Patricia Hagan Read Online Free PDF Page A

faded brown trousers. “No bones broken. Now what’s all this about? I don’t like someone slipping up behind me with a gun.”
    Looking at him closely, she felt a strange rush. He had the most unusual eyes she had ever seen, so dark they were almost black, but narrow, as though his lids were partly closed. But he could see her very well anyway. Sleepy eyes, a deep, thoughtful gaze. And the way he was looking at her with those strangely beautiful eyes made her feel very odd indeed.
    His face was rugged, but nice. His lips were firm, yet looked soft. His hair was as black as the water at night, damp, clinging to his neck, sideburns tapering in front of his ears. His trousers were tight against firm thighs, and the way his shirt stretched across his chest and arms, he surely had rock-hard muscles. His shoulders were broad and strong, too.
    He let her stare at him as long as she wanted to, and then he said, “Put that gun down—unless you plan to use it. If you do plan to use it,” he gave her a crooked smile, “make the first shot count, because you won’t get a second.”
    She held the gun steady. “This is my land and you have no business here.”
    He took a step closer, and she realized that the top of her head came barely to his shoulder. Why did she like the sudden protective feeling that his exuding strength gave her?
    He held out his hand. “You don’t want to shoot me. You have no reason to. My name’s Scott Colter, and I’m just passing through.”
    “And you swear you didn’t set that trap?” she asked, staring at his outstretched fingers.
    He shook his head. “Believe me.”
    She laid the gun aside and shook his hand. “Holly Maxwell. Sorry about the gun, but what was I to think?”
    “What are you doing out here in this wilderness?” he asked.
    She stared up at him, chiding herself for the feeling of vulnerability overcoming her. “I told you. This is my land. I live here.”
    “Your land?” he echoed.
    She tilted her head defiantly. “This is one piece of land the damn Yankee carpetbaggers didn’t get. It’s mine. My grandpa left it to me, and I paid the taxes this morning. Nobody can take it away from me.”
    He continued smiling, which infuriated her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
    He studied her face. “I was in the war; I wanted some time to myself, to get my thoughts together after all the killing I’ve seen. I didn’t realize I’d get somebody’s dander up just being here.”
    Holly snatched up the gun again. “Are you a goddamn Yankee bastard or did you fight for the South?” He laughed, and she said sharply, “Keep laughing. You’re one word from being blown to hell, and that word is ‘Yankee.’”
    Scott Colter thanked heaven that he had never lost his Texas drawl. “You really do hate Yankees, don’t you?” Then, without giving her time to answer, he went on, “It’s strange, a pretty young girl so bitter.”
    “What were you laughing at?”
    “Your language,” he murmured. “You still need your mouth washed out with soap.”
    Holly wouldn’t let herself be deflected. “Are you a Yankee bastard, I asked you.” His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. “I won’t ask you again, mister.” She raised the gun.
    Moving so quickly she didn’t have time to stop him, he grabbed the gun and tossed it aside. Towering over her, he said, “I told you, I don’t like guns pointed at me. Now, if it’s any of your business, I’m a Southerner. I’m from Texas.”
    Holly shrugged. “All you had to do was say so.”
    “Would you have shot me if I weren’t a Southerner?” he challenged. “The war is over. Can’t we live in peace now?”
    Holly laughed. “You sound like my mother. I hate Yankees and I always will. That’s why I’m living here, in the swamp, where there aren’t any, thank God.”
    She walked over and picked up the rifle. He made no move to stop her. Without looking at him, she murmured, “I’ve got to go,” and she started back