face toward his. “My past is my past, and not open for discussion. Especially considering I’m here to save your drunk ass from a bunch of scalpers. We clear?”
The man nodded, eyes glazed with pain.
“Good.” He landed the final blow on the miner’s temple, rendering the man unconscious. As he stood, heart racing and lungs heaving, he noticed the saloon had gone silent. Even the pianist and the whore in blue had ceased their performance to watch him in nervous question.
Reaching for the whiskey he’d abandoned on the counter, he tossed it back and sighed at the familiar, smoky burn as it warmed his gullet. He nodded to the patrons of the Ruby Saloon and strode through the swinging doors, out into the night air enveloping the boardwalk.
He stopped short at the sight of a wide-eyed Moira Tully, whose pretty pink mouth hung slightly open as she stared at him. “Mr. Crawford,” she breathed, hands twisting in the dark green fabric of her full skirt. Then she bit her bottom lip and swallowed audibly.
His pulse pounded in his ears. He’d been wrong before, absolutely wrong. In this case, violence absolutely begat lust. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to throw her over his shoulder and haul her back to his room.
“Miss Tully.” He barely managed the greeting, closing his eyes briefly as he leaned against a post in order to block out the sight of her, though there wasn’t anything provocative in the least about her attire.
It was just her. She provoked him.
“You’re bleeding.”
He opened his eyes and drank her in. For some reason, she was better, more intoxicating than the whiskey he’d downed seconds earlier. “I am.” He knew it, could feel it. His head throbbed painfully.
“Quite a lot, actually.”
He grunted, not knowing what to say to that. He should go clean up, he knew he should, but he wanted to stand here a bit longer and stare at her, provocative little thing that she was.
She cleared her throat. “I liked your right hook.”
At that moment, his hat, lost inside during the fight, came sailing over the top of the swinging doors and fell neatly between them. And thank God he had something new to stare at, because at those five short words from her cheekily grinning mouth, he’d already started reaching for her.
Propriety be damned.
Chapter Nine
“You have a choice here, Mr. Crawford.” Moira strove for a reasonable tone, but it was difficult, with her pulse jumping after the display of brawn she’d just witnessed. “You can either come to my cabin or take me to your room.”
“ What? ” he rasped, his eyes widening perceptibly as he leaned against the newel post outside the saloon. His chest rose and fell heavily with each harsh breath he inhaled.
“I said, you can either— Oh. Oh.” That had sounded…not as she intended. Heat climbed into her cheeks. “What I meant was, someone needs to see to your face, and it might as well be me. So…” she swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat, “…it’s your decision where I tend you.” And she would tend him. If she could count one good thing from the war, it was that it had taught her how to fix up a body nearly as well as a trained physician. In the hospital in Boston, she’d turned tending into an art, though that art was sorely out of practice here in Red Creek.
The way he looked at her took the starch right out of her knees. Sometime during the fight he’d lost the hat that had just sailed over the doors, and hanks of dark hair fell haphazardly over his brow and into his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from penetrating her with an assessing green gaze designed to almost make her reconsider her initial statement and wish she had meant what he took from her offer. Almost.
She stood close enough to him on the boardwalk that she could feel the heat coming off him in palpable waves. The faint scent of sweat, of male exertion, hung between them in the cool mountain air.
Nervousness had her
The man nodded, eyes glazed with pain.
“Good.” He landed the final blow on the miner’s temple, rendering the man unconscious. As he stood, heart racing and lungs heaving, he noticed the saloon had gone silent. Even the pianist and the whore in blue had ceased their performance to watch him in nervous question.
Reaching for the whiskey he’d abandoned on the counter, he tossed it back and sighed at the familiar, smoky burn as it warmed his gullet. He nodded to the patrons of the Ruby Saloon and strode through the swinging doors, out into the night air enveloping the boardwalk.
He stopped short at the sight of a wide-eyed Moira Tully, whose pretty pink mouth hung slightly open as she stared at him. “Mr. Crawford,” she breathed, hands twisting in the dark green fabric of her full skirt. Then she bit her bottom lip and swallowed audibly.
His pulse pounded in his ears. He’d been wrong before, absolutely wrong. In this case, violence absolutely begat lust. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to throw her over his shoulder and haul her back to his room.
“Miss Tully.” He barely managed the greeting, closing his eyes briefly as he leaned against a post in order to block out the sight of her, though there wasn’t anything provocative in the least about her attire.
It was just her. She provoked him.
“You’re bleeding.”
He opened his eyes and drank her in. For some reason, she was better, more intoxicating than the whiskey he’d downed seconds earlier. “I am.” He knew it, could feel it. His head throbbed painfully.
“Quite a lot, actually.”
He grunted, not knowing what to say to that. He should go clean up, he knew he should, but he wanted to stand here a bit longer and stare at her, provocative little thing that she was.
She cleared her throat. “I liked your right hook.”
At that moment, his hat, lost inside during the fight, came sailing over the top of the swinging doors and fell neatly between them. And thank God he had something new to stare at, because at those five short words from her cheekily grinning mouth, he’d already started reaching for her.
Propriety be damned.
Chapter Nine
“You have a choice here, Mr. Crawford.” Moira strove for a reasonable tone, but it was difficult, with her pulse jumping after the display of brawn she’d just witnessed. “You can either come to my cabin or take me to your room.”
“ What? ” he rasped, his eyes widening perceptibly as he leaned against the newel post outside the saloon. His chest rose and fell heavily with each harsh breath he inhaled.
“I said, you can either— Oh. Oh.” That had sounded…not as she intended. Heat climbed into her cheeks. “What I meant was, someone needs to see to your face, and it might as well be me. So…” she swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat, “…it’s your decision where I tend you.” And she would tend him. If she could count one good thing from the war, it was that it had taught her how to fix up a body nearly as well as a trained physician. In the hospital in Boston, she’d turned tending into an art, though that art was sorely out of practice here in Red Creek.
The way he looked at her took the starch right out of her knees. Sometime during the fight he’d lost the hat that had just sailed over the doors, and hanks of dark hair fell haphazardly over his brow and into his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from penetrating her with an assessing green gaze designed to almost make her reconsider her initial statement and wish she had meant what he took from her offer. Almost.
She stood close enough to him on the boardwalk that she could feel the heat coming off him in palpable waves. The faint scent of sweat, of male exertion, hung between them in the cool mountain air.
Nervousness had her
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