The Gallows' Bounty (West of Second Chances) by Desiree Banks Read Free Book Online Page B

commented.
    “Don’t doubt it,” Boden said.
    “French was pleased when you won me in that contest,” she expounded.
    “You figure French is a good judge of character?”  He met her gaze straight on.
    She shook her head.
    “Let’s see about those splinters,” Boden said.
    “They’re in deep,” she explained.  “I doubt you’ll be able to do much about them. I’ve tried.”
    Boden withdrew a small switchblade from his pocket.  Willow tensed.  He hastened to explain, “Its sharp point is the closest thing I have to a needle.  If we don’t get those splinters out, your hands will get infected.”
    He held out his palm and waited for her to lay her hand in his, palm up.
    “Let me know if it hurts too badly,” he said before beginning to work on her hands.
    The calluses on his palms said he was used to hard work; the controlled strength of his grip said he knew how to control his power.  He surprised her.  It was no secret that bounty hunters could grow as unscrupulous as the men they hunted, yet she began to glimpse a tenderness beneath the hard shell he presented to the world. Her hand was so small in his own, making her wonder how old he was.
    “How old are you?” he asked.
    The question so paralleled her own thoughts that her heart pounded a bit harder in her chest.  “Nineteen.”
    “You’re so young.”
    “I haven’t been young for a long while, Mr. Boden,” she revealed, wishing she had kept the thought to herself.
    “No, I don’t reckon you have,” he said.  He met her gaze as he spoke.
    Not wanting him to dwell on her admission, she asked, “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-four,” he replied, returning to work on her hands.
    He wasn’t all that much older than herself.  Like her, he probably knew more about life than any person should.  He was so young to have earned such a legendary reputation.  Impossibly she grew even more curious about the man.
    Searching for where she’d hit him, she studied his bent head as he removed all but the most stubborn splinters.  His thick head of hair kept her from locating the spot, however.  She wondered if it still hurt him.
    When he finished his ministrations, Willow made to mount up again.
    “Wait a minute,” he spoke and stepped around her.  “The stirrups are much too long for you.”
    He was right, of course.  She had been too busy fleeing from him to bother with the stirrups, opting to stay in the saddle by gripping it with her thighs.  No wonder she was tuckered out.  Willow looked on as he deftly shortened the stirrups.
    “There you go,” he said once he was finished.
    “Thanks,” she managed although she didn’t look up at him.
    “Reckon I'm only doing what any man would,” Ezra returned.
    “You must not have known the same men I have,” she said quietly.
    She mounted up and followed Butcher Boden to his home.
     
    THE RAIN FELL HARDER by the hour.  It soaked into everything except the over-saturated ground.  Puddles stood everywhere, and small streams flowed in washouts and ruts.  The temperature also continued to drop as the day lengthened.  At one point, hail had fallen from the skies, and Willow had been very grateful for the protection of his hat.
    Willow shivered despite the added protection of Boden’s slicker.  Water had found ways beneath the oilcloth coat and the more she shifted to avert the leaking, the wetter she became.  And she was cold.  Her fingers were stiff from gripping the cold, wet reins.
    “How you holdin’ up?” Butcher Boden asked as he rode his horse close to hers.
    “A bit cold.”
    Would he take her honest answer as complaining?  It hadn’t mattered how she had answered Roberts; he had always taken her answers the wrong way.  He’d shout his displeasure with her or hit her depending on whether or not he’d liked her response.  If she’d been completely silent, she’d definitely incurred his wrath.  She hoped now it was safest to answer honestly.
    “I’d say you’re