Trouble at Lone Spur. Roz Fox Denny

      “It’s not far,” Gil said, riding up beside her. “Come on, ride with me.” He leaned from the saddle and stretched out a hand.

      Liz felt her eagerness fade in a rush of embarrassment, even though she’d made her living working with men since Corbett died. She’d learned to sidestep advances and had developed a no-nonsense handshake, but it had been more than six years since she’d slid her arms around a man’s waist. And, Lord, when you weren’t intimate with the man, what did you do with your hands? Just now Liz tucked them in her back pockets and gave a little shake of her head.