Only 03 - Only You

blanket around herself, concealing everything of her body but the hot flags of anger and humiliation burning on her cheeks.
    Reno considered taking the blanket away from Eve. He had liked looking at the satin curves and velvet shadows beneath the old, thin cotton fabric of her underwear. Her anger both surprised and intrigued him. Women who were caught in lies usually became all soft and wary and eager to make amends.
    But not the girl called Evening Star. Her eyes were measuring him for a shroud.
    Wryly Reno admitted to himself that whatever else he could say about Eve—and none of it good— she had grit. He admired that in men, women, and horses.
    “Don’t be so quick off the mark,” Reno drawled. “I might just get up and ride out of here, leaving you for Slater.”
    Eve hid the shaft of fear that went through her at the thought of Jericho Slater.
    “Pity you didn’t shoot him, too” she said beneath her breath.
    Reno heard. His ears were as acute as his hands were quick.
    “I’m not a hired killer.”
    Her eyes narrowed warily at the flatness of Reno’s voice. “I know.”
    His cold green glance searched her face for a long moment before he nodded.
    “See that you remember it,” he said curtly. “Don’t ever set me up as an executioner again.”
    She nodded.
    Reno came to his feet in an unhurried, graceful movement that reminded Eve of the cat he accused her of being.
    “Get dressed,” he said. “We can talk about the Lyons’ mine while you cook breakfast.”
    Reno paused. “You do know how to cook, don’t you?”
    “Of course. Every girl can.”
    He smiled, remembering a certain redheaded British aristocrat who hadn’t been able to boil water when she married Wolfe Lonetree.
    “Not every girl,” Reno said.
    The gentle amusement in his smile fascinated Eve. It was as unexpected as a hot day in winter.
    “Who was she?” Eve asked before she could think better of it.
    “Who?”
    “The girl who couldn’t cook.”
    “A British lady. Prettiest thing a man ever did see. Hair like fire and eyes like aquamarines.”
    Eve told herself that the feeling snaking through her couldn’t be jealousy.
    “What happened?” she asked offhandedly.
    “What do you mean?”
    “If she was that fetching, why didn’t you marry her?”
    Reno stretched and looked down at Eve from his much greater height.
    She didn’t back up an inch. She simply stood and waited for the answer to her question as though there were no difference in size or strength between herself and the man who could have broken her like a dry twig.
    In that, Eve reminded Reno of Jessica and Willow. The realization made him frown. Neither Jessica nor Willow was the kind of girl to cheat, steal, or work in a saloon.
    “Wouldn’t the pretty aristocrat have a gunman like you?” Eve persisted.
    “I’m not a gunman. I’m a prospector. But that’s not why Jessi wouldn’t have me.”
    “She liked gentlemen?” Eve guessed.
    To conceal his irritation, Reno grabbed his hat and pulled it down over his unruly black hair.
    “I am a gentleman.”
    Eve looked from the crown of Reno’s black hat to the worn fleece-lined leather jacket that came to his hips. His pants were dark and had seen hard use. His boots were the same. He wore blunted brass cavalry spurs. Their metal had been so long without polish that they no longer were the least bit shiny.
    Nothing about Reno gleamed or flashed, and that included the butt of the six-gun he wore. The holster was the same; it had been oiled for use rather than for looks. The bullets, however, were quite clean.
    In all, Reno didn’t appear to be a gentleman. He looked every bit the dangerous gunfighter Eve knew him to be, a man drawn in shades of darkness rather than light.
    Except for his eyes. They were the vivid green of early spring leaves, as clear and perfect as cut crystal against the sun-darkened skin of his face.
    But a person had to be close to Reno to discover the light in his eyes. She doubted that many people got that close.
    Or wanted to.
    “Jessi is married to one of my best friends,” Reno said flatly. “Otherwise, I’d have been happy to try my hand at courting.”
    “’Courting.’”
    Eve looked at the tangled bedroll where she had known her first taste of passion.
    “Is that what you call it?” she asked dryly.
    “Courting is for a woman you want to make your wife. That—” Reno jerked his thumb at the bedroll “—was a little rolling around before breakfast with a