A streak of moonlight bathed his head and shoulders, outlining the tight muscles beneath his buckskin jacket. His solid, perfect shape reminded her of a Greek statue. Oh, she thought, he’s all too real. She shut her eyes as he touched her face once more, caressing the curve of her chin and cheek bones. His mustached mouth moved as he whispered her name against her neck, “Johanna.”
She looked at him. “Yes?”
“You didn’t answer my question? Will you sing for me?” His pleading tone reminded her of a child begging for a sweet.
He stood apart from her, staring into her eyes as if plumbing the depths of her soul. It made her shiver. “Please, Johanna, sing that tune you hummed earlier.”
“No, not now — it’s too late.”
They reached the wagon, the campfire a glimmer above gray ashes and the lantern glowing by the wagon wheels. In the quiet of the moment, Ryan reached for her and pulled her to him. “Johanna,” he whispered, brushing back the stray strands of hair which fell from her bun; then he unloosened the fasteners in her hair, letting it cascade in a soft flow of red tendrils down her shoulders.
Johanna pulled away. "Ryan, don't!"
"Why not?" He smoothed her hair. "Your hair has the glow of a sunset, and it feels as soft as the morning dew. "Johanna," he said meeting her questioning gaze, "you are prettier than any wildflower bloomin' on the prairie in spring."