The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford

polishing the tin against his tidy black sleeve before riding into camp.

      Her four charges stomped and huffed, rubbing their hands against chill shoulders. Despite the deputy’s blustering threat, their expressions were dull and uncomprehending. The girls blinked and yawned, wrinkled and blurry-eyed from sleep.

      The sheriff smoothed his neat, dark coat into place and focused his attention on John. “Your name?”

      “John Elder,” the cowboy replied, his voice a low growl.

      He kept his face averted from Moira. Come to think of it, John hadn’t met her eyes once this morning. As though sensing her perusal, he turned, revealing his stark profile and the hard set of his jaw. There was nothing reassuring about his demeanor and her chest throbbed with something weighty and ragged.