Read Online Walking on Air by Catherine Anderson - Free Book Online Page B

against her jewelry case. At a glance, Nan decided Satan himself couldn’t have looked more intimidating. Dressed all in black with a pair of guns riding his hips, this fellow had a dark, threatening air. Broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, he wore clothes that enhanced the well-toned musculature of his body, the gleaming jet of his collar-length hair, the dark-chocolate shimmer of his watchful eyes, and the burnished hue of his skin.
    When he didn’t answer her question, Nan nervously smoothed a hand over her pleated bodice and said, “I offer a fine line of hats, coiffure adornments, jewelry, and—” She broke off and flapped the rag. “Whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure I can show you something of interest.” Preferably the door.
    His face, a striking combination of sharp angles and rugged planes, remained expressionless as he moved his gaze slowly from the tips of her shoes upward, as if he were taking measure of everything about her.
    “I didn’t come in looking for a bauble, Miss Sullivan.”
    Nan’s heart caught. This was her worst fear come true. He
knew
. No one had addressed her by that surname in nearly a decade. She battled a wave of faintness that caused her to catch hold of the shelf just behind her. Oh, dear God, he knew. She stared stupidly at him, unable to think how she should respond. Did he want the contents of her cashbox, and if she gave it to him, would he return again and again to milk her for more funds? Forcing the starch back into her spine, she darted her gaze back to his guns, and an even worse possibility occurred to her.
    “Are y-you a bounty hunter?” she asked shakily.
    His firm yet full mouth tipped into a slight grin that conveyed no warmth. “In a sense, I suppose you might say that. I’m definitely here to collect a bounty, but it isn’t money.”
    Nan felt as if someone had stirred her brains with a wire whisk. Her next words came out somewhere between a whisper and a squeak. “If you don’t want money, then what is it you’re after?”
    “A wife,” he said softly. “And you, Miss Sullivan, are my lady of choice.”

Chapter Four
    A fter a harried morning spent selecting a wedding band and wiring funds to Chicago to retain the services of a Pinkerton agent, Gabe had made a beeline to the saloon, where he’d purchased another jug of rotgut whiskey and slowly sipped two jiggers while he considered how best to handle Nan Hoffman. Creating a winning round with the cards he’d been dealt was a challenge, and in the end, he’d concluded that he couldn’t corner his quarry if he approached her with his hat in hand. Gabe was a man who frightened women off the boardwalk into muddy streets to avoid getting too close to him. To herd Nan Hoffman to a preacher or justice of the peace this afternoon, he had to be ruthless and without conscience. He’d scare her into the middle of next week and marry her before she had a chance to think it through. He didn’t have time for the social niceties. Not that he knew much about them anyhow.
    He’d stridden into her shop with his jaw set, prepared to convince her that he was the meanest, most coldhearted bastard she’d ever met. And judging by the way she was now grinding her backbone into the shelves behind her, had turned white as flour, and dropped her dusting rag, he guessed he’d accomplished his goal. The poor woman’s face was a mask of terror.
    And he felt like a rotten, low-down skunk. This wasn’t fair play, dammit. He knew so many of her secrets—including that her nipples were such a pretty rose pink that they showed through her chemise—that he felt horrible about using the knowledge against her. On the other hand, going to hell wasn’t real high on his list of aspirations, either. This was like facing a gunman in the street, a win-or-lose contest, and Gabe stood to lose far more than Nan if he failed to convince her that her pretty little neck would soon make the acquaintance of a hangman’s noose