Hot Under The Collar

“Well, Preacher, see any filly you like?”

Prescott MacKay studied the ladies as they alighted from the covered wagons. Unselfishly, he hoped his buddies would find suitable brides, and quickly. The thing he wanted most on this earth was a woman of his own, but as the preacher, he had to make sure the other guys found their wives first.

“Not really,” he responded, not quite truthfully, to Mayor Jim Benson. Many of the ladies were pretty, a couple could be called plain, one looked a little long in the tooth. Tall, short, thin, plump, the women came in all sizes and shapes. Someone for every fella’s taste. He wondered if one of them was to his taste. He might be a preacher, but he was still a man. A great, hungry, lonely, randy man.

“That one.” Benson pointed to a severely dressed, severely visaged lady. “Doesn’t look like she’s happy to be here.”

The woman stood to the side, away from the other chattering mail-order brides, her lips pursed, gimlet-eyed gaze sweeping the town. The way her brows drew together said she didn’t find much to favor in Paloverde, Texas. Frown notwithstanding, she was still pretty. Round cheeks, a determined pointed chin, fair skin, dark eyes, rich brown hair barely covered by a ridiculously small hat, there was something about her that called to Pres. Her gaze rolled over him, on to Jim, past them, assessing everything. Assessed and found wanting?

He was curious. If she traveled all this way to find a husband, why would she scowl like that? Wouldn’t she want to put on her best face? Her gaze came back to him. Or was it aimed at his friend? Even from across the busy, dusty street, he could see her lips part slightly and her eyes widen. The sudden heated tightening of his belly shocked him.