn’t it?” She paused to enjoy his obvious discomfort. “For a journalist to bend the truth—well, perish the thought.”
“All right, then.” He sighed heavily, then made a great show of bowing before her. When he straightened, the amusement had returned to his face. “Miss Finch, I intended neither to offend nor to upset your delicate sensibilities in any way.” He paused and glanced around the lobby before his gaze met hers. “I am asking your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it, wretch that I am. Would you do me the great and glorious honor of accepting my apology?”
When she merely crossed her arms in response, unwilling to let him get away with mocking her yet again, the awful man fell to his knees. All around her, people stopped to stare. Some whispered comments to companions while others merely indicated displeasure with a raised brow or a frown. Still others seemed amused.
“Get up this instant,” she demanded. “You’re making a scene.”
“Forgive me, Miss Finch!” Mitchell cried loudly. “I beg you!”
Wishing she’d just ignored him from the moment he appeared, Anna turned to flee and slammed into a wall of buckskin and brawn. The man, obviously fresh off the trail and far out of his element in this place, grasped her by the shoulders to keep her upright.
“So sorry,” she said as her gaze collided with eyes the same smoky gray as a Colorado winter sky.
A jolt of recognition hit her. She had looked into those eyes before. How could that be?
The mountain man said nothing, but his grip remained firm, his stance unwavering. When he released her, Anna stumbled backward. Once again the stranger saved her from landing anywhere but on her feet, this time by wrapping his arm around her back and hauling her against him.
Anna looked up. The vantage point was familiar, as was the feel of muscle beneath rough cotton. The stranger, his face covered with a month’s growth of whiskers, looked down. He had saved her from hitting the floor, but he couldn’t save her from her shaking knees.
Or from losing her brand-new hat in the scuffle. She looked down at the creation, its feathers hopelessly ruined by the oversized boot that had stomped it nearly flat.
The mountain man gently released her, though his palm remained at her waist as he reached down to sweep up the remains of her hat and offer it to her. “My apologies, ma’am.”
That voice. She knew it, had heard it yesterday morning at the river when it bristled the air with words of surprise then made quick amends by soothing her fear that she’d done him in with her panicked shooting.
Anna stared at the man’s midsection.
Him
. It had to be.
Anna braved another glance at his face and found the scar on his chin. The lobby began to spin. “You.”
She blinked hard, remembering what lay under the layers of clothing, the damage her Smith & Wesson had done.
Looking for a way—for words—to right the wrong she had inflicted on him, she pressed her hand against the spot where she’d drawn blood. His quick intake of breath told her she’d either shockedthe poor man or hurt him once again. Even through her glove she could feel the bandage.
His hand covered hers, and she froze. Her gaze trailed up the length of him, darting across a shirt that deserved to be thrown in the rubbish bin rather than washed one more time, up the tanned skin of his neck. Finally she met his gaze. The mountain man lifted her hand and held it, then released her.
The man she’d shot.
The room tilted and faded away.
When Anna snapped back to herself a few seconds later, she realized the mountain man had once again saved her from falling. Somehow, he’d also managed to remove her from the middle of the Windsor Hotel. From the humiliation of being seen foolishly fainting over some strange man.
He’d tucked her into a curtained alcove off the main lobby, where a hallway likely meant for employees lay hidden. Anna found the
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