The Horseman. Jillian Hart

would he offer her to next? Ned? Or Rhodes? There was the cold-eyed cowpoke, following Ned out of the storm. The small, mean-spirited man held his rifle still, cocked and ready. Eager to earn what he considered a fortune at the unholy killing of that mystical stallion.

      What if Rhodes had found the Appaloosa and Willman had offered Katelyn as the prize?

      Dillon’s guts twisted so hard he missed the bottom porch step. The thought of the cowboy’s grimy, stubby fingers on her creamy satin skin made his vision blur. Rage roared through him like a firestorm, obliterating everything as he kicked his boots off in the corner and jammed wood into the potbellied stove with enough force to dent steel.

      She wasn’t his to protect. He knew it.

      It went to show how much he sparked for her.

      “The horseman’s in a good mood,” Rhodes quipped as he stomped into the bunkhouse, snow crumbling off his boots and onto the plank floor. “Pissed you didn’t get the reward, I reckon. Good, ’cuz it takes a real man to take down a piece of horseflesh like that. Knows these prairies, and where to hide. Don’t worry yourself none, ’cuz I plan to draw him out.”

      “If you figure on taking one of Willman’s prized mares with you, one in heat, don’t figure on it working.” Dillon couldn’t believe how dumb some men could be. That animal had been wounded. He’d be doubly hard to hunt down now. “Take off your damn boots. I’m not sweeping up that mess.”

      He jammed the door shut, needing a target for his anger and knowing the danger in that. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this furious. A raging mad that whirled inside him like a hurricane, growing inside itself until it threatened to break down his control. And all because of a woman.

      He was a sad, sorry man. He ached for her as he washed the hard ride’s grime from his face and brushed his teeth in front of the cracked mirror in the necessary room. His reflection confirmed it. Lines on his face, the deep furrows in his brow. He was troubled, no doubt about it.

      His bunk was damn cold. The sheets crackled with frost as he hunkered down between them. The old tin lantern cast a sputtering light, enough to read by if he squinted some. The brazen words of William Blake drew him into the poem but did not take his mind from her.

      He could see the light of her bedroom window, if he leaned to the left and craned his neck just right. The ranch house was dark except for one faint gleam in her window. A single candle, he wagered, flickering around her as she stood at the foot of her bed. He felt like a criminal watching her.

      No decent man peered into a lady’s bedroom window, but he looked anyway. She’d left the curtains open, and he saw the graceful curve of her back as she stooped, folding something with care. The way she bent, elegant and slender, the perfect rounding of her spine elongated her neck and accentuated the alluring curve of her full breasts.

      Desire pulsed through him like a whip’s lash. Fast. Unexpected. Fierce. The snap of it surprised him. He was rock hard, his long johns straining, suddenly tight at his groin as he leaned toward the small grubby window that gave him a view of hers.