Free The Color of Ivy by Peggy Ann Craig Page B

remember that.  She was a practiced con artist.  Her pleas with those big eyes looking so unusually soft and innocent could deceive the best of man.  He himself had felt himself go momentarily weak.  But then he had pulled himself together quickly with a reminder of whom she was.  A killer.
    He prided himself that no other prisoner of his had ever escaped him before.  That was, not since Daphne.
    A hot rage b oiled in the core of his gut at the mere thought of Daphne Sweeney.  He most certainly didn’t appreciate those memories resurfacing.  Though, admittedly, would have been difficult not to under the circumstances.  The similarities were too close.
    He looked over his shoulder as he felt the rope tug for the umpteenth time and watched Ivy McGregor fall to the ground.  Her short copper curls looked in disarray.  Her wide forehead had streaks of dirt matching the filth on her gray cheeks.  She looked far from how she initially appeared when he first spotted her at the train station.  Then she had looked composed, well put together.  And listless.
    Watching her, he couldn’t help but admit how exhau sted she must be.  The woman struggled with every breath she took.  Brushing the thought aside, he turned and kept moving, ignoring the throbbing of muscles in his own legs.  He didn’t want to think about Ivy’s suffering, or her comparison to Daphne.
    On the outside, the women might have been on the opposite ends of the pole.  But inside , their souls couldn’t be more alike.  Reluctantly, his mind travelled back to the past.  Daphne had been distractingly beautiful.  Immaculate.  He had been drawn to her instantly.  Then paid the price later for it.  A quick glance back at Ivy and he knew that wouldn’t be an issue.
    Ivy was a homely woman.  Barring a remarkable set of eyes.  They had the ability to be cold and lifeless one moment, th an alive and on fire the next.  Though at the present moment, appeared sunken and shallow.  Her skin didn’t fare any better.  Far too pale against that copper hair of hers.
    He never liked redheads.  They reminded him of his mother.
    Unwillingly, he slid a glance at the strands in question, glistening in the sunlight.  Hers though, were admittedly more on the strawberry side with the odd streak of blond highlights throughout.  The curls were natural and, in opposition to her persona, looked soft even in their disheveled appearance.  If she had worn them long, he didn’t doubt they could bewitch the best of men.  As it was, she styled it short, just below the ear.  Very unusual.  He didn’t know many females risqué enough to wear theirs short.
    Not that her appearance would have any foundation on how he treated her anyway, he thought pushing forward.  Many a men believed poison ivy to be safe in the autumn when the plant bore red leaves.  However, once burned by the deceptive plant, one learned quickly never to trust the colored leaves.  And this definitely was one Ivy he had no intention of misjudging.
    With his attention back on the trail, he forced his thoughts to concentrate on where he was stepping.  Had he not just said never again would he allow a woman to distract him from his task?  He hated the idea of being stuck alone with her in this god-forsaken country.  This capture was supposed to be swift and rewarding.  An easy job with a big bounty.  So much so that he had actually thought of leaving it for someone else to track her down.  But the reward was too tempting to turn his back on.
    And there was that other reason.
    It made his insides curl with hatred to think of a woman getting away with murder.  Yes, perhaps it was personal.  But the real reward would come when he watched Ivy McGregor swing from her scaffold.
    He stopped near a large oak tree.  “Best rest, ma’am.  You’re not looking so good.”
    He saw her eyes flare, but wordlessly, almost gratefully, slumped against a tree.  Sam took the rope and wrapped it around