Heaven with a Gun by Connie Brockway Read Free Book Online

to the sound of a masculine groan. Apparently, Jim’s business last night had been with a liquor bottle. There was ample evidence that her Mr. Coyne was a hard-drinking Irishman. Not that he was her Mr. Coyne, she thought sadly, or her anything but a means to an end. The groan turned into a hiss of pain.
    Worriedly, Gilly opened the door and peeked out. He wasn’t sprawled in the disreputable heap she’d expected. He was sitting on the edge of the fainting couch, his back to her, pulling on a clean white shirt. He’d gotten one arm through a sleeve and was cautiously working on the other. The livid bruise marking the thick cap of muscle on top of his shoulders seemed to be giving him trouble. He lifted his arm, got it just high enough to slip in, and gave a muted groan.
    “What happened to you?” Gilly asked.
    His head snapped around, and she could see a slight discoloration on his chin. Then his lovely pasque flower-blue eyes narrowed and he jerked the shirt the rest of the way on, turning his back to do so.
    A modest man. Who’d have imagined such a species existed? The thought made her smile.
    “Chrissake, Gilly, get something on!”
    He’d called her Gilly. Her smile broadened. She ignored his order, sashaying into the room as his hands made deft work of his shirt buttons. “I already have. I’m wearing what is commonly referred to as a ‘morning gown.’ Where’d you get those bruises?”
    His mobile lips scrunched in disgust. “Tommy and his pals were waiting for me when I got back to the main street last night. They’ll be okay,” he assured her, although why he would think she cared about the welfare of Tommy and his nasty “pals” was an utter mystery. “I didn’t hurt them. Much. Course, if their da had used a nice stout rod when the need arose, I doubt they’d be causing so much trouble now.”
    “Your dad use that stout rod much, Mr. Coyne?”
    He grinned, that utterly charming Gaelic lopsided grin that crinkled the corners of his North Sea eyes and made that unnerving dimple appear. “When the need arose.”
    “Did it arise much?”
    He shrugged and stood up. The movement made him grimace and he set his hands on his hips, arcing into the ache, working out the kinks. He looked sore and poorly used, she thought, a sense of empathy following her summation.
    “I have some salve,” she offered. “I always carry it in my saddlebag. A Cheyenne tracker gave it to me.”
    He turned his gorgeous eyes on her again, a touch of pity softening their brilliance. “I bet you need it, what with the life you lead. You must get pretty beat up out there on the range, huh?” He finished buttoning his shirt.
    “Oh, it’s not for me! My gelding is getting up there in years, and sometimes after a long day if I don’t rub him down he’s just no good for—”
    “I am not old,” he broke in through clenched teeth. “I am not a gelding, and I don’t need any of your liniment, lady.”
    So, they were back to “lady.”
    “I was just trying to help.”
    “The only thing I want from you is your story.” He snatched his black silk tie off the table and crouched down so he could look in the little fish-eye mirror hung near the door. Deftly, he flipped the ends into a neat knot. That done, he picked up his brush and attacked his rich, glossy curls, sheer force making them lie flat. As soon as he turned from the mirror they sprang to life. She tried not to smile, and he eyed her suspiciously.
    “You want breakfast first, or do you want to start in on the interview right away?”
    “We can start to work right now if you’d like, Mr. Coyne.”
    “Not with you in that outfit, we can’t.” He made a disparaging gesture at her dressing gown, and to her chagrin she felt herself blush. Which was ridiculous. Her gown was demure in the extreme. The light muslin could hardly be said to cling. It dropped in soft folds to cover her feet. Besides, it was one of the few things she’d bought at that secondhand