<div class="bbm_float fleft" style="float:left;margin:0 10px 5px 0">
<div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2FCarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg&amp;hash=5a31cc50e8c330fa8869d57ec14d7690" title="CarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg">
<img alt="CarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg" class="bbImage lazyload" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2FCarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg&amp;hash=5a31cc50e8c330fa8869d57ec14d7690" data-url="http://i1259.photobucket.com/albums/ii542/qusterling/CarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" style="" title="" width=""/>
<noscript><img alt="CarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg" class="bbImage" data-url="http://i1259.photobucket.com/albums/ii542/qusterling/CarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2FCarbonCo-Wade01-250px_zpspzckzysx.jpg&amp;hash=5a31cc50e8c330fa8869d57ec14d7690" style="" title="" width=""/></noscript>
</div>
</div>Wade found the best night of sleep he'd known in recent memory. The reason could have been the home-cooked meal that left his belly swollen and warm, a far cry from the leather-like jerky and hard tac biscuits common in life on the trail. It could have been the rope bed and fine, quilted sheets, in place of the rock-hard ground and dusty shelves off canyon bluffs. It could have been the relaxation of safety, not gripping a pistol all night long for fear of waking up to the business end of a double-barreled shotgun or Apache war knife. The reason could have been any of these, but Wade knew none of them competed with the truth — the scent of Josephine's hair in his nostrils and her taste upon his lips. Both lingered for what seemed an eternity before the cowboy closed his eyes and let the bliss of deep sleep consume him with the parting beauty of a prairie sunset.<br/><br/>The next morning, Wade awoke to the sound of domestic activity and chittering commotion; dishes clattered, boots stomped loud on wood flooring, and conversations ranged from murmured orders to barked shouts in the rancher's dwelling. Frankly, to the cowboy's ears, he heard what he always imagined a home might sound like. A husband and his wife, their children, a tone of squabble undercut by a hinted love that Wade could only imagine. Soon, the hard knocks of the Bryson matron rapped, rousing Wade from his comfortable repose.<br/><br/>"Mr. Tillman?" Catherine's voice chirped, determined. "Time to rise and shine. The Lord's blessed us with a beautiful day and we need you up and---"<br/><br/>The door opened and Wade appeared in the doorway, half his body obscured as he leaned forward against the door frame. He yawned before speaking. "I'm ... awake, Ma'am."<br/><br/>Catherine returned a concerned, inquisitive glance. "Wade ... did you not sleep well last night?" she asked.<br/><br/>Wade found himself partially flustered at Catherine's question. Her voice came devoid of accusation or suspicion that he'd shared a tender, romantic moment with her daughter — in nearly the same spot that she presently stood. A boyish, lop-sided smile inched up one half of Wade's sleepy visage. "No, Ma'am, just the opposite. I'm used to sleepin' on the Range, callin' some frozen patch of God's earth my bed. Reckon I haven't slept so well in quite a long while."<br/><br/>The ends of Catherine's lips raised into a maternal grin, happy to have afforded the tough yet kind man a degree of comfort. "Well now, I'm pleased you found some rest. It's the least we can do for having dragged our daughter from who-knows-where." She hesitated for a brief moment, then extended her hand to smooth the tussled, disheveled hair that sprouted from Wade's head. She smiled. "Civilization looks good on you, Wade Tillman. You should wear it more often."<br/><br/>Wade watched Catherine turn and clunk her boots down the hallway to the kitchen. Her words sunk in, seeping past the years of fatigue and violence until resting in his worn bones. Wade worked for society as much as himself, though if one counted where you woke as any indication, Wade should have been classified as a natural predator. Staying in towns meant dealing with people, just as finding a sweetheart meant dealing with their less attractive aspects on occasion. These were the prices of being civilized, he supposed, and the memory of kissing Jo — that beautiful, young woman — made him wonder if the trouble he took such pains to avoid might have been worth it after all.<br/><br/>He dressed himself in the blue shirt Catherine had freshly laundered, then walked cautiously into the dining area, easily finding his seat at the table. Everyone was already present, seated precisely where they had been the previous meal. Wade was greeted by Hank's glared grumble, Catherine's endearing smile, and Jo's breathless stare. Breakfast went on in relative silence, which suited Wade right down to the ground, especially since it was devoid of the tension he and Hank had ironed out in his office. The Bryon family ate as if simultaneously attending a funeral for the pig that provided the bacon they feasted upon. Wade watched each in turn, waiting for Hank to drop his dour gaze into his plate before quickly shifting his glance to Jo. His heart skittered like a prairie rabbit when he thought of her now, her rosed cheeks and dark hair calling to him in a profoundly woman-like way.<br/><br/>Jo displayed a hearty appetite, shoveling in her meal like a Pennsylvania coal-miner. Olmsted was their destination and future, and he found himself outside as Hank and Caterine climbed onto the carriage. Hank's squinted beam seemed to take in both Jo and Hank, a collection that became reinforced when he spoke. Hank told Jo to behave, and for he to watch her. Wade knew that Hank entrusted him with his greatest treasure; though Hank carried himself harder than granite with swagger and gruff bullying, it was clear that Jo meant the world to the man. Josephine's charm must have come from Catherine, though the will to have her way came squarely from her father.<br/><br/>They watched them ride off until their horse-drawn vehicle mingled with the dust they kicked up, becoming indistinguishable from the other. Jo mentioned leaving soon, and word of the ranch hand tending their horses gave Wade pause. He gazed back, noticing the way her fingers came together. Wade looked down at her hands, his own lifting slowly to handle them. He tenderly pulled them apart with his strong fingers, exhibiting the caution a caring brute might if made to handle something dear and fragile. Her fingers widened as his own slipped in-between. They held hands in the open, and Wade's dark eyes did not burn but smoldered with the embers of the previous night. He wanted a rekindling and led Jo by the hand back to the house.<br/><br/><div class="bbm_float fright" style="float:right;margin:0 0 5px 10px">
<div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2Fimage_zpsltr27hbz.jpg&amp;hash=f83b8f2582f24a9e6b99dd36be1e7b5c" title="image_zpsltr27hbz.jpg">
<img alt="image_zpsltr27hbz.jpg" class="bbImage lazyload" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2Fimage_zpsltr27hbz.jpg&amp;hash=f83b8f2582f24a9e6b99dd36be1e7b5c" data-url="http://i1259.photobucket.com/albums/ii542/qusterling/image_zpsltr27hbz.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" style="" title="" width=""/>
<noscript><img alt="image_zpsltr27hbz.jpg" class="bbImage" data-url="http://i1259.photobucket.com/albums/ii542/qusterling/image_zpsltr27hbz.jpg" data-zoom-target="1" height="" src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2Fi1259.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fii542%2Fqusterling%2Fimage_zpsltr27hbz.jpg&amp;hash=f83b8f2582f24a9e6b99dd36be1e7b5c" style="" title="" width=""/></noscript>
</div>
</div>Once inside, Wade closed the door and angled Jo's back to the wall. He tossed his hat onto a small table and pressed his lips to hers with a hesitant urgency, more confident than the last evening. Wade's hands clung to her sides, and his fingers knew the cotton texture of her dress, his thumbs higher still, accidentally grazing the side bulge of her swollen breasts. A rake or one experienced in the art of seduction might have laughed at the cowboy's execution, his kiss not a powerful statement but more of a desperate entreaty. Regardless, the overwhelming need Wade felt for Jo — along with his respectful restraint — defined the ardent emotions he imparted with his gesture of affection. The buzzing in Wade's chest reached a trembling frenzy: Jo's physical presence created a surge within the man that transcended mere sexual lust. His tummy fluttered and he felt ecstatically nauseous as her scent returned to his nostrils — she was the only air Wade ever wanted to breath; he tasted her kiss — she was the only love he ever wanted to drink.<br/><br/>Wade pulled back, cocking another lop-sided expression that hinted at a grin. "I needed that before ... we started off." The bounty hunter had faced impossible odds and conquered them all, yet he gazed into those delicious, dark pools and knew he was forever lost to Josephine Bryson. "Yeah ... We should ... get on our way." Language sounded like a lost art to the man as he searched, distracted for his gun belt in the oaken bureau by the front door. Getting to Olmsted would afford them other opportunities, but sitting apart on horses for hours would be pure torture.