The Bounty Hunter and the Heiress. Carol Finch

Raven plopped on the bed and helped himself to another drink. Five minutes later a quiet rap on the door prompted him to reach for his six-shooter. Hell, now what? he wondered. Considering the possibility of Buster Flanders’s kinfolk gunning for him, plus a few others along the way who had vowed revenge, Raven adhered to his motto. Stay alert or die. It was the code of the Cheyenne and of the wilderness. Carelessness got a man killed in a hurry.

      Raven came silently to his feet. “Who is it?”

      No one answered so he eased up beside the door again. There had been times when outlaws had shot through doors, hoping he was standing in front of them. Raven never faced a door directly.

      When the quiet rap came again, Raven snapped open the door, grabbed the unwanted guest by the throat then jerked him inside. A gurgling yelp erupted from the kid in the oversize hat and jacket. Snarling, Raven slammed the kid’s thin shoulders against the wall and loomed threateningly over him. If the widow had hired this brat then Raven vowed to scare the bejeezus out of him and send him running back to the widow.

      “You’re messing with the wrong man, brat,” Raven growled viciously. “Get the hell out of here and don’t come back or I’ll gut your carcass and throw it to the wolves.”

      The kid’s chocolate-brown eyes widened then narrowed in annoyance. Raven didn’t usually have trouble with his scare tactics, but the kid boldly reached up with a gloved hand to pry his fingers—one at a time—from his neck.

      “Back off, you buzzard. I came here to hire you and I can pay good money for your services.”

      The kid’s voice sounded feminine and Raven squinted to appraise the shadowed face beneath the wide-brim hat. When he used the barrel of his pistol to knock off the kid’s hat, a cascade of curly auburn hair tumbled free. The woman was young. Twenty-two or twenty-three, he guessed. Despite her smudged cheeks, she was stunningly attractive. Although her thick-lashed eyes were her most striking feature, her Cupid’s bow lips drew his rapt fascination.

      “Are you the Flanders widow?” he asked, refusing to unhand her until he knew how much of a threat she posed.

      “No. I’m the angel of doom who wants a lying, cheating sidewinder of a man hunted down,” she replied.

      It had been three months since Raven had been anywhere close to a woman. Staring at this woman’s lush lips had him wondering what she tasted like. As good as she looked? He was certain of it.

      Before he became sidetracked, he shook off the lusty thought. No matter how deprived he had been, his survival instincts always prevailed. Always. He trusted only half of what he saw and even less of what he was told. This mysterious female was no different, lovely though she was.

      The wary thought provoked him to clamp his hand around her throat again…in case this was a ruse. The woman coughed then glared at him for cutting off the air in her windpipe. He eased off enough to let her catch her breath.

      “Nice to meet you, too, J. D. Raven,” she sniped. “Kindly move away. I didn’t come here to shoot you. Only to hire you.”

      “I’m at a disadvantage here. Who the hell are you?”

      She looked him up and down and said, “You? At a disadvantage? Rarely, I suspect. I’ve heard that you’re the best in the business. Judging by our unique introduction, you seem to be prepared for anything.”

      “Everything. There’s a difference,” he corrected. “You didn’t answer my question, Miss…? Mrs…?”

      He arched a brow when she refused to fill in the blank. Instead, she made herself at home by walking over to plant herself in the middle of his modestly furnished room.

      “I’m glad to see the room is tidy and clean. Good. A guest has every right to expect the comforts of home,” she commented.

      He disregarded her odd remark and studied her closely. She possessed the regal bearing of nobility, but she didn’t flash the aloof smiles he usually attributed to the privileged class of white society. Her unconventional style of clothing indicated that she wasn’t afraid to be different. Yet, she didn’t bear the hard lines of living that he noticed on the faces of women who supported themselves on their backs.

      In addition, she possessed exceptional courage or she wouldn’t be here alone with him, for fear of damaging her reputation. There wasn’t a hint of fear in her dark eyes, only critical assessment and the sparkle of persistence. In addition, she stood up for herself and stood up to him in a way few people dared. He unwillingly admired that about her.

      “Who do you want tracked down?” he asked as he set aside his six-shooter. “An unfaithful husband or fiancé? And what do you want done to him when I find him?”

      “Shooting his legs out from under him would be good for starters,” she replied. “But he isn’t my husband or fiancé. I don’t have either one. As I recently reminded my sister, men best serve the purpose of a target for shooting practice.”

      Raven squelched the makings of a smile when he realized she was perfectly serious. “You’re a man-hater, I take it.”

      She shrugged noncommittally. “What will it cost me to hire you and when can you start this private manhunt?”

      “You can’t afford me and I’m taking time off.” He hitched his thumb toward the door. “Nice meeting you. Close the door on your way out.”

      She didn’t take the hint, just stood there staring at him with the confidence of one seasoned gunfighter bearing down on another.

      Who the hell was this woman? he asked himself again. “Bold and determined” only began to describe her. The fact that she had come alone to confront him when most folks in polite society shied away from him was nothing short of astounding. His mixed heritage and his deadly profession usually worked like a repellant.

      How desperate was this female? What had the man she wanted apprehended done to provoke her relentless fury?

      When he walked over to grab her arm and escort her to the door she set her booted feet and jerked away from him.

      “I’m not leaving, J.D. Get used to the idea.”

      Her challenging stare and the determined tilt of her chin surprised and impressed him. He’d never shared a conversation like this one with a woman. Brief small talk before and after a tumble on the sheets was the extent of his association with women. This female was a novel—but annoying—experience and he wanted her gone. Intimidating her seemed to be the only effective method of shooing her on her way.

      He scooped up the whiskey bottle and offered her a drink—which she turned down with a distasteful shake of her auburn head. Then he gestured toward the bed. “If you aren’t leaving then disrobe and climb in. We’ll negotiate the terms of our agreement later.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

      He could tell right away that he’d offended her. Hell, he could practically see steam rolling from her ears.

      “That’s what you want for your fee?” she snapped, disgusted. “All dealings between a man and woman are to be resolved in bed? You are an ass, J.D.”

      “I’ve been called much worse. And it’s just Raven,” he replied, undaunted.

      In his effort to route her from his room he removed his shirt and tossed it toward the towel rack on the washstand. When he reached for the clasp to the double holsters that held his ivory-handled Colts, she didn’t blink, just held her ground as the weapons clanked on the floor. Raven unfastened the top two buttons on the placket of his breeches and smiled wickedly.

      She stared at his bare chest then at his gaping trousers, before raising her gaze to meet his challenging grin.

      “You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered.

      “I’ve dared plenty in my life. More than you have, I suspect. So how far do you plan to go with this game of chicken?” He shoved his breeches a little farther down his hips. “All the way…?”