Desperado

He was waiting for her when she got home.

She entered her room, dropped her books on her desk and went into the screened-off sleeping area to hang her jacket in the armoire.

She froze in place when she heard the click.

Turning around, she saw him, lounging in her rocking chair, black Stetson pushed back on his head, Colt.45 in his hand. He looked tough, lean and sinewy, his face bronzed by wind and sun, his bright blue eyes a startling contrast. One Levi's-clad leg hooked over the arm of the chair, he appeared strangely at home.

Her heart raced and blood pounded in her head. She knew who he was. She’d seen his face on the wanted posters. Had known he’d come for her.

He’d changed some since the picture was drawn. His thick, tawny-gold hair was longer, shaggier, and he’d grown a mustache. She stared at his mouth, the finely chiseled lips curled in a sardonic smile.

He pointed the gun at her. “Take it off, teacher. Take it all off.”