onto his back and began whopping him with the sign. However, the handle was too long for close fighting and none of her blows landed. Hell and damnation!
She released a frustrated cry and wrapped both arms around his head.
“Get off me!” he roared.
“When hell freezes over, fool.” She heard a door bang and the footsteps of someone new.
Masculine hands yanked the two of them apart.
“Hey, what’s the meaning of this?” The voice belonged to a man she assumed to be the saloon owner.
Breathing hard, she jerked at the bodice of her favorite royal blue dress, straightening it before grabbing the immense hat that barely clung to one side of her head. She blew back a blond curl that fell across one eye, blocking her view. Only then did she get a glimpse of the gentleman whose livelihood she meant to destroy, and the sight glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
That he presented a handsome picture with coal-black hair and a lean form was indisputable, but it was more than that. There was confidence about him, but no arrogance. A Stetson sat low on his forehead—a cowboy? Grace did a double take. Saloon owners wore bowlers, not Stetsons. She was unable to move her gaze from piercing eyes that reminded her of smoke, shadowed by the brim of the hat. The stormy gray depths warned of the danger of crossing him.
And more. Oh my!
Aware that her friends were watching, Grace took in his appearance—the silk vest of dark green belonged to a gambler. Combined with tailored black trousers, he appeared a profitable businessman, the hat aside. Until she looked at his worn white cuffs and boots in desperate need of repair. Had he spent everything on the window dressing with no thought of footwear?
Her gaze rested on a well-used gun belt slung low on his hip, complete with what appeared a long Peacemaker. By now, most men left their firearms at home. However, having grown up with weapons of all kinds on the Lone Star Ranch, she understood the need to sometimes keep a gun handy. Although crime in the rough area had begun to decline some, running a saloon at the edge of Hell’s Half Ace was still a risky business and called for protection of some sort.
She patted the small derringer in her pocket to make sure it hadn’t fallen out.
“I asked what’s going on here,” the owner repeated.
Smelly glared, wiping blood from his forehead. So, she did get a lick in. “This churlish fishwife assaulted me when I tried to enter, and I demand that you do something.”
“Churlish fishwife? Why you!” Grace swung her sign again—only it caught the tall saloon owner instead, knocking him back a step.
Towering head and shoulders above her, the man snatched the sign from her hand, broke it over his knee, and pitched the pieces aside. His eyes had darkened to a shade she’d never seen before and had no words to describe.
“Care to explain why you’re running off my business, lady?”
The question came out silky and wrapped in velvet like her father’s did when he wanted to put the fear of God into someone. That frightened her far more than yelling. This cowboy saloon owner was someone to reckon with.
Although quaking inside, Grace drew herself up and thrust out her chin, praying her group of women were behind her. Although the quiet failed to reassure her. “I’m asserting my God-given right to free speech.”
“You tell him, Grace!” one of the women yelled.
“Free speech about?” he snapped.
“The evils of drink. It’s destroying the fabric of our society and wrecking homes.”
“And it’s your duty to straighten us men out?” he barked.
His dark glower shot a shiver of alarm up her spine, especially when he edged closer. Why couldn’t she have been born taller? She felt like a bug he was about to step on. He was every bit or more the height of her six-foot three-inch father.
How come she didn’t hear a peep from her ladies? If they’d left her…
She inhaled a deep breath to steady herself. “As much as I’m able. I cannot turn a blind eye to hungry kids and wives bearing the scars of abuse. It’s a sin and disgrace. I’m their voice.” She clasped her hands together to hide the tremble. Her parents—and many others—had warned that she’d go too far one day. Dance to the music and eventually she’d have to pay the fiddler. Anger flashing from his eyes said this might be the time when