The Untamed Heart

Sloan had seen enough adversity in his life to know that desperation led many down a path that they wouldn’t typically choose. All desperate people had a price, one Sloan was not above finding, particularly if it would keep her out of the saloon and away from cowboys with itchy hands.

“What do you want for a room?” he asked, reaching into his trouser pocket and withdrawing the fat wad of bills he’d won on the train. He thumbed off several bills and glanced up at her. She was staring at his hand with such intensity he could almost hear her tallying all that his money would buy: the paint for the house, a new fence, even a plow to turn this field of grass into wheat or corn. Perhaps something as simple as food. Or a dress that fit her properly.

The old man narrowed his eyes. Sloan didn’t blame them for not trusting him. But only a fool would refuse help when in such need.

“Put your money away, fancy man. I’ve no rooms to let you.”

Sloan heard his teeth click. Bloody impertinent female. Quickly he recalled the price of meals and lodging in New York, at the grand and luxurious American Hotel. And then he doubled it. “Fifty dollars a day for a room and the pleasure of your company at meals.”

The gun wavered. Her skin grew unearthly pale. She tipped back her hat and blinked at him with eyes as wide and fathomless as the sea beyond Cornwall’s far western headlands. “You’re bribing me,” she said, her voice chilled. “You can’t do that.”

“Seventy-five,” he said softly. “Do you cook, Willie?”

“Better than her mama could,” the old man muttered under his breath.

Willie shot him a look that would have stopped an army.

The old man merely shrugged. “Your mama was a fine cook, Willie-girl. Like I always say, a skillet and a pail of grease are the essentials to any recipe.”

Willie let out a wheezing breath. “State your business, fancy man.”

“Sloan,” he said, tipping up one corner of his mouth. Pocketing his money, he extended a black-gloved hand over the top of the gun. “Sloan Devlin, late of Cornwall, England.”

She barely extended her fingers when Sloan leaned forward and enveloped her small hand in his. Her eyes briefly widened, deepening in color.

He expected to feel nothing through the fine leather of his gloves. After all, he’d spent his youth pounding his fists into tree trunks day after day to thickly callus his hands against pain or feeling. And yet he could feel the warmth of her, the pulse of her, the vital, womanly essence of her seeping through calluses and leather and skin. He relinquished it at the first tug of her fingers.

“I’ve come to see the elephant,” Sloan said.

She seemed unimpressed, and her voice rang with contempt. “That’s what all the English folk said when they came and shot the buffalo. Now there’s nothing for them to shoot. Who sent you? Union Pacific? Kansas Pacific? A couple years back some fancy English gent was following the Kansas Pacific’s survey parties, drawing pictures. Maybe you’re one of them. Or are you Denver Pacific?”

“I came by rail,” he replied, “and shared several games of poker with some fellows from the Union Pacific. But that’s the extent of my association with the railroad.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if she gave the idea of believing him some consideration. “You’re a gambler.”

His laugh rumbled from his chest. “Not on my luckiest day.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I’m a writer.”

“They pay writers good where you come from.”

“No true writer writes for money.” “Then why do it?”

“I want to make a difference.”

“Have you?”

“Not yet. At least not enough. I suppose that’s why I’m here.”

“To stir up trouble.”

“I prefer to walk away from trouble.”

“Good. The road back there leads all the way to Denver. Just point your nose west and start walking.” She headed for her ax. For an instant, Sloan found himself staring at her backside. Women as lushly formed as Willie should have been legally banned from wearing men’s trousers.

An odd compulsion to throw her over his shoulder swept over him. He took a step, tugged his dozing excuse for a horse behind him, then drew up as she swung the ax in an arc that stirred the air right in front of him. She’d set her jaw with grim determination. Sleek muscles strained in her bare forearms. A grunt came from her lips when the ax plunged into the log.

Sloan felt the tension mounting inside him. “How many nights will you spend in the Silver Spur to earn anything close to what I’m offering you for a single night’s accommodations? A week? A month? All I’ll ask from you is a smile every morning.”

The ax whistled through the air, again keeping him at a good distance. Wood chips sprayed into the air.

“I don’t trust strange men with velvet cuffs and shiny-toed shoes, Devlin.”

Ah, the broken heart finally betrayed itself. So the thief of her heart hadn’t been a cowboy. A gambler, perhaps?

Sloan glanced at the old man. “Is she typically this difficult?”

The old man spat into the ground. “Yep. I keep tellin’ her she’d best get more likable if she’s ever gonna find herself a husband.”

“Reasonable would suffice for now,” Sloan said, watching the color creep up from her neck and up under the brim of her hat.

Willie plunged the ax blade into the stump, whirled and advanced on Sloan with hands braced on her hips and green eyes blazing. “Eighty-five a night, one week in advance, nonrefundable. Meals, bed and outhouse privileges included.”

“That’s reasonable.” Sloan pulled out the money and peeled off twelve crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “I’ll pay for two weeks of services—” Just as she reached out to snatch the bills, he lifted them beyond her fingertips. She arched up after it, her eyes darting to his, and in them he saw desperation and blind hope all twisted up with pride. “And the pleasure of your company, of course,” he murmured, startlingly aware of her in the most base physical sense. She stood just inches below him, emanating a womanly warmth, smelling of grass and mountains and freshly chopped wood.

Her brows quivered. “Whatever that means. I live here.” Lightning quick she plucked the bills from his hand and, without counting them, tucked them inside the open neck of her shirt.

Sloan’s mouth went instantly dry.

Again she turned to retrieve her ax but Sloan was much quicker this time, reaching around her and taking up the ax.

She angled her eyes at him and pursed her lips. “Give me that, Devlin, before you hurt yourself.”

With one arm, Sloan lifted a log onto the stump. Bracing his legs, he glanced sideways at her and tossed her his horse’s reins. “Stand back.”

She didn’t move. “I don’t need your help, Devlin. I don’t need any man.”

“No,” he murmured, looking directly into her eyes. “I don’t believe you do. Now that we both understand that, stand back.”

“I don’t—”

Sloan swung the ax. Willie jumped back just as the ax plunged through the log, shattering it into five pieces. Sloan looked at Willie. She stared at the ax blade buried five inches deep in the stump then slowly looked up at Sloan. Her lips parted. Color bloomed into her cheeks. She looked like a rose bursting open beneath the sun.

“I—I’ll take your horse to the barn,” she said.

“Thank you.”