The Gunslinger by Lorraine Heath Read Free Book Online

pale light was spilling out into the graying dawn. Straining her ears to hear any sounds coming from inside, she heard only the gentle wind whistling through the trees. With the lantern held aloft to guide her steps, she made her way to the sturdy structure. As silently as possible, she eased through the opening and was greeted with the low hum of her favorite song, “Red River Valley,” and the shoosh of milk hitting tin. She tiptoed forward until she reached Bessie’s far stall.
    Wilder sat on a small stool that was too short for his long legs. His hands were busy working Bessie’s teats. He wore only his shirt, trousers, boots, and gun. But for a moment he appeared almost peaceful, lost in the perpetual rhythm, humming, eyes closed. She wanted to kneel beside him, comb her fingers through his hair, trail her thumbs over his face, settle them at the corners of his mouth.
    But he seemed so serene, she felt like an intruder. Yet she couldn’t make herself walk away. She wondered what had put this man on the path he traveled. He didn’t seem evil or wicked or mean.
    Bessie mooed. Wilder slowly opened his eyes. “Had your fill of staring?” he asked.
    â€œI wasn’t staring.” That would be rude. “I was just caught off-guard. How long have you known I was here?”
    â€œSince you walked through the door.”
    â€œYou could have said something.”
    He peered over at her, a corner of his mouth hitching up. “So could you.”
    She wasn’t going to confess she’d been too entranced, that he was a contradiction she wanted to explore, even knowing that with him, there would never be anything beyond heartache. “I don’t expect you to do my chores.”
    â€œIt’s good exercise for my hands, keeps them loose. I would have chopped some firewood for you, but I don’t think my shoulder is up to heaving an ax just yet.”
    She thought of how welcome it would be to have a man around permanently to handle that difficult task for her.
    â€œWhy doesn’t the boy see to this chore?” he asked. “I was milking cows at his age.”
    Suddenly he looked uncomfortable, as though he’d revealed too much. She’d never envisioned him as a child. Milking a cow seemed a normal activity for a boy. She wondered what else he might have done: swam in the creek, climbed trees, chased butterflies. No, she couldn’t see him doing the latter. That was an activity in which she’d engaged, wanting to hold something so pretty. Instead she’d squashed one of the delicate creatures in her enthusiasm and never chased another. “I don’t like him being out here before the sun is up. You never know what sort of animal is lurking in the shadows.”
    His expression hardened, and she was compelled to say, “I wasn’t referring to you.”
    Yesterday morning, she would have been, but now she didn’t know what to make of him.
    â€œYou can’t protect him forever,” he said.
    â€œNo, but I can for a while.”
    His hands stilled. Reaching for the bucket, he stood.
    â€œI can carry that to the house,” she told him.
    â€œI’ll do it. It’ll be good for my shoulder. It’s getting stiff.”
    The sun was beginning to ease over the horizon, hinting at a lovely day. She doused the flame in the lantern and tried not to consider the manner in which he barely looked at her. For all of his attitude, the kiss last night might just as well not have happened. It irritated her that she could grow warm with his nearness while he seemed not at all affected by hers.
    She fought not to think about what it might be like to walk beside a man every morning as they tended to chores. She’d never had fanciful thoughts about love. She was much too practical. But sometimes . . .
    â€œDo you ever think about settling down, Mr. Wilder?”
    â€œNo point in it.”
    â€œIn thinking about it or