The Widowed Bride. Elizabeth Lane

his boot, but it skittered down a crack in the planking and disappeared.

      The woman’s knees sagged. Ethan readied his arms to catch her in a faint, but she righted herself as if by force of will. Snatching up the discarded blouse, she thrust her arms into the sleeves, pushed the remaining buttons through their holes and tucked the hem into the waist of her skirt. Only when she was as presentable as she could make herself did she turn back to face him. Her face was pale, but her ripe lips managed a smile.

      “We haven’t been properly introduced,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Ruby Rumford. I just bought this place, and I’m very much in your debt.”

      “Ethan Beaudry. Happy I could be of help, ma’am.” Ethan accepted her handshake. Her fingers were strong and smooth, her manner so genuine that it made him want to cringe in self-disgust. Only a low-down snake would lie to such a woman. But that was exactly what he was about to do.

      Starting now.

      Ethan Beaudry.

      Ruby turned the name over in her mind like a child examining a pebble. She liked the sound of it, and the way it suited everything about him—dark, rugged features, a rangy body and a drawl you could cut with a butter knife.

      She remembered how he’d caught her in his arms and lowered her to the floor, paying no heed to the sparks their bodies had ignited on the way down. Ruby understood men well enough to know that some things couldn’t be helped. But she’d been surprised at her own response to that brief contact. It had been so many years since she’d experienced anything good with a man, she’d forgotten what it felt like.

      Sliding down the front of Ethan Beaudry had sent a shock of pleasure all the way to her toes.

      But what was she thinking? With Hollis gone barely a year, the last thing she needed was another man in her life. She had a future to forge and two daughters to raise. And she had her own shattered sense of self to rebuild. After what she’d been through, she was no longer fit to be any man’s sweetheart, lover or wife. Maybe she never would be.

      She was damaged goods—damaged to the roots of her soul.

      “I’m sorry I can’t offer you something to drink.” She glanced toward the front door. Ethan realized it was his cue to leave. But he wasn’t ready to walk out on what might be his best chance to learn more about her.

      “You say you just bought this property?” He righted the chair, inviting her to sit.

      “Yes. I signed the papers two days ago.” She sat on the edge of the seat, clasping her fingers in her lap. “I’ll be open for boarders as soon as I get the place cleaned up—if the spiders will let me.” Her edgy little laugh deepened the dimples in her cheeks. Ethan swore silently. Why did she have to be so damn appealing?

      “Don’t you have anyone to help you?” he asked.

      “Nobody that I can afford to pay. My brother offered to come, but I didn’t want to impose on him.” She glanced down at her hands, then met his eyes again. Her long lashes were the color of molasses taffy. “How was it you were able to hear me and rush right in, Mr. Beaudry? You must have been close by.”

      “Please call me Ethan. And yes, I was out for some morning air, just passing this place when I heard you. It was pure luck.”

      Lie number one. Ethan had been keeping an eye on the vacant boarding house since his arrival a week ago. The recent passage of the Eighteenth Amendment, outlawing the manufacture, transportation and selling of alcohol for consumption, had spawned an epidemic of illegal whiskey stills and a network of criminal activity. The U.S. Marshals Service had been assigned the job of law enforcement in this matter.

      The back cellar of the hitherto-empty boardinghouse was a suspected drop-off spot for illegal moonshine whiskey, to be loaded onto trucks and hauled away for clandestine sale in places like Denver, Omaha and Kansas City. Ethan had seen tire tracks and boot prints leading around the building though he had yet to catch anyone in the act. But identifying the deliverymen wasn’t why he’d come to Dutchman’s Creek. He was after the boss who was running the operation, not his errand boys.

      Which led to the question of the scrumptious widow Rumford. If she’d been placed here to provide a safe link between buyers and sellers, then she was as dangerous as a spitting cobra. But if she’d bought the old boardinghouse in complete innocence, heaven help her, she could be in more peril than she knew.

      “So, what is it you do?” she asked.

      Ethan’s cover story, devised by some pencil pusher in the head office, was well rehearsed. “I’m a history professor, taking a year’s leave to write a book about Colorado. This town struck me as a peaceful place to settle down for a few months and concentrate on my work.”

      Lie number two. Blatant, but necessary.

      She studied him, one delicate eyebrow arching upward. “So you’re new in town? I must say, you don’t look like a professor.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Ethan leaned against a dusty sideboard, his mind working. Having stumbled into this situation, he’d be a fool not to put it to use.

      “I have a business proposition for you,” he said. “Right now I’m staying at the hotel. But it’s expensive and noisier than I’d like. I know you need help and that you can’t afford to pay for it. Would you be open to my moving in here and lending you a hand—say, in exchange for my first week’s room and board?”

      Emotions played across her face as she weighed his offer. Ethan could pretty well guess what was going on in that lovely head. He was a stranger, and they’d be spending time alone together. Would she be safe with him? Would her reputation suffer from his presence?

      Then again, he could be wrong. Ruby Rumford could have dark motives of her own. If she suspected he was lying and wanted to trap him, he might already be in trouble. But that was a chance he’d have to take.

      “I’d be happy to work for the pleasure of helping a lady,” he added. “But something tells me, if you wouldn’t accept free help from your brother you wouldn’t accept it from me. This arrangement would be fair, and it could work well for both of us. So, do we have a deal?”

      Hesitation flickered in her eyes. Her amply curved bosom strained the fabric of her blouse as she took a deep breath. “You could have your choice of the rooms. But your meals would be a problem at first. I won’t be able to cook until the kitchen’s set up.”

      “I can make do until then. The food at the hotel is all right, but I’ll confess I’ve been hankering for some good old-fashioned home cooking.”

      “Then I suppose we have a deal, as you say.” Her smile wavered as she stood. “Come on, I’ll show you the rooms.”

      She led the way up the wooden stairs, giving him the pleasure of following behind. With each step, the fabric of her narrow khaki skirt molded to her buttocks, setting his fantasies ablaze. He imagined his hands cupping those rounded moons as he thrust deep between her legs into her tight, wet warmth, pushing toward that instant of blessed release.

      Would she be willing to play by his rules—no messy emotions, no promises, no tears when he walked away for good? A man could never be sure of such things. But a woman like Ruby, delectable, mature and unattached, would certainly know the game. At the very least, he could have a hell of a good time teaching her.

      Damn!

      Ethan brought himself up with a mental slap. He was here to break up a bootlegging ring, not seduce his luscious landlady. If Ruby proved to be involved with the smugglers, he could end up hauling her pretty ass to jail. He’d be smart to remember that when his mind strayed below his belt.

      But meanwhile, there was nothing wrong with enjoying the view.

      The four upstairs rooms were of equal size, with a common bathroom off the central hallway. The plumbing had been added after the house was built and was crude at best. But at least the place had a flush toilet and a tub with