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Page 43

| Teasingly she pulled out a long length of hair and placed the scissors to it. She was startled speechless at Ashton's quick, violent reaction. |

| In a blink of an eye he grabbed the scissors from her hand and took them to the door, pitching them out into the corridor. Then he turned to face her, his doubled fists on his hips. ''Now are you ready to go, or not?" |

| For a moment Sasha was speechless. In so many ways, Ashton proved his devotion to her. Surely he could be trusted. Surely she could entrust her love to him! Yet, there would always be the nagging doubt that had been instilled in her by Woodrow Rutherford! |

| Her gaze traveled over Ashton. Every inch of him stirred her with a keen passion! His deerhide breeches and shirt clung to him the way a glove fits a hand, revealing his muscled shoulders and chest and his lean, magnificent torso. His wide-brimmed hat hid his golden-red hair and shadowed his violet eyes and whiskered face. As usual, as though they had been born with him, Ashton's revolvers were holstered at his hips. |

| "I'll be just a minute," Sasha murmured, drawing herself from her reverie. Turning toward the mirror again, she busied her fingers by plaiting her thick hair into two braids, coiling them on top of her head, and pinning them there. Suddenly Ashton's reflection was in the mirror behind her, and she sucked in a nervous breath when he gently placed her hat on her head over the coil of hair. |

| "It's gonna take a lot of getting used to," Ashton said, frowning down at her. "I may up and burn those clothes if I ever catch them off you." |

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