Her eyes narrowed warily at the flatness of Reno’s voice. «I know.»

His cold green glance searched her face for a long moment before he nodded.

«See that you remember it,» he said curtly. «Don’t ever set me up as an executioner again.»

She nodded.

Reno came to his feet in an unhurried, graceful movement that reminded Eve of the cat he accused her of being.

«Get dressed,» he said. «We can talk about the Lyons’ mine while you cook breakfast.»

Reno paused. «You do know how to cook, don’t you?»

«Of course. Every girl can.»

He smiled, remembering a certain redheaded British aristocrat who hadn’t been able to boil water when she married Wolfe Lonetree.

«Not every girl,» Reno said.

The gentle amusement in his smile fascinated Eve. It was as unexpected as a hot day in winter.

«Who was she?» Eve asked before she could think better of it.

«Who?»

«The girl who couldn’t cook.»

«A British lady. Prettiest thing a man ever did see. Hair like fire and eyes like aquamarines.»

Eve told herself that the feeling snaking through her couldn’t be jealousy.

«What happened?» she asked offhandedly.

«What do you mean?»

«If she was that fetching, why didn’t you marry her?»

Reno stretched and looked down at Eve from his much greater height.

She didn’t back up an inch. She simply stood and waited for the answer to her question as though there were no difference in size or strength between herself and the man who could have broken her like a dry twig.

In that, Eve reminded Reno of Jessica and Willow. The realization made him frown. Neither Jessica nor Willow was the kind of girl to cheat, steal, or work in a saloon.

«Wouldn’t the pretty aristocrat have a gunman like you?» Eve persisted.

«I’m not a gunman. I’m a prospector. But that’s not why Jessi wouldn’t have me.»