Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
"My pleasure," Zac said with a polite bow, stepping in front of the podium.
There was a chorus of chatter and smiles while the women took a moment to admire Zac. His dark unruly hair fit his handsome features perfectly. It accented his rich brown eyes, defined his strong jaw line, and added character to his slender nose. And if his striking looks didn't catch a woman's breath, there was his splendid form to consider. Standing in a smoky gray waistcoat and matching trousers, with a pale gray vest and white shirt, he looked the respectable Bostonian gentleman.
But beneath his false facade lurked a far different man… a dangerous one.
"Mr. Stewart," Glenda Butterfield said, waving her hand excitedly. "Is it true you were at one time a gunslinger?"
Zac hated that word gunslinger. The term sounded wicked, dangerous. And although both elements were part of the lifestyle to a degree, the tabloids had painted a far different and unrealistic picture. Zac hid his musing well and spoke to Mrs. Butterfield with the tone of a patient adult tired of correcting a child.
"Yes, ma'am. I was a gunslinger."
"And you cleaned up the notorious town of Devil City, Kansas, the Sodom of the West," Margaret Dutton announced with a sharp nod.
"Single-handedly," Mary Brisbane added.
There was a quick round of applause.
Zac could see these women weren't interested in the West; the real West in all its raw beauty and horror. They were only interested in his exploits as the infamous gunslinger, Zac Stewart.
"I was hired by the good citizens of Devil City to do a job."
"And a good job you did," Caroline said. "Throwing out the trash and making room for God-fearing, honest citizens."
The questions came rapidly then, like a round of gunfire. Zac felt unprotected, yet his six-shooters wouldn't do him any good here.
"How long did it take you?"
"How many villains were wounded?"
"How many gunfights have you faced?"
No one, not even Prudence, dared to ask the one question that was on every one of their lips: How many men have you killed?
Caroline soon brought the question and answers session to an end and invited all to partake of the delicious cakes the ladies had baked for this special occasion. The women ignored the tempting cakes that ordinarily drew them like bees to a hive, rushing instead toward Zac to question him further.
He didn't back away from them, but stood steady and tall. His six-foot-three-inch height and broad width were intimidating, but his enticing smile and pleasant personality kept them humming around him.
Prudence stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her claret faille skirt.
"That was quite rude," Caroline admonished, walking up to her.
"I think not," Prudence said in defense of herself. "Mr. Stewart was here to inform us of what one could expect if traveling west. I only sought the information promised."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Prudence. What do you care about the West? Your life is here in Boston and always will be."
"As well as all the other women in the room, Caroline, now tell me. Why did you really have Mr. Stewart speak to our club?"
Caroline's full face flushed to a bright red. "To-to-to expand our knowledge."
"Of gunslingers?" Prudence questioned tartly.
"You don't care for gunslingers?" Zac asked.
Caroline jumped and turned quickly at the sound of his voice. Prudence turned slowly as though his presence had not the slightest effect on her.
"They have their purpose, Mr. Stewart," she answered calmly.
Zac's dark eyes scrutinized her as he spoke. "And what purpose is that, Miss Winthrop?"
Prudence didn't care for the way he emphasized her name. Nor did she like the way his eyes assessed her in one sweep.
He was waiting for an answer and Prudence didn't fail to give it. "They do away with each other, thereby leaving the streets free of crime for decent citizens."
Caroline's gasp could be heard clear across the room.
Zac couldn't help but grin. This proper Bostonian miss with green eyes that lacked luster and a mouth that was pinched and probably had never been kissed by a real man had the audacity of a saloon hall floozy.
"I suppose, then, my time is numbered," he said calmly, enjoying her brash nature.
"In the end, Mr. Stewart, our past always comes back to haunt us."
"And what in your past, Miss Winthrop, will come back to haunt you?" Zac had meant his words only in jest, but from the way her body tensed in response, he was certain he had hit a nerve . . . and a very raw one at that. So Miss Winthrop has a skeleton in her closet. How interesting.
Caroline broke the tense silence. "Prudence's past is immaculate. She is from an old Boston family. Her upbringing has been proper as it should be. She has no past to haunt her."
Touch the Bostonians where it hurt the most, their lineage, and they will attack in full force. Even if they didn't care for each other, and it seemed to Zac there was no love lost between Mrs. Davis and Miss Winthrop.