THE WILD, WILD WEST

Mercy Clarke had no trouble getting a hundred head of cattle to Abilene. Getting back home through five hundred miles of untamed frontier is something else again, especially with a handsome gambler like Thad Buchanan tagging along. He swears to pay her in gold if she guides him to Fort Victory, but she doesn’t quite trust his fine manners and gentlemanly ways. And then there’s that look in his eyes—he could almost make her forget that she’s sworn off men for good . . .

As Thad sees it, the same rules apply to playing poker and loving women: it’s all about knowing when to hold ‘em. And come to think of it, a pretty lady like Mercy Clarke would fit very nicely in his arms. Now, if she could be persuaded to put down that rawhide whip and tell him exactly what she has in mind, he has no doubt they could come to an agreement that will satisfy them both. No doubt at all...

LOVING MERCY ©Teresa Bodwell . . . Mercy stepped into hot water and bent to scrub her legs. The steam tickled her nose. She splashed water on her legs to rinse the soap from them and then sat, draping her legs over the side so that her long body would fit into the tub. Days in the saddle and nights on cold, hard ground had left her aching everywhere. The muscles in her back relaxed as the warmth soaked into them. Ahh. She'd waited all day for this, enjoying the anticipation as she allowed Miranda to bathe first. She surprised Aunt Emily by not arguing against throwing out Miranda's bath water. This was no time to economize. She wanted her bath clean and she wanted it hot. Lovely. She rubbed the bar of honeysuckle-scented soap into the cloth and made lazy circles from her shoulder, down her left arm. Her hair, already washed and pinned to the top of her head, dripped cool water on her neck. She tried to empty her mind of all thought outside of this tub. To truly relax for the first time in weeks. Months? She cupped a hand to bring water up to her shoulder and watched as the warm suds dripped back into the tub. How many days would it take to get home? A week to Fort Kearny. Miranda would want to stay overnight. Bloody hell! She had to stop thinking at least for a few hours. She shut her eyes tight and started humming the first tune that came into her mind. A minute later, she was singing full out, as she scrubbed. “Oh, Susannah! Oh, don't you cry for me. . . .” She glanced at the door, hoping Miranda would come in to scrub her back. The girl was probably distracted, playing with their cousins or gossiping with Aunt Emily. Mercy pulled the warm, wet cloth over her face to soak out weeks of trail dust. Thad and Harold tied their horses to a post in the quiet yard in front of the house that belonged to Mercy Clarke’s uncle. Harold had told him Mrs. Clarke’s given name. Mercy. He hoped her name described her character--he could use some compassion. If she’d allow him to tell his story, he was certain he could persuade Mercy to take him to Colorado territory. His fight at the bar had made the wrong impression on her, but he could overcome that. “Where do you suppose everyone is?” Harold looked around. There was smoke and voices around the far side of the house and they headed in that direction when a honey-sweet contralto singing “Oh, Susannah!” caught Thad’s attention. “I’m gonna check the house.” He tilted his head toward the front door and Harold nodded. Thad knocked on the front door as Harold continued around the house. Thad was certain that voice belonged to Mercy. She continued singing. Likely, she didn’t hear the knock. He removed his hat and let himself in. There was no one in the front parlor. He hesitated a moment before following the voice down the hall. The song stopped. She was humming now, soft low and--Oh Lordy. She sat in a tub in the middle of the kitchen naked as the day she was born. Only this was no fragile newborn. Those long shapely legs--bare, wet and gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the kitchen curtains--drew his eyes to the tub. He ached as he watched a soap bubble slide over her collarbone and disappear between the two full breasts that floated just beneath the surface of the water. He took a step toward her and froze. What’s wrong with you Buchanan? A gentleman did not walk in on a lady’s bath. A wet cloth covered her face. She hadn’t noticed him yet. He should walk out before it was too late. Except that his boots seemed to be nailed to the floor. He just kept staring at those legs. “Miranda?” she asked. “You here to scrub my back?” “I'd be happy to oblige--” Dammit, shut your mouth, Buchanan. Mercy sat up. Pulling her legs into the tub forced her bosom out of the water and he had a view the memory of which he would happily take to his grave. Perhaps today, since the lady would be within her rights to shoot him. Too late, he lifted his hat to cover his eyes. He heard the cloth splash into the water. Maybe he could convince her he hadn’t seen much. “Out!” she yelled with a voice he had no doubt could carry over a herd of cattle. “Get out!” . . . AMAZON.COM or your favorite book store! "New author Bodwell's fresh, vibrant voice adds spunk, emotional intensity and sensuality to the conventional western dangerous journey, and she is going to make a mark on the genre." - Kathe Robin, Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine.