Her eyes locked on him, Cara waited as he weighed her suggestion.
Miguel knew she was not aware of how he had studied her. Of how he had observed her startling green eyes, and skin so fair it was almost luminescent beneath a faint spattering of freckles. She was taller than Desira, and ever so much stronger despite her slender frame. He knew just how much her full breasts had risen when emboldened by her passion for what she viewed as an injustice. He imagined how soft the curve of her hips and how silken her skin would be minus the impediment of all those petticoats and pantaloons.
Passion of a much different sort from what she’d exhibited stirred his loins, something seldom experienced since his wife’s injury—not even when Rosita flaunted herself at him, danced with him. He rested his booted foot on the hearth again to ease the tightness in his pants and take his mind off that part of his male anatomy.
He had known how young and reportedly lovely Cara Lindsay was when he'd hired her. He admitted that in his loneliness he had wanted someone of her gender and age on his ranch. A woman he could talk to, not a child.
He liked her, liked her fire and the way she made him feel alive again. But she was not to know this. At least not now. He sighed. Not ever.
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