Susan Amarillas - Wyoming Renegade

An hour later, he’d learned that Gibson had quit a couple of months ago and that he had been seen around town with two men fitting the descriptions of Larson and Cordell.

Okay, so, at least he was on the right track, though the image of a mousy bank clerk as a murderer didn’t fit.

Josh had asked questions at the mercantile, and at the livery when he’d stabled his horse for the night. Everywhere, he’d gotten the same answer: Gibson was gone and no one knew where. North, someone had said, and though “north” was a helluva big place, it was a start.

Josh would find him if it took a week, a month, a year. The man couldn’t hide forever, and since he didn’t know Josh was on his trail, odds were he wouldn’t cover his tracks. It was only a matter of time, Josh promised himself. Only time. He had that.

Feeling reassured, or at least resolute, he headed for the hotel. That bed and bath were sounding better and better.

The hotel was called the Palace, like a hundred others scattered from San Francisco to St. Jo. This particular palace was two stories of white clapboard with forest green shutters. The glass panes in the double front doors were clean enough to reflect the red-orange glow of the setting sun.

Saddlebags slung over his shoulder, and carrying his rifles and shotgun, Josh walked into the lobby. It was small and clean—a good sign. The walls were covered in flowered wallpaper, red roses and green vines. Not his taste, but then, it wasn’t his hotel.

A staircase led to the second floor. Off to the right he noticed a small dining room, the tables empty but set for dinner—calico tablecloths and white china. The definite scent of fresh bread baking made his mouth water. Yep, dinner in the dining room tonight. Something that hadn’t been cooked over a camp fire, something he didn’t have to cook himself.

He put the arsenal he was packing on the dark pine counter and, seeing no one around, he rang the small brass bell next to the desk register.

A man appeared through the door off to the left. “Afternoon,” he said, his thin face wreathed in a crooked-toothed smile.

He was of medium height and medium build with medium brown hair—about as ordinary as you can get, Josh thought. His white shirt was open at the collar, and his dark blue pants were shiny from one too many pressings.

“Room, please,” Josh said with confidence, his half-breed status never an issue with him. Since he was dressed in range clothes—not Indian garb—most people never inquired, and he never clarified.

The clerk flopped the book open, spun it around, then pointed to a place halfway down the page for Josh to sign. “Will you be staying long?”

“One night, I think.” Josh spotted the inkwell, but there was no pen in sight. “Pen?”

“What? Oh…” Startled, the clerk glanced around the counter, lifting the register as if he thought the errant pen was hiding there. “Where the devil…” He checked the small shelf behind him and, not finding it, turned away. “If you’ll just wait a minute.” He was already heading back through the door.

Josh sighed. All he wanted was to get settled. He wanted to stretch out on something more forgiving than hard earth sprinkled with rocks that always ended up directly under his aching spine.

He thrummed his fingers impatiently on the gleaming counter surface and was about to go hunt up the man when a banging on the front doors made him turn.

“What the-”

One door crashed open. The glass rattled dangerously. The hinges creaked from swinging a bit too far.

A woman half stumbled, half walked through the opening. She was loaded down with two oversize carpetbags and a wicker traveling case. She was so busy trying to keep her hold on the bags she obviously didn’t notice him, but he noticed her all right.

In a heartbeat he took her in. She was slender, a little too slender for his taste, but tall. He was partial to tall women. She was wearing green, the color of willow leaves. Her skirt was full, her jacket short, with a pale yellow shirtwaist underneath. She had light hair, sort of honey colored. It looked soft where it peeked out around the battered old Stetson she was wearing, though only God knows why she’d chosen to cover up such a glorious attribute.

She had her head turned so he couldn’t really see her face, but he did see one carpetbag take a nosedive for the floor about the same time she said, “Oh, no!”

A couple of long strides and he was there. “Let me help you,” he said, snatching up one bag and reaching to take the others from her, his hand naturally covering hers as he did so.

She angled her head up to look at him, and he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, dark and luminous like a high mountain lake.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips breathlessly parted, and her eyes, those wondrous blue eyes, were wide with excitement. She looked tousled and wild, like a woman fresh from a very lucky man’s bed, he thought, his own lust stirring.

You’ve been too long without a woman, Colter.

For the span of two heartbeats, neither of them moved, then, as though they’d both been hit with the same bucket of ice water, they abruptly straightened, nearly banging heads in the process. Each gave an awkward chuckle.

She slipped her hand free of his, her skin velvet smooth against his palm. He kept hold of the carpetbag, though he’d rather have held on to the lady.

He did the gentlemanly thing and relieved her of the other luggage. His father had taught him good manners at an early age.

Alex turned a wary gaze on this stranger who had rushed to her rescue. Tall and dark, at first glance he looked every inch the outlaw, from his overly long hair to his dust-covered clothes, to the way a pistol hung low on his hip.

His face was all chiseled angles and smooth curves, high cheekbones and a straight nose. But it was his eyes that held her attention, midnight black with a restlessness that intrigued and frightened at the same time.

Maybe it was the artist in her that was making her stare—maybe it was simply the woman.

She sucked in a breath, straightened and cleared her throat. Somebody better say something, she figured, so she muttered her thanks, at least she thought that was what she said, she wasn’t altogether sure.

She managed a smile that fell a little short of true confidence. “Thank you, Mr….”

“Josh Colter,” he said with a grin that seemed to touch his lips and his eyes at the same instant. The change was startling. Those trembly nerves of hers moved up the scale to pulsing.

“Well, then, Mr. Colter, if you would accompany me to the desk?” Her voice sounded off, formal, but at least she had put a coherent sentence together.

“I’m yours to command,” he replied, wicked grin firmly in place. He hefted the baggage to a more comfortable position under his arms.

“You know, Mr. Colter—” she spoke as she walked “—a man could get himself into trouble being this forward.”

“Forward? Really?” His expression was all boyish innocence. “How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, coming to a halt at the front desk. “A husband, for example, might take exception to a man flirting with his wife.”

His smile faltered, but he recovered so quickly she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been looking right at him. She saw his gaze flick to her left hand, which was covered with a leather glove. This time she did keep her smile in check.

“And is there a husband I should be concerned about?” His tone indicated absolutely no misgiving at all. And, judging by the arsenal displayed on the counter, he was a man who could take care of himself in any situation, including going toe-to-toe with an irate husband.