Brandi Knight, standing in front of the full-length mirrors mounted on the closet doors, had a clear view of the door. A tall, handsome man with the high cheekbones of a Native American male filled the doorway. He had short dark hair silvering at the temples. His face was unlined. He appeared to be what she considered the perfect age for a lover—just over forty. He had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and long legs. His dark pullover, opened at the neck, revealed an enticing glimpse of his massive chest. He projected an air of mystery and danger. Brandi could easily imagine him bare-chested with the sun glinting off his blue-black hair, astride a horse galloping across the Plaines eager to return home to ravish his woman. His woman. She savored the thought of being his woman. Was this just another fantasy? Her constant struggle to be a good girl had ended a year earlier with the death of the aging grandparents who raised her. After her parents’ death, they had sought to impress upon her the need to carefully choose her boyfriends.
