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Page 8

| or tobacco tins into the cupped hands of hackney drivers. Perhaps a man with a celebrating spirit today had bought out a hotel's entire stock of champagne, ready to share it with all and sundry. |

| His pet dingo pup following at his heels and heavy revolvers holstered at his hips, Ashton York sauntered to Sasha's side to gaze intently through the window at the spectacle at the horse trough. "I smell trouble in the air," he said, his spine stiffening when he recognized two of the men joining in on the fun. Not only were they Ashton's friends, but they had also recently been employed by him to help establish his and Sasha's sheep station. They were supposed to be tending to business nowbusiness that was paid for from Ashton's meager daily earnings as the proprietor of a pub. |

| Recognizing Crispin Tilford and Rufus Ackley, and realizing what they were up to, Sasha placed a hand to her throat. "Oh, Ashton," she gasped. "Surely Crispin and Rufus have more sense than to get mixed up with those ruffians." |

| She turned and gazed up at Ashton, no less intrigued by him now than the first time she had seen him. He was thirty and dangerously single, with violet eyes that melted Sasha's insides every time she looked into them. His golden-red hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. He was a lithe six feet, a golden beard hiding the true mysteries of his face behind it. His broad, muscled shoulders filled out his shirt of soft kangaroo hide, and his long, lean legs were sheathed in snug-fitting dark breeches. |

| To Sasha, Ashton York was the epitome of man, |

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