The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,29

so many men had put themselves inside of her, that in her estimation, one more feel was hardly worth noting. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that Miles had taken it upon himself to right her wrongs and save her from herself, even if it was only for his own selfish reasons.

Miles wanted a wife. He’d chosen Truly Fine. All he had to do was convince her that it was not only for her own good, but also her pleasure. Truly did not understand that concept. She wasn’t like her old friend, Letty Murphy, back at the White Dove. Letty was a dreamer, always listening for the call of some bird, as if it would turn her into someone other than a woman who got paid for a poke.

Truly was practical. She got paid to give pleasure, not receive it.

“That’s no lady,” the gambler groaned. “And let go of my hand before I’m forced to shoot.”

Considering the condition in which Miles held him hostage, it was an impotent threat that landed the gambler nothing but a trip out the door. Seconds later, he was face down in the street, licking dirt from his lips and trying to remember where he’d tied his horse. He had a sudden desire to get the hell out of town while he still had all his fingers and toes and everything in between.

“Dammit, Snag, you hadn’t oughta done that,” Truly grumbled. “He was gonna pay me good. Real good.”

Miles frowned and ran his tongue over his teeth. He hated his nickname, but coming from her, it was the ultimate insult.

“I don’t call you names, Miss Truly. I wish you would return the honor by using my given name, instead.”

Truly pouted, and flounced toward the bar, her henna-red curls bouncing with every step.

“Moose! I need a drink.” She leaned against the bar while the bartender sloshed watered-down whiskey into a less-than-clean glass.

Miles followed her to the bar and caught the drink before she did. His hands curled around the glass and then shoved it back at Moose before she could set up a fuss.

“What you need is a man, Miss Truly, not a drink.”

She rolled her eyes. “I had one. You threw him out into the street.”

Miles shrugged. “Not that kind of man. I mean a man like me.”

She turned. The appraisal she gave him was suggestively slow. It was to Miles’s credit that he did not rise to the occasion when her gaze lingered longer than necessary below his belt buckle.

“I don’t mind,” she finally said. “As long as you keep your mouth closed, that is. One man’s money is as good as another’s.”

Miles gritted all four teeth and tried not to shake her. “I ain’t gonna pay to sleep with you, Truly. That would make me no better than the rest. I’m askin’ you, just like I do every time I come to town. Would you be my wife?”

She winced. In spite of his missing teeth—in spite of her bone-weary soul—she was tempted. But the pain in her heart just wouldn’t go away. It was an impossible situation. She didn’t want to live from hand to mouth, traveling by foot, or straddling the ridgeback of some mule while this fool kept moving dirt from one place to another, trying to strike it rich.

“Snag…”

“Miles,” he corrected her.

She rolled her eyes. “Miles… I’ll tell you now, like I tell you every time you ask. You go find that gold you keep searchin’ for. When you’ve got the money to take care of me proper, then teeth or no teeth, you’ve got yourself a wife.”

Miles sighed. It was the same answer he’d been getting since he’d laid eyes on her—right down to the jut of her chin and the stomp of her little foot when she was finished.

“But, Truly, that could take years! By the time I’m rich, I’ll be too old to make you happy.”

Truly batted her eyes and pursed her lips in a tawdry display of affection. “Oh no, Miles, honey. Money doesn’t get old, only men. If you’ve got enough money, it don’t matter a whit to me whether you can get it up or not.”

He growled and spun, knocking chairs and tables asunder as he pointed a long, brown finger in her face.

“One day, Truly, I swear on your good name that I will find that gold and then you’ll have to keep your promise.”

Truly frowned as he disappeared through the swinging doors.

“I don’t have a good name,” she muttered, and hitched at