Page 65 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“Now they know how concerned I am about their threats, don’t they?”

He spent the rest of the week closing in the doors behind the drapes before he installed shelving and a mirror against that wall. He built up the polished top of the coffin table into a bar height, keeping lots of space behind it for glasses and bottles. Then he fetched in everything else he’d ordered—furniture, glassware, and, with great ceremony, his first barrel of whiskey.

Temperance went outside to help him guide the barrel in its sling from the wagon to the hole into the cellar, but she wound up standing by while he and his horse did all the work. When the barrel of what he’d taken to calling ‘liquid gold’ was safely on the ground in the hole, they both gusted out a breath, sharing a look of rueful amusement and relief.

Owen was letting his beard grow in for winter. His thick bronze whiskers caught the sunlight as it cut between the buildings, so it glinted with sparks of gold. His hair was ruffled by the wind, and his pleased smile made him look so handsome, she caught her breath again.

His eyes were as intensely blue as the sky. As she gazed into them, she was accosted by the memory of their delicious fondling the other night. They hadn’t talked about it. They’d seemed to have agreed to pretend it hadn’t happened, but the silence was suddenly thick with all those unsaid things.

“I’ll unhook it so we can close these doors. That draft will be going straight up the stairs.” She didn’t wait for his reply, only rushed around the house to the back door.

By the time she was down the ladder and standing next to the barrel, Owen had hooked the end of the hauling rope on the outside wall and closed one of the cellar doors. She unhooked the sling, and he pulled the rest of the rope up.

“I’ll put the horse and wagon away while I’m out here.” He shut the second door, plunging her into the dimness of the cellar where only a thin line of light came through the crack in the ground-level doors.

She blinked to adjust her vision and made her way back up the ladder, moving into the kitchen where she poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot that she kept warm all day for Owen.

A short time later, he came in and removed his leather gloves to rub his hands. He stole her half-full cup, wrapping his long fingers around it. “Thank you.”

“I can pour you one of your own.” She lifted her brow at him.

“No, this is enough.” He knocked it back in a couple of careful gulps, then winked.

“You’re happy,” she noted.

“I will be, if that’s actually whiskey.” He nodded toward the parlor. “Where are the serving bottles?” He set her cup on the table.

“There.” She nodded to the bench where she kept her washing basin and peeled whichever vegetables were going into their nightly stew. “Do you need help?”

“No. Ol’ Murray had a good setup.” He took the bottles and picked up the candle from the sill on his way to the parlor where he opened the trapdoor.

She couldn’t resist following.

When she came down into the cellar, he was working by candlelight. The barrel was still in its sling, but he had moved the hook to another contraption, one that swung the barrel toward the worktable.

Temperance stayed out of his way but circled him to close and lock the doors to the outside portion of the cellar hole.

He guided the barrel into the cradle he had prepared for it, and, when it was securely in place, he removed the sling and put it away on its hook. Then he patted the barrel as though giving a horse an affectionate rub.

“Let’s see how it tastes.” He tapped the barrel, then filled one of the bottles a quarter way with amber liquid. “Ladies first?” He offered it to her.

She hesitated. Aside from wine at Christmas lunch, she rarely tasted alcohol, but she would feel churlish if she refused. She sniffed, thinking the fumes were sharp, but oaky and intriguing.

Very gingerly, she tilted the cold mouth of the bottle against her lips. The wetness hit her tongue and bit into it, then scorched a trail down her throat. She choked slightly and immediately offered the bottle back to him.

A glow of warmth arose in her, but she wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or the flash of his teeth that caused it. He took his own generous gulp and hissed out his breath when he lowered the bottle.

“I thought it would taste worse,” she admitted.

He ran his tongue over his teeth. “It’s a helluva better than Dudley’s. I’ll finish filling these while you change.”

“Into my gown?” she asked with shock. “You want to open?”

“I was going to wait until the piano gets here, but what the hell.”

“When did you order a piano?” she cried.

“I haven’t. That’s why I don’t want to wait for it.” He was wearing his innocent face, and that was a terrible joke, but it was the first one he’d made since the horseshoe, so she couldn’t scold him.

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