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Page 66

| to go to sleep again all that easily. The fact that she was only a heartbeat away in the next tent was enough to stir fires within him that only being with her could extinguish. |

| But he must proceed slowly to win her. That damned aristocrat had spoiled her trust where men were concerned. If he ever got his hands on the son of a bitch . . . ! |

| Tired of wrestling with his thoughts, Ashton eyed the razor and strop that he had removed from his saddlebag earlier in the evening. The time had come for him to resume his normal identity. Away from the city and watchful eyes, he was free to remove the itchy beard. With every traveler's mind on his own passion for land or gold, the identity of one Ashton York would not be any concern. |

| But what of Sasha? Without the beard, would she be more or less attracted to him? Would she be repelled by the long slash of scar that would be revealed with a clean-shaven face? |

| "I've learned to live with many risks," he whispered to himself, grabbing the razor and strop. "I guess one more won't hurt me." |

| He left his tent and stopped to stare at Sasha's tent for a long moment. Then he went to the river and splashed his face with water. He ran his fingers one last time through his beard. |

| Adding two more shadows to the moonlit night, Stanford Sidwell rode his bay mare with one of his hired gunmen through the gum tree forest. The campfire up just ahead was like a beacon in the night, leading them to Ashton. Stanford's own camp had been set up across the river, far enough back so |

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