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Authors: Kelly Boyce
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“Last April. Did—” He hesitated. He really didn’t want to discuss this, especially not in front of Jenny. “Did he say why?”
She made a face. “I’m not sure. I could barely make him out with that heavy accent. I spent a lot of time smiling and nodding.”
Connor issued a silent thank you for Milo’s European heritage.
Kate set the dishes on the counter and pumped water into the tin washbasin on the counter. Connor watched her move about the kitchen, confident and capable now that she had something to do. And too damn pretty while she was doing it.
He wished he could have hired a woman far less pleasing to the eye, perhaps one with hair on her chin and a wart growing out of the side of her nose. Older too, with enough extra padding on her person so that every movement she made didn’t draw his attention to the lithe form beneath her dress, teasing him with thoughts he didn’t need, or want, to be having.
Connor exhaled slowly and concentrated on the coffee cup he’d pulled into his hands. His fingers tapped against the warm curve of the earthenware mug. He should have stuck to his guns and let Garrett Bentley hire her. At least then she’d be someone else’s problem and not his. And that’s what she would be—a problem. He could feel it in his bones with shocking clarity. Kate Stockdale had trouble stamped all over that delectable little body in big bold letters.
“Sheriff, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
Connor gave himself a mental shake. “Sorry, no.”
“I asked where you were before returning to Fatal Bluff.” She walked to the stove and lightly touched the kettle, testing its warmth.
He tried to keep his focus fixed on the table, but every time she moved it would stray in her direction. The yellow calico caught the light, swishing and swirling about her legs. The length appeared shorter than he’d seen other women wear, and every now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of her stockings. Stockings encased in the ugliest pair of boots he’d ever seen. Flat heeled, scuffed and worn thin in some spots, they looked more like something he’d see one of the poor Patterson boys wearing as they schlepped about town begging for work to support their pa’s drinking habit.
Why would someone with Kate Stockdale’s background be wearing boots like that?
Connor cleared his throat and lassoed his thoughts, dragging them away from Kate’s legs and forcibly back to her question. “Nevada, for a bit. Arizona Territory a while after that.”
“Were you the sheriff down there too?” She poured water into the basin. Once filled, she rolled up her sleeves, exposing her skin from wrist to elbow.
Connor started. Smooth, supple skin. Oliver Hewitt’s words echoed in his memory. He angled his body to get a better look before she plunged her hands into the water. Not a burn scar in sight.
Perhaps they were hidden elsewhere.
His gaze drifted slowly over the soft curves of her body and he tried to imagine where the scars were. She glanced over her shoulder and he flushed. “Uh, no. Bounty hunting, mostly.” He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair, determined that was the last time he would look at her. “How long ago did your parents pass away?”
A dish clanged against the metal ridge of the basin and toppled into the water with a splash. His determination fled and his gaze flew back to her. Kate’s shoulders went rigid.
Connor winced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He silently cursed his stupidity. It had been so long since he’d lost both his parents, the rawness of their passing had been tempered and softened by time and fond memories.
“No, no, that’s fine,” she said quickly, shooting him a forced smile over her shoulder. She picked up the dish and turned back to her task. “It…uh…it was a little while ago. A year or so.”
Or so . Her choice of words struck him as odd for something so significant. He could never forget the date
She made a face. “I’m not sure. I could barely make him out with that heavy accent. I spent a lot of time smiling and nodding.”
Connor issued a silent thank you for Milo’s European heritage.
Kate set the dishes on the counter and pumped water into the tin washbasin on the counter. Connor watched her move about the kitchen, confident and capable now that she had something to do. And too damn pretty while she was doing it.
He wished he could have hired a woman far less pleasing to the eye, perhaps one with hair on her chin and a wart growing out of the side of her nose. Older too, with enough extra padding on her person so that every movement she made didn’t draw his attention to the lithe form beneath her dress, teasing him with thoughts he didn’t need, or want, to be having.
Connor exhaled slowly and concentrated on the coffee cup he’d pulled into his hands. His fingers tapped against the warm curve of the earthenware mug. He should have stuck to his guns and let Garrett Bentley hire her. At least then she’d be someone else’s problem and not his. And that’s what she would be—a problem. He could feel it in his bones with shocking clarity. Kate Stockdale had trouble stamped all over that delectable little body in big bold letters.
“Sheriff, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
Connor gave himself a mental shake. “Sorry, no.”
“I asked where you were before returning to Fatal Bluff.” She walked to the stove and lightly touched the kettle, testing its warmth.
He tried to keep his focus fixed on the table, but every time she moved it would stray in her direction. The yellow calico caught the light, swishing and swirling about her legs. The length appeared shorter than he’d seen other women wear, and every now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of her stockings. Stockings encased in the ugliest pair of boots he’d ever seen. Flat heeled, scuffed and worn thin in some spots, they looked more like something he’d see one of the poor Patterson boys wearing as they schlepped about town begging for work to support their pa’s drinking habit.
Why would someone with Kate Stockdale’s background be wearing boots like that?
Connor cleared his throat and lassoed his thoughts, dragging them away from Kate’s legs and forcibly back to her question. “Nevada, for a bit. Arizona Territory a while after that.”
“Were you the sheriff down there too?” She poured water into the basin. Once filled, she rolled up her sleeves, exposing her skin from wrist to elbow.
Connor started. Smooth, supple skin. Oliver Hewitt’s words echoed in his memory. He angled his body to get a better look before she plunged her hands into the water. Not a burn scar in sight.
Perhaps they were hidden elsewhere.
His gaze drifted slowly over the soft curves of her body and he tried to imagine where the scars were. She glanced over her shoulder and he flushed. “Uh, no. Bounty hunting, mostly.” He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair, determined that was the last time he would look at her. “How long ago did your parents pass away?”
A dish clanged against the metal ridge of the basin and toppled into the water with a splash. His determination fled and his gaze flew back to her. Kate’s shoulders went rigid.
Connor winced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He silently cursed his stupidity. It had been so long since he’d lost both his parents, the rawness of their passing had been tempered and softened by time and fond memories.
“No, no, that’s fine,” she said quickly, shooting him a forced smile over her shoulder. She picked up the dish and turned back to her task. “It…uh…it was a little while ago. A year or so.”
Or so . Her choice of words struck him as odd for something so significant. He could never forget the date
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