The Bounty Hunter and the Heiress Read Online Free PDF

suited as a rag.
    Raven plucked up two black shirts then set them on the counter. As an afterthought, he picked up a plaid shirt and brown breeches for Hoodoo Lemoyne, the older man who kept the home fires burning in Raven’s mountain cabin. The clerk hastily tallied the expenses so he could get Raven out of his store as quickly as possible.
    Ah, how he longed to be working around the mining camps tucked in the mountain valleys. At least there, where the lines of civilization weren’t so strictly defined, he wasn’t treated as such an outcast. Then again, he reminded himself, he wasn’t accepted readily much of anywhere and he’d become accustomed to his solitary existence.
    Tucking his purchases in his saddlebag, Raven scooped up his saddle, rifle and gear then spent a long moment lamenting his fallen horse. That buckskin called Buck had listened patiently while Raven rambled. He knew what Raven expected of him during a frantic chase and he trotted loyally to him when he whistled. Losing Buck was like losing a trusted friend.
    Raven strode deliberately down the boardwalk, sending citizens veering off like the Red Sea parting for Moses. Once inside the stagecoach depot, Raven purchased his ticket to travel south. He sprawled negligently in a chair—away from the three men and the woman who would soon be wedged in the coach with him during the journey.
    Hat pulled low on his forehead, Raven crossed his arms over his chest. Stretching out his long legs then crossing them at the ankles, Raven settled in to get some more shut-eye before the stage departed.
    The whiskey he’d consumed the previous night left him with a dull headache. Missing several nights of sleep to remain on constant alert was catching up with him.
    From beneath the shadowed brim of his hat, he could see the men and woman fidgeting nervously at the prospect of sharing confining space in the coach. If he cared in the least—which of course, he didn’t—their distaste of what he represented would dent his pride. But, like a cougar in the wilds, he had come to terms with his isolated lifestyle and didn’t brood about it.
    Tracking criminals for bounty was what he was good at. He supposed he could sign on as a deputy marshal or city marshal in some nameless little town. As long as he clipped his hair, dressed strictly in white’s man’s clothing and made a conscious effort to look civilized. Yet, the very idea…
    His rambling thoughts scattered like a covey of quail when the door creaked open and a woman entered. Raven had learned to school his facial expressions and give none of his thoughts away years ago. But he was stunned to the bone when he recognized the woman whose curly auburn hair danced like flames in the sunlight. She was the very same female who had dared to approach his room and make demands the previous night. She was even more fetching in daylight, especially when she discarded shapeless masculine clothing in favor of feminine apparel.
    This morning she had dressed in a modest but flattering calico gown that accentuated every voluptuous feminine curve and swell. And she had plenty of them in all the right places, he noted. She carried a matching parasol and wore a hat that boasted a couple of feathers and ribbons. War bonnet, most likely in her case, he mused as a wry grin crossed his lips. Indian custom had nothing on white civilization, he decided. Undoubtedly, the woman had girded herself up for another confrontation to urge him to take her assignment. Waste of time though it was.
    Without acknowledging her arrival, he surveyed Miss Calico. She stood about five foot six inches and weighed about one hundred and ten pounds—give or take. She passed a polite smile around the depot then focused her full attention on him. Still he didn’t move or alert her that he recognized her from the previous confrontation.
    If she planned to open another lively debate with an attentive audience on