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No man ever refused her at . . .
Tooth swung down out of the saddle. It was then that Martin saw the woman. She stepped out of the nearest cabin and gazed at him with steady interest. His eyes flickered over her briefly. She was the kind of woman who’d have turned heads anywhere she went — tall and stately with thick, honey-colored hair tumbling over shapely shoulders, figure perfectly proportioned and accentuated by lush curves of hip and bosom which the gingham dress tried in vain to conceal. She’d be in her mid-twenties, Martin guessed, still young yet a flower in full bloom.
“Brett’s wife,” Tooth whispered.
Martin dismounted and the girl approached them in a rustle of petticoats and swinging hips.
“I’m Lorna,” she said. “Lorna Halmer. Welcome to Satan’s Outpost.”
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