To Love an Outlaw (Into the West #1) (A Wattpad Reading List Choice)

Chapter 2

  “That’s what I said. Make up your mind, Sir; I have a boarding house to run.”

  Once more their gazes collided; his gunmetal grays no match for the half-century old Irish woman.

Shrugging in defeat the gunman said briefly, “Fine. You’ve got a deal.”

He bent to methodically start untying the gun from his muscular thigh with slim, tanned fingers. Margaret Mary let her held-in breath out on a sigh…

 Now, a week later, while slapping the last offender of cleanliness up on the clothesline strung out behind the gabled, two-story home she’d transformed into that successful boarding house, Margaret Mary, Marge to just about everyone, paused in her early morning chore to watch the gunslinger make his familiar trek out to the barn to feed his horse.

The man was certainly a contradiction. He killed people for a living, yet day after day she’d witnessed him leave the house after requesting his gun and head straight out to his horse, choosing to groom, feed, and clean out its stall before he even came in for breakfast. She hadn’t seen many men do that; livestock came second to most men’s creature comforts, but the gunman was an exception. Marge admired that trait. After all, hadn’t her husband cared for his animals just as much?

With those thoughts swirling in her head and the laundry all strung out on the line behind her like soldiers awaiting orders, Marge hefted the empty basket under one arm and headed down the slope in order to way-lay the gunfighter with a request she hoped would benefit them both.

Dust motes floated in the early morning sunlight as the older woman entered the barn. The pungent odor of new hay and healthy equine assailed her nostrils while she deliberately dragged her booted feet on the dirt so as not to startle the gunman and get shot for her trouble.

The muted jingle of the horse’s halter and low, murmured words uttered from McQuade’s lips led Marge straight to the gunfighter occupied in methodically currying the large, bay stallion secured in the opening of the animal’s stall.

Lean, hard arm muscles shifting under the blue work shirt and black vest McQuade wore caught Marge’s attention. Capable, tanned hands smoothed over the horse’s shining coat, causing the animal’s skin to shiver in response to its master’s gentle touch, a gentle caress probably extended to his lovemaking skills, Marge mused.

Realizing with a jolt the bend her thoughts were taking and that she was admiring the play of muscles displayed under the snug shirt the gunslinger wore, Marge crinkled her nose at that feminine weakness and announced her presence by clearing her throat and saying, “Excuse me, Mr. McQuade?”

Without looking up or slowing in his chore, apparently already uncannily aware of her presence, the gunfighter interrupted, “It’s Sonny.”

“Yes. May I ask you a favor?”

Sonny McQuade paused and glanced up at Marge under his hat brim, hands resting on the horse’s withers.

 Silence.

Snared in the hired gun’s unwavering gaze, Marge shifted her feet nervously, reassembled her backbone, and replied, “Would you be able to drive me into town today? I have supplies to pick up and don’t really want to lift them all by my lonesome. Unless, of course, you already have plans?”

 Marge blinked guilelessly up at McQuade, knowing damn well all he did every morning was tend his horse, eat his breakfast alone, then saddle up and ride away for a good portion of the day, only to return and repeat the process.

 The boardinghouse matron couldn’t fathom where he disappeared to day after day but, mentally shaking her head to clear her ponderings, Marge’s eyes focused on McQuade once more, finding him studying her with narrowed, silver eyes, attempting to discern any ulterior motives.