Page 6 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“Careful,” she said with a falsely sweet smile. “Chasing leads to catching.”

The noise that came out of him was somewhere between a sputter and the honk of a goose.

“Listen, Owen.” The grumbling behind him subsided as a bearded, dusty miner leaned forward to tug at Owen’s sleeve. “You can’t just pay the man at the front so you can cut in line and take up half our day while they sort your mail.”

“But I can, hoss,” he said over his shoulder. “If you’d like enough dust in your pocket to do the same, come see us. We’re always looking for hard workers. We pay a fair wage.”

“I have my own claim to work.”

“Offer’s always open,” Owen said mildly.

“Ma’am?” the postmaster called.

“Oh.” The man before her had finally moved on. Temperance quickly stepped forward with her most pleasant smile, even though she was still unsettled by Owen’s chasing skirt.

It only affirmed what a reprobate he was, but it still bothered her, probably because she couldn’t shake her infernal awareness of him. In fact, she felt as though his stare was traveling all over the crushed back of her gown.

“Good morning,” she greeted the clerk. “I’m wondering if you’ve received?—”

“Goodrich?” He recognized her.

“Yes.” She had her quarter at the ready.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.” She was exactly like these disappointed miners who turned away every day, heartbroken at receiving nothing. “And what of Mr. Gardner of the Venturous Mining company? Have you received any indication that he’s in town?”

“No, but that’s his partner, Owen Stames, right there.”

No. She wanted to close her eyes and die. She was so wilted by this awful news, her arm dropped to her side, and she accidentally let her quarter slip from her nerveless fingers.

“No!” She had to chase it as it rolled, threatening to wobble through a crack in the boardwalk.

A boot stepped on it, trapping it before it fell.

No, no, noooo.

Had he heard the man tell her who he was? She straightened, flushed and disconcerted. The heat from his intense blue eyes pierced her straight in her chest.

He bent and picked up the coin, pausing when she opened her palm for it.

For one second, she thought he was going to keep it. Despair rose so thick in her throat, she stopped breathing.

“No use soiling your gloves.” He indicated she should open her purse while he gave the coin a rub on his pant leg, as though imbuing it with luck before he dropped it in.

“Thank you.” Her throat had become a shadow of its former self.

“If you’re answering one of Virgil’s ads for a bride, you’ll have to get in a line longer than this one,” Owen drawled, thumbing toward the queue.

“That’s a good one, Owen,” the man behind him said with a chuckle.

“Are you finished at the window?” Owen asked.

“Y-yes.” Ugh. He had heard she was looking for his partner. How mortifying.

But as much as she would have loved to run straight back to Mrs. Pincher’s and scream into a pillow, she didn’t have that luxury. She had been waiting nearly two weeks for one of these men to show up.

“I actually have business with you and your partners.”

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