Hale didn’t bother lighting a lamp before he moved through the entry of his home and trudged up the stairs. The moon wasn’t bright enough to light his way, but he’d lived in this house for four years now. There was nothing here to trip him up.

      Head heavy from one shot of whiskey too many, he shrugged wearily out of his coat and unfastened his gun belt. The pistols clanked hard when he laid them on the low dresser, and Hale winced.

      He unbuttoned his shirt and laid it neatly over a chair. He didn’t have a wife to take care of these things anymore. Marie had left three years before, run off with some rich miner headed for Sacramento. Now anything that needed pressing had to go to the laundry. Any food he needed, he had to cook himself. And anything else that required a woman’s touch…Hale went without. His head grew even heavier at the thought.

      Though he wanted to drop straight into bed, his face felt coated with grit, so Hale washed up quickly with some cold water and soap, then scrubbed his skin with a piece of rough toweling. As he lowered the rag, his eye caught on movement in the window, and he froze.

      It was just the widow, he realized almost immediately. Before she’d moved in two weeks before, the place next door had been empty for months, and he’d gotten used to looking out at darkness. But now a soft glow lit the small table where she sat in her bedroom. Her hand rose toward the lamp and set the flame a bit higher. The light touched her body now, and the sight stole Hale’s breath away.

      She wore some sort of delicate wisp of a gown, something he guessed wealthy ladies wore as they tended to their toilette. The women here in Wyoming, on the other hand, didn’t truck with such luxuries. They wore a shift when a dress wasn’t needed. Even the whores didn’t waste money on these kinds of unmentionables. But this woman did.

      As he watched, she slipped off the fluttery sleeves of the robe, and it collapsed into a puddle on her chair.

      Hale’s breath hitched. Now her shoulders were bare but for the thin straps of her chemise. Fine, white shoulders led down to pale arms and, finally, to delicate wrists. Her hands, unblemished by even the barest hint of labor, rose to her hair and began to work the long pins free. Hale followed the line of her arms back down. Her corset, another wonder of delicate fabrics, cinched her waist into an impossibly small span.

      Mrs. Anders was a portrait of sophistication and impracticality. She was a pampered flower, and she’d wilt soon enough. Hale shook his head in scorn. But the motion was stopped by the abrupt fall of her hair.

      The heavy darkness fell across her shoulders and stopped his previous thoughts. How did she fit that much hair up into such a tight coil? Her arms flexed, and she began to brush.

      For some reason, Hale’s cock tightened at the sight.

      Actually, there wasn’t much mystery about it. He hadn’t been with a woman in months. And each stroke of the brush pushed her breasts higher above the lines of her corset. Her hair curved around her, as if it wanted to touch her skin. As if it wanted to wrap her tight and never set her free.

      By the time she’d finished brushing, Hale was rock