Page 59 of The Widow and the Wanted

Her color rises.

“It is wondering whether she knows what she does to a room when she enters it. Whether she knows a man has begun counting the distance between them. Whether she knows he has imagined closing it.”

I step closer, stopping just an inch away. I see the moment she understands me. Worse, I see that she does not step away. I lean in slow. Slow enough for her to stop me. When she doesn’t, I take her face in my hands and kiss her.

The second our mouths meet, I groan into her warmth, tasting her, feeling the slick, plush heat of her lips.

I should stop.

Instead, my arm bands around her waist, and I lift her as if she belongs fitted to me.

Her breath breaks and her hands fly to my shoulders. For a heartbeat she’s weightless in my arms, skirts brushing my thighs, the heat of her pressed against me so fully it steals sense from my head.

I take three steps—two—lifting her backward until her spine meets the cabin wall with a soft thud.

I lean in again, hungry now, the kiss deepening into something with no pride in it.

Her mouth opens under mine, and I take the invitation like I’ve been starving.

Her fingers curl into my hair, and the pull of it makes a sound tear out of me that I swallow against her lips.

I pull back only enough to breathe, forehead hovering near hers, chest heaving.

“That,” she whispers, voice unsteady in a way I have not heard from her before, “was not very prudent.”

“No,” I breathe, and my thumb drags once along her jaw like I cannot help myself. “It was not.”

Her lips part again, like she might say something sharp. Her hands settle against my chest—not pushing, not pulling, simply there, as if she is testing whether I will take too much.

I feel how easily I could.

I stop myself with an effort so sharp it makes my vision spark. I force my hands to loosen at her waist. I set her back on her feet, though every instinct in me protests the distance.

I step back once. Just once.

Her breath is quick. Her cheeks are flushed. She watches me like she can’t decide if she wants to strike me or follow me. Boone’s face flashes through my mind—his claim on the parts of me I don’t give away lightly. And my chest tightens with the knowledge that this is not only mine to take.

I force myself back another step. And I leave her there, flushed and breathing hard, while the fire pops and the cabin creaks, and my whole body screams at me to turn back.

Chapter 17

Boone

The road to town is raw as a skinned knee. Sharp winds whip and lash against my face, numb by the time the last crest rises. The sun rides high at my back as the camp shows itself like a smudge of smoke and timber hunkered in the fog.

Heads turn when I ride in. Stranger. Alone. Winter. What trouble looks like. I keep my face blank and my hand loose near my hip, ready to move.

The general store slaps me with heat the moment I step inside—stove-warm and sour with kerosene. Coffee. Cured meat. Leather. Too many stinks for a small room to rightly hold, and it hits my stomach sharp.

The owner looks me over a spell. Stout in the middle with age on him. Hair worn thin. Friendly eyes—maybe. “You ain’t from ’round here,” he says.

“No,” I say. “I ain’t.”

He studies me another beat, then nods like he files me away. I start picking through what I can haul. He disappears into the back and returns with a bottle he sets on the counter. “Nice bottle of whiskey to keep you warm,” he says, inching it toward me. “What’s your name, son?”

I hesitate. Don’t know why, but I’ve been riding hard, my stomach pulls with hunger, and my limbs are heavy. I keep my mouth shut, picking over some canned goods. We got meat and fat covered for now but there’s no saying what can happen when the cold really takes hold.

Salt. Make the meat last. A pound might do it. Maybe two.