Free Her Sheriff Bodyguard by Lynna Banning

gritted. “And one private fight.” He wished she hadn’t seen his bare chest. It was easier to pretend it had never happened when the scars were hidden under a layer of clothing.
    But she had seen, and the look on her face stopped his breath. “Is—is that what a gunshot wound in the chest looks like?”
    â€œSomewhat. This one’s mostly healed over.”
    â€œMy God. Oh, my God.” She dropped the hairbrush and hid her face in her hands.
    â€œWhat?” He reached her in two steps. “What is wrong?”
    â€œTell him, mi corazón . Tell him.”
    â€œI can’t,” she said, her voice muffled.
    â€œTell me what?” Hawk demanded. He grasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Tell me what?”
    Silence. He could hear her uneven breathing, feel her body tremble under his hands. And, goddamn, he could smell the lilac scent of her hair.
    â€œ Señor , do not ask her this thing. She is not yet ready to speak of it.”
    Hawk felt like a coal shovel had been whacked over his skull. He wanted to pick her up and hold her in his arms and never let go.
    She broke away and perched on the edge of the bed. Very slowly she lifted her face and looked at him. “I am speaking tomorrow. I am trying very hard to not be afraid.”
    â€œThe hell you are,” he snapped out.
    â€œSpeaking? Or afraid?” Her voice was calm, but her widened deep blue eyes were frightened.
    â€œDon’t do it,” he said. “Don’t give your damn speech.”
    â€œI must.” And then she sent him that little smile that made mincemeat of his insides. “And it is not a ‘damn speech.’”
    He couldn’t stand looking at her one more minute. Instead he went over to the window and peered down at the street below. Dressmaker. Sheriff’s office. Mercantile. Red Rooster Saloon. Another saloon. He wondered where Overby was. Was Oakridge his final destination?
    He didn’t like the man. Didn’t trust him. For all Hawk knew, Overby could have tipped off someone when they stopped for the meal at the Tumbleweed way station. The thought ate at him.
    Finally he grabbed the quilt off the other bed, checked his revolver and laid the rifle down next to the far wall. Then he rolled himself up in the soft blanket, squashed his saddlebag under his head for a pillow and tried to sleep.
    With his eyes closed, every sound in the room inflamed his imagination: Fernanda’s humming, her shoes hitting the floor, the sound of the bedsprings when she settled down. But there wasn’t a sound from Caroline.
    Had she undressed? Slipped into the bed by the window? Or was she still sitting on the edge of the mattress, drying her hair? He cracked one lid open.
    Her back was toward him, her arm lifting and dropping, slowly pulling the hairbrush through the thick, dark waves. At the end of each stroke she smoothed her other hand down the entire length, and then repeated the motion. Watching her was unsettling. Arousing. He ground his teeth and shut his eyes.
    Fernanda’s humming lapsed into light snores, and still Caroline made no sound—no petticoat rustles, no shoe dropping onto the carpet. What the hell was she doing, just sitting there staring out the window?
    The glass lamp cover scraped and a breath puffed out the light. And then nothing.
    â€œCaroline?” He spoke quietly so Fernanda wouldn’t wake up.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    There was a long, long pause before she answered. “I will be. It is always hard at night when I start to remember...things.”
    Hawk sat up. “What things?”
    She didn’t answer. After a while he heard the swish of bedcovers.
    It took a long time before her breathing evened out and deepened into sleep. Hawk lay back down, puzzling over the hollow feeling that bloomed deep in his gut.

Chapter Nine
    I am worry for my lady. She is good soldier, but she is a