A Little Time In Texas. Joan Johnston
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damsels in distress.”
Angel smiled despite the awfulness of the circumstances. “What are you? A knight in shining armor?”
“No. I’m a Texas Ranger.”
“Of all the tom-doodle, gim-crack things I ever heard—why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
“I never got the chance.”
“When I think how scared I was of you—and all for nothing.”
“Does that mean you aren’t scared of me now?”
There was a long pause. “Should I be?”
He snorted. “Not hardly. All I want to do is get you out of here and headed safely home. Then I plan to wash my hands of you and forget I ever met you.”
Absurdly, Angel was irritated by his attitude. So, he couldn’t wait to get shuck of her. Well, it wasn’t any skin off her nose if he did. She would be glad to be shed of him, too.
“What were you doing out there all alone?” he asked.
“Walking.”
“Maybe I should have asked where you were headed.”
“San Antonio.”
“That’s quite a walk from the hill country southwest of Austin, especially for a sprite of a woman like you.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
“I won’t argue with that,” he said, chuckling. “It’s still a long way for a woman to be walking by herself.”
“It’s either travel alone or not at all,” Angel said.
He paused, then asked, “No husband?”
Angel sighed. “No. No family at all.”
The thought of all the walking alone she had yet to do reminded her about her skinned knee. “Do you by any chance have a bandanna?” she asked.
“Sure. Why?”
“My trousers are ripped and my right knee’s getting scraped worse every time I move. I wanted to try and bandage it.”
“I’ll do it.”
Before Angel could protest, Dallas had reached for her. Only he missed her knee and found her thigh. She tensed at the touch of his hand. His fingers walked their way down her leg to her knee.
“Found it,” he said. “Feels like you skinned it pretty bad.”
Angel hissed in a breath of air as his fingers gently probed her wounded knee. She stiffened as he straightened her leg out across his lap and began tying the bandanna in place. She wasn’t used to being touched by anyone, and most especially not by a man.
“That ought to do it,” Dallas said, patting her leg.
Angel suddenly wished it wasn’t so dark. Maybe if she could see the face of this stranger, she wouldn’t feel so awkward in his presence. But there wasn’t any light and wouldn’t be for at least another hour—or two.
“What do you look like?” Angel asked.
There was a long silence. Dallas drew in a breath of air and huffed it out. “I don’t know what to say.”
“What color eyes do you have?”
“Brown.”
“Hair?”
“Brown.”
“How would you describe your face?”
“It’s just a face,” he said curtly.
“You’re not being much help!” Angel snapped back.
“What do you want me to say?”
Angel realized it had been foolish to ask him to describe himself. But she was glad he hadn’t bragged he was handsome…or admitted he was plain. Still, she was curious.
If the situation were different, she would never have asked; but if the situation were different, she wouldn’t have needed to. “Could I touch your face? I think I could tell by feeling, what you look like.”
He hesitated so long she was afraid he was going to refuse. At last he said, “All right.”
To her surprise he lifted her up and set her on his lap facing him, so her legs straddled his waist. It was a far more intimate pose than she would have liked, but she was afraid to complain lest he withdraw his permission for her examination. She was conscious of her breasts inches from his chest, of the heat of his thighs under hers. She could feel his breath on her face. An uncontrollable shiver ran down her spine.
“Anytime you’re ready,” he said.
Angel held her breath as she reached out tentatively in the dark. She found his chin. There was a small cleft in it.
“When was the last time you shaved?” she asked, testing the rough bristle of beard under her fingers.
“Three days ago.”
She slid her hand along his jaw and felt the muscle work under her hand. It was a strong jaw and led to prominent cheekbones. His nose was straight and not too big, but it had a bump along the bridge.
“What happened here?” she asked.
“Broke it in a fistfight. Twice.”
There were wrinkles on his forehead and crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes. He had done some living.
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirty-four next month. How old are you?”
“A lady never tells her age,” she said, then added, “Twenty-two.”
He had a widow’s peak. His hair was thick and soft, and she let her fingers slide through it all the way down to where it curled over his collar.
“You need a haircut.”
“I like it the way it is.”
Apparently he was used to getting his own way.
His eyes were wide-set and large, and the lashes were ridiculously long and curled up from his cheeks where they lay. His eyelids were softer than the skin on the rest of his face, which felt not quite smooth, but not leathery, either. The scar on his cheek intrigued her.
“What happened here?”
“Knife fight.”
She frowned. “Seems you get into a lot of fights.”
“Hazard of the job.”
Angel had left his mouth for last, because it seemed the most personal of his features. There were deep slashes on either side of it. She wondered if he dimpled when he smiled.
“Smile for me.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
What she felt under her hand was more like a grimace, but yes, there were dimples there. “You can relax now,” she said.
She felt a genuine smile form under her hands as he said, “Thanks.”
His mouth, when he relaxed it, was wide, the lips thin, although the lower lip protruded slightly. She traced it with her fingers and felt him stiffen.
“Does that tickle?”
“No,” he said in a husky voice.
Suddenly his hands tightened on her waist.
“Angel?”
She felt his breath on her face, felt him closing the distance between their bodies. What did he want?
“You can tell a lot more about my mouth this way,” he said.
Suddenly