9

Shepard bent and retrieved her derringer from the boardwalk, wiping it against the only dry spot on his shirt. He then took a moment to study it before holding it out in his palm for her to take.

Murmuring her thanks, Hazel returned it to her pocket and tried her best to not give in to the urge to stare at Shepard. "Why were you looking for me in the first place?"

"These men causing you trouble, Miss Isadora?" Thomas asked, holding the doors open on either side of him.

"No..." Hazel said with a quick shake of her head. She cast a trembling smile his way before looking at Shepard, "They're old friends."

Thomas frowned, indecision over what his next course of action should be written plain on his face before he nodded to Hazel and retreated into the saloon.

Shepard arched a brow and nodded to the empty doorway with his chin, "He a beau of yours?"

Hazel scowled, "That's none of your business, Shepard Devereaux."

The saloon doors squealed as Thomas stepped outside once more, leveling a suspicious glare at Shepard before turning to Hazel. "Devereaux—as in The Devil Devereaux?"

Shepard curled his hands into tight fists as he walked over and stood in front of Thomas, forcing him to tip his head back to meet Shepard's angry stare. Then, leaning down, ensuring the shorter man heard him loud and clear, Shepard growled, "I hate that nickname."

Thomas raised his hands as he took a quick step back, bumping into the doors. "No offense, mister..." flicking a wary glance to Hazel, he stammered, "I'll just... be in here... if you need me, Miss Isadora."

Shepard watched Thomas retreat, inwardly gloating at how quick and easy he'd managed to scare the little man away. "He's awful short for a woman of your stature... no taller than a child."

Hazel rolled her eyes and bit back a grin. "You ever consider maybe I like my men on the short side?" She settled her hands on her hips and quirked a brow, "Saves me from getting a crick in my neck like I do from staring up at the tall ones."

Thunder rolled above, punctuated by a crash of lightning that illuminated the street and clouds. Hazel flinched and glanced at the sky. She hated thunderstorms; had despised them for as long as she could remember.

But her loathing of their awful racket that reverberated in her chest in a most unpleasant way had grown a hundredfold after the night her mother was murdered when the violent crashing of thunder drowned out her cries for help until it was too late.

Hazel shrunk from the memories and swallowed the pain the noise dredged up. "You never answered my question," she said to Strickland.

He glanced at Shepard, then looked back at her, "Is there a place we might be able to talk? Somewhere a little more private... away from curious eyes and ears."

His tone caused shivers of foreboding to race along Hazel's skin.

Forcing a swallow down her parched throat, she licked her lips and rubbed her arms to ward off a sudden chill. "My dress shop is across the street, if that'll do?"

Shepard and Strickland nodded and followed her out into the muddy road.

Hazel grabbed up her skirts, holding them as high as she dared to save them from getting soiled with mud. She slipped twice and would have ended up flat on her face the second time if not for Shepard catching her around the waist and setting her back on her feet.

Mortified, frazzled, and trembling from head to toe—due to her soaked and chilled state, she was sure, and nothing to do with Shepard's nearness—Hazel mumbled her thanks and hurried the rest of the way.

She led them to the back entrance when they reached her shop, hoping to avoid tracking mud through the front showroom and stomped her feet on the back porch to loosen the gobs from her ankle boots before crossing to light an oil lamp on a nearby table. The room housed her sewing machine and a large table she used for marking and cutting patterns.

Her green crushed velvet triple-backed loveseat was shoved in the far corner near the back door and small wood-burning stove. Bolts of fabric in every color a person could dream of lined two entire walls of shelves from top to bottom.

On the third wall, spools of colorful thread stood on display on either side of the large window, held on their own individual spindle. Beside them stood her dress form on rolling casters clothed in a navy calico gown in need of hemming and a short bookshelf packed with decorative trims and baskets full of other dressmaking supplies.

A steep staircase tucked in the corner led up to her living quarters, and two navy velvet curtain partitions beside it, the one on the right leading to the front of the shop and the other to a dressing room, occupied the fourth wall.

It was a cozy little place, one she'd spent all of the money she'd saved over the past six years to lease, and she couldn't help but gaze at her surroundings with a sense of pride at having attained it—even if it was a struggle to keep it up and running for the time being.

"Make yourselves comfortable." Glancing over her shoulder at the men, she wiped rain and hair out of her eyes as she crossed to the stairs. "If you'd be so kind as to start a fire in the stove, I'll run and grab a few towels for you both to dry off with."

Shepard doffed his hat as he watched her scurry up the stairs and took a deep breath in the vain effort to calm the furious pounding of his heart. He still couldn't believe they were here with her.

His mind was all a jumble, and his hands trembled with nerves. He shook his head and glanced at Strickland, wondering if the Marshal had noticed and found him grinning like an idiot.

"What?"

Strickland arched a brow as he leaned in and whispered, "You know what— you're plum lovesick, son."

Shepard grunted and ignored him, hanging his hat next to Strickland's on the wall while Strickland crossed to the little stove and worked at starting a fire. Removing his boots and soaked coat, Shepard hung it over a stool and placed both near the stove to dry.

"You plan on stripping down to your drawers next?" Strickland murmured as he straightened to his full height. "Miss Hazel may have been raised in a whore house, but I doubt she's all too eager to take a gander at your chilled wobbly bits right now."

Hazel's laughter from upstairs carried to them.

"I'm still fully clothed, Jonesy, don't you worry," Shepard called up to her, blushing.

Lowering his voice, he bit back a grin as he pointed to Strickland's jacket and boots in a similar arrangement in front of the stove, "I'm only following your lead, old man."

Strickland chuckled and adjusted his boots to allow Shepard a little more room, straightening to attention when Hazel tromped downstairs carrying towels and wearing a dry custard yellow shirtwaist and simple brown skirt.

Her wet hair fell in loose curls to her waist, making Shepard's fingers itch to touch and see if it felt as soft and silky as it looked.

"I apologize for taking so long," she handed them each a towel, then disappeared behind one of the blue velvet curtains for a moment before returning with clothing in her hands.

"A fresh shirt and pair of underthings and trousers for both of you. I learned early on, having ready-wear essentials for men was the best way to keep customers and cash coming through the door in a town like this. These will fit nicely."

Strickland and Shepard both opened their mouths in quiet protest, only to be cut off mid-sentence when Hazel shoved the clothes in their arms. "Don't you dare argue with me." She crossed over to the dressing room and pulled back the curtain, "You may take turns changing in here if you're concerned about modesty. I don't mind either way."

Both men stared at her, unmoving.

Hazel arched a brow and crossed her arms over her chest, looking like a disapproving schoolmarm. "Honestly," she grumbled, "you know as well as I do, you're liable to catch your death of cold if you remain in those wet clothes a minute longer."

Shepard nudged Strickland with his elbow, "You first."

With a great show of reluctance, Strickland covered a wheezy cough as he walked toward the dressing room like a scolded puppy, blushing as he murmured his thanks and pulled the curtain closed behind him.

Hazel stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand as she reached into her pocket and crossed to stand in front of Shepard. "I believe this belongs to you... "

Shepard stared down at the damaged roll of bills with Elias's bullet still lodged inside and shook his head, "You won it fair and square."

Hazel scoffed, "I'm not taking your money, Shepard... you didn't look at your cards once tonight—it doesn't seem right to keep it."

He shrugged and dropped the towel and fresh change of clothes on the table to his right. Holding Hazel's gaze, his fingers went to his button fly, "The money's yours, Jonesy... now unless you care to get an eyeful of my chilled wobbly bits as Strickland called them, you might want to put those bills with the rest of your winnings upstairs while I change."

Her gaze narrowed, and her grip tightened on the wad of money. She studied Shepard for a moment, unsure of his intentions. "Are you attempting to frighten me or make me blush? Because there isn't anything you have, I haven't seen before, and well you know it."

Shepard muttered a curse as he grabbed hold of the back of his sopping wet shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it on the floor with a splat. "You're about to find out you ain't seen nothing like me, sugar."

Strickland burst out laughing from behind the dressing room curtain.

Shepard bit back a chuckle and kept his attention on Hazel. He couldn't help but wonder if she found him appealing, despite the collection of scars marring his chest and arms.

Hazel forced a swallow as her appreciative gaze wandered over the whole expanse of his naked torso. She wanted to run her hands over the swells of glistening sculpted muscle, to prove to herself he was flesh and bone and not some wild fantasy her lonely heart had concocted.

He stood so close, it wouldn't take much effort.

Shepard's gut clenched at the flare of desire in her eyes as they slowly caressed him from chin to waist. And when her hands lifted, his heart hammered in anticipation. However, disappointment crashed through him a moment later when she folded her arms across her chest instead.

"You're a bit hairier than other men I've seen," she murmured, her voice sounding hoarse to her ears, "But otherwise... well-formed like any other ordinary man."

"Am I?" Shepard winked, a crooked grin bending his lips as he released the first two buttons of his fly.

Hazel blushed clear to her hairline.

He leaned in close and whispered, "Last chance, Jonesy."

Hazel tore her gaze away from his broad chest and braced her feet wide, refusing to turn tail and run. "Disrobe down to your nether's; you aren't going to shock me into fleeing. And I'm not keeping the money, Shepard."

"Yes, you are," he growled, unsure if it was cowardice or desperation motivating him to be rid of it.

Perhaps a mixture of the two? All that mattered was doing whatever it took to make her give him some space to get his thoughts and senses back under control.

The longer she remained there smelling of cinnamon and cloves and standing so temptingly close it wouldn't take much to reach out and touch her, the harder it was to refrain from speaking the truth.

He didn't want the damn money.

He never wanted to see it again.

It didn't matter that it was a considerable fortune that meant he wouldn't have to work another day in his life if he didn't care to, not when it was tangible proof of how spectacularly he'd failed to save William.

Hazel arched a brow and lifted her chin to a haughty angle, silently daring him to follow through on his threat of stripping.

Shrugging, Shepard plastered on a carefree grin and shucked his soaked trousers and drawers, letting them join his shirt on the floor with a sloppy-sounding splat.

His heart thumped a wild beat, and he wondered for a brief moment if he'd gone and lost his mind. Surely, the fact he didn't turn and give Hazel his back to preserve some semblance of modesty meant the answer was yes.

Though her blush intensified until it felt like her face was shooting flames to rival those within the stove, Hazel held Shepard's gaze with a determination borne of sheer desperation. She wanted to pat herself on the back when she managed to ignore the temptation to take a peek at anything below his chin. But she refrained.

"Do you normally wander around with that wooly bit of fluff on your face?" She murmured, trying to distract herself and sound unaffected by his nearness while he toweled himself dry before stuffing his legs into the new drawers and pair of trousers.

Shepard scoffed and focused his attention on the mundane task of getting dressed. If he didn't, he'd fall flat on his face.

"Wooly bit of fluff?"

He stood, buttoning the fly, then reached for the dry shirt. Pulling it over his head, he grinned as he thrust his arms into the sleeves and allowed the hem to fall down past his waist, "I seem to recall hearing you wax poetic about how you favored men with beards."

"I was a girl of twelve," she growled low so Strickland wouldn't hear.

The last thing she wanted was for the Marshal to learn she'd been enamored of him during the first seven months she and her mother had moved to San Luis. "My tastes have since matured. It didn't take long to learn beards hide too many secrets; with a clean-shaven man, you know exactly what kind of character you're dealing with."

Shepard grinned and tucked the shirt into his trousers, "What do you think my fluff is hiding, Jonesy? You know what I look like clean-shaven."

"Yes, well... be that as it may, I merely wondered aloud if your wild growth of facial hair is hiding some deformity or weak chin you might have developed over the past six years. Maybe both?"

She allowed her eyes to take in their fill of his face and licked her lips. Hazel bit back a grin and continued, "Only plain, disfigured, or homely men choose to hide their faces in overgrown beards."

"Oh really?"

"Mmm-hmm"

Shepard grinned, "What is it you think they're hiding under their fluff?"

"It's a means at disguising a flaw in their character that would otherwise see them unfit for female companionship."

"You sound awful certain of that."

"It's a fact," Hazel nodded.

Shepard winked, "Good to know."

"Hey now," Strickland called out from behind the curtain, "my Bertie says I'm the most handsome man she's ever laid eyes on; I consider my beard a kindness to the rest of the male species roaming the world. Gives them a fair chance to garner a bit of female attention when they happen to be in the same room as me, you see."

Shepard winked, tucking a lock of Hazel's wet hair behind her left ear as he leaned in until there was only a whisper of space between them.

It was a near-fatal mistake and made it difficult to keep his attention on anything other than the sudden desire to steal a kiss. But somehow, he managed to utter, "I'll sharpen my razor tonight, Jonesy; when you set eyes on me tomorrow, you won't be able to keep your hands off me."

Hazel swallowed, liking the way his eyes warmed as they fell on her mouth. His right thumb brushed against her cheek, eliciting shivers of pleasure.

Was he as affected by her nearness as she was by his? She hoped so. It seemed unendurable if she proved to be the one finding the act of breathing only slightly more manageable now that he was dressed.

"You're a terrible tease, Shepard Thaddeus Devereaux."

"Who says I'm teasing?"

"Are you decent, Shepard?" Strickland pushed the curtain aside and peeked his head out, "All wobbly bits hidden from sight?"

Hazel forced a chuckle and took advantage of the Marshal's interruption, stuffing the roll of money down her bodice between corset and camisole as she bent to pick up Shepard's wet trousers and shirt before walking a safe distance away.

Shepard grinned, fighting to ignore a deep sense of disappointment at having Hazel's undivided attention come to an end. Running a hand through his wet hair, he scratched his head and rubbed his bearded jaw, heaving a sigh when Strickland motioned him over beside him on the loveseat.

They hadn't been sitting for more than a few minutes when Strickland, sitting closest to the stove with his elbows perched on his knees, opened his mouth and stated, "Dynamite has found you."

Shepard sat beside him, his right ankle propped on his left knee in a relaxed pose that clashed with the hard glint in his eye. He ground his teeth, wishing Strickland had eased into their purpose for being in Sheridan instead of speaking so bluntly.

Hazel, still smoothing her skirts out around her, stopped mid-motion at the news. Blood drained from her face, her gaze darted to Strickland's and then Shepard's before turning to the flames crackling in the stove. Then, without even realizing she'd done it, she reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around her derringer. "Why would he—are you sure?"

Strickland nodded, "Yup... we've been at least a day and a half behind him the past two weeks in searching for you."