Page 7 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“Oh?” Owen hitched his elbow on the sill while he waited for his letters to be gathered.

How did the dance of his gaze over her figure feel so much like a physical caress? Her entire body tingled to life.

This was what carnal knowledge did to a woman. She used to blush if a man looked at her, confused by it, not fully understanding why she felt singled out and uncomfortable. Now, as Owen Stames gave her his full attention, she flushed in an entirely different way. She was accosted by a breathless awareness and a sense of possibility. She thought things. How would it feel to do those things with him?

...chasing skirt at the cat house...

Her veins stung and she hardened herself against him, making herself stand taller.

“Actually, your Mr. Gardner invited my father, Reginald Goodrich, to write a report for him. I have the letter here.” She started to retrieve it from her purse.

“Don’t bother.” He grew more circumspect. “You can tell me what it says.”

“It promises that your company will underwrite his feasibility study for a railroad.”

“Are we getting a railroad, Owen?” the next man in the queue asked.

The word railroad went down the line like a chugging steam engine, eliciting a few hoots along the way.

“You know I want in on that, Owen,” someone called from the caboose. “Come see me when you’re looking for investors.”

Owen glanced in that direction, then back at her. He looked her up and down again, but this time it was an assessment that was more objective, judging her character in a way that made her want to shift in discomfort.

“Is your father here?” he asked.

“In Denver? Not yet.” She realized another bead had fallen off her purse, leaving a loose thread. “He fell from his horse while we were on the trail. He’s recovering in Fort Kearney. He can’t ride, so he sent me ahead to request funds for a stage ticket, to bring him the rest of the way.” Oh, it felt good to finally make that request to the men who would grant it. All her pent-up worries began to subside.

“A stage ticket.” He accepted his bundle of letters and shook his head at the man inside, who had perked up at the words. “No, I’m not buying one right now.”

“Wait!” Temperance cried, even though Owen only stepped away from the window, so the next man could move up.

Tremendous. She could feel every pair of eyes on her now, as though she were performing a piece of street theatre for their entertainment. She stepped further along the boardwalk, seeking a shred of privacy.

“It’s only from Fort Kearney. Mr. Gardner made an arrangement with my father. He promised that if Papa made his way here, your company would cover his expenses for the duration of his stay.”

“If that’s what Virgil promised, then that’s what we’ll do,” Owen said with an amiable nod that lifted her hopes again. “But your father has to make his way here.”

Was he enjoying this? He was wearing that subtle grin.

“I’m here.” She tapped the middle of her chest with so much force it hurt, but talking to him made her feel as though she was knocking against a brick wall.

“And who are you?”

“His daughter.” Obviously. “Temperance Goodrich.”

“I thought your name was Rose.” He canted his head and gave her a narrow look from the corner of his eye, as though he’d caught her in a lie.

“Rose is my second name,” she said with indignation.

“Uh huh.”

“It is,” she insisted. “Now, if we could sit down somewhere to discuss the particulars?—”

“Which particulars?”

Was he genuinely obtuse or playing dumb? She gathered her patience.

“Your Mr. Gardner promised my father accommodation and the necessary funds to outfit him for the report he’ll write. Supplies. A guide if he needs to traverse into the mountains, etcetera.”

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