Page 19 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

Owen straightened from scratching the dog’s ear to glance over his shoulder at the fresh horse droppings she was steering him into. Cute.

The dog caught a whiff and walked over to drop and roll in it.

“Oh, yes, do that,” she said to the dog, flailing her exasperated hand. “That will improve opinions of me at your house, won’t it?”

“What’s his name?” Owen asked.

“He’s not mine.”

“That’s a mouthful when calling him.”

If gold could be found in a deadpan look like the one she presented to him, he would be the richest man in the west right now.

“His name is Clarence.” She leapt to her feet as the dog heard his name and gathered himself to trot toward her. “No! Down.”

A precarious dance ensued as she swished and spun, trying to avoid the dog’s shitty fur brushing her skirt.

Owen couldn’t help it. He began to chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” she insisted as she stepped up onto the bench.

“I disagree.” This was the best thing he’d seen since Marigold had threatened to brain Virgil with a chamber pot.

“He belongs to my landlady, but he won’t go home.” She leaned down to project the last as an order directed at Clarence.

“What am I missing?” Owen looked from the shit-smeared dog to the way she continued to hold up her skirts while standing on the bench. “Is it not a matter of going home yourself and he’ll follow?”

“You would think,” she said tartly. “But you would be wrong.”

She bent to pick up her abandoned letter from the bench and folded it before pushing it into her bag.

She looked at the dog, at Owen, then at the people on the far side of the street, all craning their necks at the sight of her behaving as though she had something important to impart to an invisible crowd. She exhaled her profound displeasure.

“Don’t let me keep you. Go about your day.” She swept her hand as though shooing chickens. Her hopeful gaze landed on the dog, clearly wanting him to follow Owen.

Owen didn’t move. Neither did Clarence.

Temperance Rose Goodrich had been on Owen’s mind from the moment he had met her. Yesterday morning his thoughts had been of the less wholesome variety, the kind that involved the mental removal of that worse-for-wear gown while he tamed his morning erection. A deeper curiosity had taken hold after their chat at the stage office and later at the saloon. Who was her father, really? What else did she know about mining? Had she been telling the truth about working for her father or was she a very accomplished rook artist?

“I’m on my way to a cookhouse,” he informed her. “They serve corncakes with molasses, fried sausage, and coffee strong enough to pull a cart. Will you join me? My treat.”

Her mouth opened with what he suspected was a desire to refuse, but she stopped herself. For several unsteady lifts and falls of her chest, she held his gaze, jaw working.

He’d seen that look before, most often on the faces of his partners. It was the war between pride and hunger. Owen had never held himself to such staunch moral standards. He’d gone hungry so often that if someone wanted to buy him a meal, he damned well let them.

After a tight-lipped look to the purse where she had stored her letter—he had a strong feeling it contained nothing else—she tugged on her gloves.

The dog had wandered to lift his leg against a spittoon, so she allowed Owen to help her down from the bench. She didn’t fall into step with him, though, forcing him to stop and look back at her when he realized she had hung back.

“What exactly do you think you’ll get in return for buying me breakfast?” she asked with suspicion.

“I don’t buy favors from women, Miss Goodrich.”

“You did last night.”

“When?” He never.

“You gave me a dollar to sit on your knee.”