The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,33

before he reached Dodge City. And to doctor his wounds meant cutting off the rest of his beard. Just considering the act was daunting. Without a looking glass to see by, he could cut his own throat and never know it until it was too late.

Much later after he’d hidden his find, he dropped onto his bunk with a heartfelt sigh and touched his face, instantly groaning from the pain. It would have to be doctored, but he was too sore and weary to deal with it tonight. The wounds would have to wait.

The next day the sun was already up and shining in a bright, clear sky when he woke. He stretched and then gasped. The act was a painful reminder of yesterday. He looked down at himself, at his arms and his chest and frowned at the mass of bruises. His mouth and gums ached and it hurt to swallow spit, but the necessity of cleaning his wounds was upon him.

With a heartfelt moan, he got up and hobbled outside to wash his face. When he leaned over the wash basin, the standing rainwater threw back a wavy reflection of his battered features. The sight made him shudder, but it had also provided a much-needed view of his face. He reached for his knife with a grimace. At least he wouldn’t cut his throat when he shaved.

Daily, Truly Fine fielded the rude, sexual innuendoes from her customers with a skill born of long years at the task. And every day that came and went past Miles Crutchaw’s usual time of arrival made her nervous. For the first time since he’d started their odd courtship, Truly began to realize that she’d been existing for those fleeting moments in her life when a man had pretended to care.

Only Miles Crutchaw had not come back to Sweetgrass Junction and Truly went to bed each night praying that she’d be given one more chance—wishing that the wild, bushy miner would come bursting through the swinging doors of the Sweetwater Saloon and yank her out of some man’s lap before it was too late. This time she wouldn’t tell him no. This time when he came, she’d willingly ride a mule for the rest of her life, rather than ride one more man and pretend he was the best ever to come her way.

Even if she didn’t have a roof over her head.

Even if Miles didn’t have many teeth.

Even if he never struck it rich.

It was a sad and unavoidable fact, but Truly Fine had realized too late that wealth lay not in the money in a bank, but in the arms of a man who cared.

As the days passed, Truly began to believe that she’d told him ‘no’ once too often. It broke her heart to think of never seeing him again.

A dog barked outside the Sweetgrass Saloon as the squeak and rumble of wagon wheels drifted through the open door. Truly didn’t bother to look up from her game of solitaire. She’d know soon enough who it was. Sooner or later, everyone who came to Sweetgrass Junction came into the saloon.

As she’d expected, someone did come through the swinging doors. Moose the Bartender was the first to look up. The glass he was drying fell out of his hands, shattering on the floor at his feet. Shock spread over his face as he started to grin.

Without looking up, Truly slapped a red Jack on a black Queen. “Dang it, Moose, you break many more like that and you’ll be sending back East for a new set.”

Moose didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the man who’d come through the doors.

“Truly Fine, are you a woman of your word?”

Startled by the question, Truly looked up. The cards she’d been holding fluttered to the floor. The voice was familiar, but not the man. He didn’t look like anyone she knew.

“I don’t get it,” she snapped, then narrowed her eyes as the tall, clean-shaven man started toward her from across the room.

His suit of clothes fit him to perfection and his boots were shining like new. And then he grinned, revealing a set of fine, white teeth in a nearly-healed face and something clicked inside her heart as he yanked her out of her chair and began to spin her around.

“Yes, you do. You get it all, just like I promised, Truly darlin’.”

By now, the skirt of her yellow satin dress was flying above her waist. Her henna-red curls were bobbing against her