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“No.” For some reason, Naomi wanted to explain. “I’m not at all sweet on Mr. Stiles, though why it’s any of your business, Mr. Morgan, I’m not likely to know. He’s tried to court me. He even talked to Pa. But I’m...well...”
“Well, what, angel?” His voice had softened, and his amber eyes smoked as they gazed into hers.
“I’m not inclined to settle, Mr. Morgan. Most ladies my age are already married, but I—” Why was she telling him this? What did he care that she was holding out for love?
“How old are you, Naomi?”
“I’m—” Her face warmed. “I’m nineteen. I know I’m an old maid. I-I’ve had plenty of chances.”
“I have no doubt of that.” Bobby reached toward her and trailed his finger from her eye to her cheek and down the curve of her jaw line, igniting sparks along the way. “You sure are pretty.”
Her mouth gaped. She knew she was pretty. She’d heard it often enough over the years. But when Bobby Morgan said it she felt like Helen of Troy, beautiful enough to start a war.
Bobby brushed back some wisps of dark hair that had escaped from her bun during the long ride. Again, his touch seared her and her breathing grew shallow.
“Why do you wear your hair like this?”
“B-Because it’s the proper way for a woman of my age to coif herself, Mr. Morgan.”
Bobby shook his head. “It’s so severe. I’m hardly an expert, but there are lots of styles that would flatter you more.” He curled a lock around his finger. “And you’d look the best with it down, hanging around your shoulders in soft waves.”
Naomi tried to speak, but her words caught. He was touching her hair, a sinful liberty, and instead of being shocked, all she could think about was how his silky brown locks would feel between her fingers. She cleared her throat. “That would hardly suit me.”
Bobby reached behind her and fiddled with her hairpins. She swatted his hand away.
“Mr. Morgan!”
“Please, angel, call me Bobby.” He smiled. “I promised you I wouldn’t harm you, and I won’t. I just want to take your hair down. You don’t plan to sleep like that, do you?”
She tossed her head and harrumphed. “Perhaps I will.”
“Have it your way, then.” He lifted his lips in a lazy half-smile and patted the revolver in his holster. “I’m going to see if I can snag us a rabbit. Will you be fine here for a little while?”
“Of course.” She blinked as her eyes shied away from him.
“I’ll do the best I can, though without my shotgun...”
He ambled off, whistling a lively tune she didn’t recognize. One he’d no doubt heard in a saloon. She frowned.
But the frown ceased when her tummy rumbled. She headed back to the raspberry bush but knew the sugary fruit wouldn’t satisfy her. She salivated at the image of a fat jackrabbit roasting over a campfire. The smoky aroma, the juicy meat...
She crammed berries into her mouth, the juice dribbling down her chin. Her ma had chided her about her appetite since she was little, but Naomi couldn’t help it. She liked food. She liked to eat.
Please, God, let him get a rabbit.
Chapter Three
“Exactly what else do you carry in your boots, Mr. Morgan?” Naomi asked as she bit into a rabbit leg.
Damn, that girl liked to eat. She’d matched him bite for bite so far. Watching her enjoy the meat made skinning it with that dull razor worth all the effort. He shook his head and grinned. If she weren’t a preacher’s daughter, and if he hadn’t kidnapped her, and if he weren’t a no good bounty hunter without a heart who was wanted for murder...
Bobby wiped the slate clean in his brain. Such thoughts had no place.
“Whatever I might need,” he said.
Her giggle warmed him. He hadn’t heard her laugh before, and a musical sound it was.
“I’m certainly glad you thought to carry matches down there. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be enjoying this wonderful meal.”
