“Two dollars,” Slim muttered—a large sum for a cowpoke, easily half his month’s wages.
In one swift move, the outlaw closed the distance between them. When he reached out, Ethan had a fleeting image of that rough hand on his arm, the sun-tanned fingers dark against his own pale flesh, those short nails scraping over the faint hairs that covered Ethan’s arms and maybe slipping lower, scratching along sensitive skin that suddenly ached for that touch.
But the outlaw’s hand didn’t touch Ethan’s, or his arm, or lower. Instead, it reached into the hat Ethan clutched to his chest and stirred the coins around. Ethan looked into those clear eyes, as bright as frozen water, and when the outlaw winked at him, Ethan felt his knees go weak. He fought the urge to grin stupidly at this man who had helped him twice already. When the outlaw extracted two dollar coins, Ethan fought the urge to grab that wrist, pull that hand back to him, thrust it beneath his clothing.