That lowdown gunslick treats me like
a lady and everyone knows a real man . . .
NEVER CUTS NOTCHES
“Shannon, did you have the chance to shoot Pierce today?”
“Why didn’t you?”
Shannon was silent for so long it seemed he wouldn’t answer at all, but finally he said;
“Because of you.”
Neither knew quite how it happened, but suddenly they were in each other’s arms, locked in a fierce embrace that seemed to last an eternity, neither oblivious of everything but each other. Then, abruptly, Shannon broke away, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry, Rhea, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t be sorry.” Her voice was husky and warm. “I wanted it to happen.”
“Don’t say that — it isn’t right. You’re another man’s wife. It’s . . . the sort of thing my old man would do . . .”
When he began to walk away, she called after him. He turned, a slim, lithe silhouette against the lights of town.
“Sorry I can’t help you all the way with your basket,” he said in a strained voice. “And do that hotheaded husband of yours a favor, will you? Tell him to stop acting like a jackass. The next time he pulls a stunt like that, I might have to kill him.”