Free Romancing the West by Beth Ciotta Page B

with morning dew. In her haste, she slipped and fell twice to her knees. By the time she reached the dilapidated building she was winded and hopelessly frazzled. What if he’d found her treasure chest?
    “Mr. Pinkerton!” She burst inside full speed, full panic, screaming when she plowed into a half-naked man brandishing a gun.
    He pulled her into his arms and into a stall, shoved her down in a corner then peered over the chest-high wall.
    She gasped for air, focused, and massaged her pounding heart as she realized the half-naked man was Phineas Pinkerton. Shirtless, sweating, and holding a Colt .45 like he knew how to use it. What in the world?
    “Did he hurt you?” he asked in a low, even voice, eyes keen on the entrance to the barn.
    “Who?” she squeaked.
    “Whoever you’re running from.”
    “I’m not running from anyone.”
    He glanced over his shoulder, his broad, bare shoulder, and pinned her with a stern expression. “You’re not in danger?”
    “Why would you think I was in danger?” Her pulse galloped all the same.
    He silently slid the gun into a worn holster hanging from the gate post, yanked off his spectacles and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Specs in hand, he crouched in front of her, his normally tender green eyes hard as a gemstone. When he narrowed them, she had the urge to back away, only her back was up against the wall.
    Emily scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. This moment he didn’t look scholarly or delicate. He looked rugged and, gulp, dangerous. Her insides twisted and her mouth went dry. She’d never been this close to a half-naked man and though she knew she should look away, she could not. His muscled torso was most impressive. She’d seen paintings and sketches of nude men, but the real thing . . . Mercy.
    He dipped his chin, took a calming breath. “You screamed my name. You blew into this barn like the devil was on your tail. You looked frightened and,” he gestured to her clothing, “quite frankly as though you’d been accosted.”
    She looked down. The sash was gone and the robe gaped open. Her white chemise was sullied with soil and grass stains. She snatched closed the silk wrapper, blew meddlesome curls out of her eyes, and realized her hair was loose and most probably disheveled from the frenzied sprint. She closed her eyes and groaned.
    “I thought maybe Sawyer or your blackmailer--”
    “I don’t want to talk about him.”
    “Which one?”
    “Either one.” Her pulse slowed to a lumbering run. It helped that she wasn’t looking at his bare chest. Still, the outright mention of her blackmailer was distressing.  Pinkerton had refrained from bringing up her troubles last night. She’d been grateful, thinking he meant to honor her wishes, and not to interfere. Now, between the .45 and his being in the barn, she feared otherwise. “Why, pray tell, do you have a gun? Do you even know how to use it? I thought you were against violence.”
    “Protection. Yes. And it depends.”
    She blinked.
    “The west is overrun with scalawags, Miss McBride.”
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “Which brings us back to your blackmailer.”
    She swallowed a frustrated groan. The man was tenacious. She almost wished he’d have another dizzy spell. “How much did Paris tell you?”
    “Not much. I know he or she is demanding payment in return for silence. Other than that . . .” He shrugged, slid his spectacles back in place. They did not diminish his appeal. “Just that whatever he’s got on you, it’s tawdry. Your words, not Paris’s.”
    She gave herself a mental kick for sharing that information. She’d meant to warn him off, but realized now she’d only fanned the intuitive detective’s interest. “Mr. Pinkerton.”
    “About my name--”
    “You have to leave. I don’t . . .” Her gaze flew to his. “What about your name?”
    “Why?”
    “Why, what?”
    “Why do I have to leave?”
    Her skin burned and she looked away.
    He stood, removing his upper body