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he saw that she’d righted her little feathered hat, her expensive looking navy jersey, and her matching skirt. She had the look of a Black woman about to start fussing, but since he was the one with the aching head, he didn’t want to hear it.
    “Do you always greet your women with such enthusiasm? ” she huffed.
    “Only the ones who sneak into my room in the middle of the night,” he shot back.
    Ignoring her, he stood and walked over to the small shaving mirror atop the chest of drawers so he could assess the damage to his face. The glass reflected his bare arms and chest and the red-haired hellion standing behind him with a determined look on her small face, but he preferred to concentrate on the welt swelling near his temple. Had he been struck a bit further to the right, he might be short an eye. Spying a clean handkerchief among his personal items spread out atop the dresser, he used it to staunch the small show of blood filling the injury. The resulting sharp sting did not brighten his mood either. Still holding the handkerchief to his broken skin, he muttered, “Damn woman. You could’ve killed me.”
    Grace highly doubted his claim, and she didn’t feel a bit of remorse. “What else was a decent woman supposed to do under such shocking circumstances?”
    “A decent woman wouldn’t be in a cat house.”
    Grace felt the sting of his censure and knew he wasright, but circumstances dictated this unconventional visit. Truth be told, no matter how hard she tried to set it aside, she could still feel his potent touch brushing her lips. That memory, coupled with the remembered scents and intimate weight of him as he lay atop her, made the sight of his bare ebony torso and sculpted arms highly distracting. “May I ask that you put on a shirt, Mr. Blake?”
    He looked back at her and drawled, “And bossy, to boot. How do you know my name?”
    Grace refused to be intimidated. “By way of someone from a local tavern. Might you be qualified to lead the train?”
    “I might.”
    She could see him studying her with a baleful eye, but she met his gaze with a raised chin. “The shirt, Mr. Blake?”
    “How much are you paying?”
    “For you to put on a shirt?”
    “No, lady, for the job.”
    Grace felt like a fool but attributed it to her rattled nerves. “The men funding the trip are in a position to be very generous.”
    “How many men are going?” He walked over to a wooden chair that had a blue shirt tossed over it. Picking up the shirt, he put it on.
    Grace was grateful he’d covered himself; now maybe she could handle these negotiations more professionally. She hesitated before answering his question however. Would he laugh like the others when she told him the truth? “There aren’t any men. It’s going to be an all-woman expedition.”
    He stared. “What?”
    “All women.”
    He chuckled and said, “No.”

    “Why does everyone find that so humorous?” Grace demanded. “You haven’t even heard me out.”
    He buttoned his shirt. “Don’t need to. These women know anything about driving mules, shoeing stock, or skinning rabbits?”
    “Probably not, but they can learn.”
    Jackson was still chuckling. “Thanks. I haven’t had a laugh like this in a while.”
    Grace wanted him to be serious. “I intend to pay you generously for your assistance.”
    “You could promise me all the silver in Nevada and the answer would still be no.”
    “You’re being very unfair, Mr. Blake.”
    “No more unfair than you, sneaking in here pretending to be Lilah.”
    Her eyes widened. “I wish you’d stop your insinuations, I did nothing of the kind.”
    “Is that a habit?”
    “Is what a habit?”
    “Throwing around highfalutin words like insinuations …”
    Grace could hear the mockery in his tone, but his dark eyes held something else entirely. They were knowing, and in spite of his bad temper had the look of a man evaluating a woman. It disconcerted her as much as his bare torso had earlier. “And