Too much purity and not enough
lovin’ can make a man go right off his head!
“Ryder Farraday, ma’am. I’m beholden to you for opening your door to my knock. Er . . . mind telling me where I am?”
“Why, this is Rye Patch Valley,” she supplied in a voice made up of sorghum and molasses. “And you’re more them welcome, Mr. Farraday. I’m Carrie Fay Guthrie. Guess you all’ve heard of the Guthries, huh?”
“Sorry, just passing through on my way to Silver City.”
He removed his hat and water dripped to the floor. Despite being cold and wet, Farraday’s greatest discomfort stemmed from his acute awareness that he looked far from his best. He’d been accused of vanity in gambling saloons, riverboats and in all sorts of strange and dangerous places stretching from the Canadian border to the Rio Grande. In every instance the charge had been completely justified. Faced with the choice between dead or dirty, this six-foot-two denizen of the bright lights and glittering life would undoubtedly have chosen the former.
“A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Carrie Fay. You live here alone?”
“Well, I’m alone tonight,” she replied in what appeared to Farraday a distinctly flirtatious tone as she pouted vivid crimson lips and gave a little flick of the eye. “Just two lonesome souls in this big old house with a hard rain comin’ down . . .” She drew herself up, which lifted her breasts tantalizingly. “Two of us, with nothing to do . . .”