Free The Reluctant Hero by Lorraine Heath Page B

through the high window of his room. The darkness allowed for an intimacy he’d never before known with a woman.
    The women he’d always taken to bed were the kind who expected a favor in exchange for a favor, and once the exchange was made saw no point in lingering.
    â€œYou claim that you weren’t a hero that day, but Tom told me that you were violently ill and yet you still managed to save the town.”
    He stiffened. Was that the reason she was here? To gather more information about him? Maybe he should tell her the truth. She’d know then that he was no hero, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to reveal everything, to prove to her as her father and fiancé had that there were no heroes. But he could at least nudge her toward the truth. “I wasn’t sick.”
    â€œBut Tom said—”
    â€œI wasn’t sick before . . . before the robbery. It was only after . . . after I . . . after it was all over. I’m not brave or courageous. I puked my guts out.”
    She was quiet for a while, as though she had to ponder the ramifications. Finally, she said, “It says a lot about you that what you did made you ill. You don’t take lives lightly.”
    â€œCan we talk about something else . . . or better yet, not talk at all?”
    He started to roll over onto her, but her hand came up and pressed against his chest.
    â€œHow old are you?” she asked quietly.
    â€œI don’t know. Is it important to you?”
    â€œDon’t you have an idea?”
    â€œI didn’t grow up in a house or a town. I grew up on the trail. My older brother”—he cleared his throat—“he taught me to read, to shoot, to fend for myself. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m on the far side of thirty.”
    â€œYou sound angry.”
    And she sounded hurt.
    â€œMy apologies. I’m not used to talking after.”
    He was used to leaving, to not hanging around. To never noticing how a woman smelled afterward. This woman at least smelled tempting, her perfume wafting around him, the musky scent they’d created together stirring his passion.
    â€œI know so little about you,” she said.
    â€œYou know all you need to know,” he said, as he nestled himself between her thighs, kissing her with a feral intensity, determined to distract her from the questions.

    Andrea was lethargic and sore, but the soreness somehow managed to feel good. Matt was sleeping, his arm draped heavily across her stomach. She thought she should be able to sleep as well, but her mind was conjuring up stories fast and furiously. Heck of a time for her muse to want to come out and play.
    Gingerly, she eased out from beneath Matt’s arm. Her bare toes felt the blanket that he’d kicked onto the floor earlier. She picked it up, wrapped it around herself, and with only moonlight to guide her, walked into his office.
    At his desk, she fumbled around until she located the matches and lit his lamp. She sat in the chair behind his desk. It gave her a different perspective on his room, made her feel closer to him. She thought she would forever see him sitting here, tending to the law.
    She needed to write, but his desk was clear except for the lamp. She opened a drawer and found a pencil as well as what appeared to be an old wanted poster. It was yellowed and ragged.
    Surely he wouldn’t mind if she used it to make a few notes. She laid it facedown and wrote until the words no longer flowed. Yawning, she turned the paper over and immediately regretted that she’d not looked at it more closely before she’d scribbled on the back.
    It was a poster announcing the reward for the four members of the Ace in the Hole Gang. Four members? Matt had only killed three. She wondered what had happened to the fourth member. Had he been there that day and escaped? Or had he been captured or killed before?
    They had a likeness of each member on the poster. Something about Sam