Deborah Camp Read Online Free PDF Page B

beauty in her dress of pale yellow, fitted close to her small waist and flaring at her hips. He loved the set of her shoulders, so proud, so dignified.
    And she was his wife.
    A bolt of alarm shot through him. Any man would be pleased to stand beside Adele Bishop and marry her, but he felt rotten for not telling her the whole truth concerning his prospects in life. Of course, if he had told her, she wouldn’t have married him. She was on some kind of crazy mission to save him from himself, and he didn’t want to ruin her picnic by raining on it.
    Oh, no. He’d let her think he was a ne’er-do-well. Once they were reacquainted, he’d pick his time and reveal that she had not married a pauper, down on his luck and in need of a savior. He fervently hoped she would be justly chagrined when she realized she had misjudged him. If any lesson was to be learned here, she was the one who needed to learn it. He stood slightly to the left and behind her for a few moments, watching her smooth her gray gloves over her hands. He could see a mysterious smile teasing the corners of her mouth. Running the tip of his tongue lightly over his lips, he hoped he could still taste her, but he couldn’t. The kiss had been too brief. Ah, well, there would be plenty of time to remedy that …
    A series of cracks split the air. Adele let out a startled cry. Acting on pure instinct, Reno grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him, shielding her from what he knew to be gunfire.
    “You rotten devil!” a man screamed, clutching his chest as he stumbled backward out of a saloon directly across the street from the white church.
    Another man, gun in hand, strode out of the saloon and aimed his firearm carefully, deliberately. “I told you I don’t like coffee drinkers in a saloon. It ain’tnatural.” The gun shot fire again, discharging a bullet that plowed through the wounded man’s heart and killed him before he hit the dust.
    Reno shook his head, baffled by the killer’s lack of humanity. The gunman holstered his Colt .45, turned slowly, and sauntered back into the saloon. Reno looked up at the gold lettering: BLACK KNIGHT SALOON . Feeling Adele trembling behind him, he pivoted to face her.
    “Are you all right?”
    She drew in a quick breath. “I suppose. Is that man … should I run for the doctor?”
    “He’s dead,” Reno assured her. “The man who shot him, was that the saloon owner?”
    “No. Taylor Terrapin owns that despicable place.”
    “Terrapin.” Reno glanced up thoughtfully. “That name sounds familiar. I might have met him somewhere before.”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised, seeing as how you seem to love what he sells—rotgut whiskey and the road to ruin.”
    He studied her and bit back a denial. If she was so damned determined to make him a rotter, maybe he should oblige her. Might be fun. Tearing his gaze from her stern countenance—she sure didn’t look like a happy bride!—he noticed that the dead man had been left in the street.
    “Shouldn’t someone collect the body?”
    “Someone will,” she assured him. “Terrapin will send for the undertaker.”
    “Sounds like you’re used to this kind of gunplay.”
    “Happens all the time in Whistle Stop,” she told him, her tone heavy with resignation.
    “Where’s the sheriff?”
    She wrinkled her nose and bobbed her chin at the saloon. “In there, upstairs probably. Most nights he sleeps with one of Terrapin’s two-drink whores.”
    “Two drink …?” He shook his head. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
    “Two drinks and you own them for the evening,” she translated, one slim brow lifting in cool disdain. “Since our sheriff is in bed, so to speak, with the criminals, we decent folks don’t expect much from him.”
    “Charming town you’ve picked to live in, Dellie.” He grinned, trying to engage her good humor. She moved down the church steps without cracking a smile. “Dellie, my dear, you’d better look more pleasant. This is your wedding