A/N: Here's the next chapter, everyone. I am so glad that the western, complete with sexy cowboys, is still alive and well, judging by the amount of reads and comments this story has received. Please make sure you vote, fan and comment, to move this story up the ranks. Thanks so much to everyone!
Margaret Mary O’Malley was a great judge of character. Her late husband had said so nearly every day, right up until the afternoon he’d been killed in a marauding Indian attack several years earlier. And Margaret Mary had believed him.
“Margaret Mary, me-darlin’,” he’d say with that twinkle in his sky blue eyes that she dearly loved to gaze into and missed seeing ever since his death, “ You can tell a weasel of a man from a prince even before he opens his mouth, and that’s the truth. Ye have The Sight, my love, and that’s no blarney.”
Whether that was really true or not Margaret Mary couldn’t really say, being God-fearing and all. But she did realize she understood people.
So when the dusty, lanky stranger showed up on her boardinghouse doorstep asking for a room one day, looking defeated and trail-weary, it only took the Irish woman a split second to agree. Gazing into his silver, snake charmer’s eyes she’d seen death, suppressed anger, and sorrow. And while each of those emotions examined separately might have tempted her to turn him away, taken collectively Marge found herself accepting him as a boarder, with her usual stipulations.
“Rent’s due on Fridays. You miss the deadline, sheriff’s out here haulin’ your sorry carcass off to jail for trespassin’ the followin’ morning. Meals are at seven, noon, and six. I expect clean hands and boots, and no spurs at the table or in the house. There’s no smokin’ in bed, no entertainin’ anyone in your room, and if you chew, make sure you don’t miss the spittoon; I don’t cotton to stains on my clean floors.”
Taking a breath while steadily holding the gunman’s gaze, Margaret Mary was surprised to see a glint of humor behind those icy orbs, most likely put there by her rules. Well, the next one would wipe that amusement right off his face…
“And when you’re in the house your guns get locked in my downstairs safe. Everyone’s. No exceptions. If that’s a deal-breaker, then adios.”
Yup, there it went. The gunfighter’s face turned to stony disbelief, blue eyes widening as he carefully licked his lips in preparation to speaking. Margaret Mary found herself wondering which argument he would use—
“You’ll take my gun?”
Margaret Mary’s Kelly green eyes sizzled into his while she replied unequivocally, “Yessir. There’s no need to have one in your room. Ain’t nobody comin’ into your space, Sir. Not in my establishment. An’ I have a shotgun at my disposal for any thievin’ varmints. Can shoot the rattle right off a rattler at thirty yards, so don’t you go worryin’ none about your virtue, Mister. It’s safe with me.”
Margaret Mary laughed uproariously at her own joke while the gunman settled his hypnotic stare onto her. Wouldn’t matter; she’d stared down tougher hombres than this man, and would do so again.
Meeting him look for look she continued, leaning a negligent shoulder against the white painted door jam, “Now, you can keep your gun if you want to bed down out in the barn with your horse; which, by the way, you have to take care of yourself. I have the feed, but muckin’ and feedin’ is your responsibility.”
The gunslinger shrugged, commenting dismissively, “That’s fine; I do it anyway. But…my gun?”
His frown was comical to Margaret Mary. Lordy, but men treated their weapons like—well, like an extension of themselves!
“That’s what I said. Make up your mind, Sir; I have a boarding house to run.”
Once more their gazes collided; his gunmetal grays no match for the half-century old Irish woman.
Shrugging in defeat the gunman said briefly, “Fine. You’ve got a deal.”
He bent to methodically start untying the gun from his muscular thigh with slim, tanned fingers. Margaret Mary let her held-in breath out on a sigh…
Now, a week later, while slapping the last offender of cleanliness up on the clothesline strung out behind the gabled, two-story home she’d transformed into that successful boarding house, Margaret Mary, Marge to just about everyone, paused in her early morning chore to watch the gunslinger make his familiar trek out to the barn to feed his horse.
The man was certainly a contradiction. He killed people for a living, yet day after day she’d witnessed him leave the house after requesting his gun and head straight out to his horse, choosing to groom, feed, and clean out its stall before he even came in for breakfast. She hadn’t seen many men do that; livestock came second to most men’s creature comforts, but the gunman was an exception. Marge admired that trait. After all, hadn’t her husband cared for his animals just as much?
With those thoughts swirling in her head and the laundry all strung out on the line behind her like soldiers awaiting orders, Marge hefted the empty basket under one arm and headed down the slope in order to way-lay the gunfighter with a request she hoped would benefit them both.
Dust motes floated in the early morning sunlight as the older woman entered the barn. The pungent odor of new hay and healthy equine assailed her nostrils while she deliberately dragged her booted feet on the dirt so as not to startle the gunman and get shot for her trouble.
The muted jingle of the horse’s halter and low, murmured words uttered from McQuade’s lips led Marge straight to the gunfighter occupied in methodically currying the large, bay stallion secured in the opening of the animal’s stall.
Lean, hard arm muscles shifting under the blue work shirt and black vest McQuade wore caught Marge’s attention. Capable, tanned hands smoothed over the horse’s shining coat, causing the animal’s skin to shiver in response to its master’s gentle touch, a gentle caress probably extended to his lovemaking skills, Marge mused.
Realizing with a jolt the bend her thoughts were taking and that she was admiring the play of muscles displayed under the snug shirt the gunslinger wore, Marge crinkled her nose at that feminine weakness and announced her presence by clearing her throat and saying, “Excuse me, Mr. McQuade?”
Without looking up or slowing in his chore, apparently already uncannily aware of her presence, the gunfighter interrupted, “It’s Sonny.”
“Yes. May I ask you a favor?”
Sonny McQuade paused and glanced up at Marge under his hat brim, hands resting on the horse’s withers.
Silence.
Snared in the hired gun’s unwavering gaze, Marge shifted her feet nervously, reassembled her backbone, and replied, “Would you be able to drive me into town today? I have supplies to pick up and don’t really want to lift them all by my lonesome. Unless, of course, you already have plans?”
Marge blinked guilelessly up at McQuade, knowing damn well all he did every morning was tend his horse, eat his breakfast alone, then saddle up and ride away for a good portion of the day, only to return and repeat the process.
The boardinghouse matron couldn’t fathom where he disappeared to day after day but, mentally shaking her head to clear her ponderings, Marge’s eyes focused on McQuade once more, finding him studying her with narrowed, silver eyes, attempting to discern any ulterior motives.
