Maybe I could slip in and hide behind my husband.No. Out of the cold and into the common room of the house where two women sat by a small reception de...k near the door. Husband nowhere. They looked me over. Slowly. Appreciatively. Smiling not unlike my husband. The warmth inside the house hit me everywhere at once. I resisted the urge to touch myself under the bag.One adjoining room was a dining area with a bar, where several people sat chatting and drinking. In another direction was a small. A few miles from our house there was a smallriver with a little motel, catering mostly to hunters in the fall. Inthe spring it was quiet, so us k**s got to play there. The owner, whoeveryone called Uncle Owen even if they weren't related, looked andtalked something like Clint Eastwood in a Dirty Harry movie exceptthat he had a beard. He often wore a pistol in a hip holster, usuallyunloaded but it still fit the image of a frontier sheriff or somethinglike that. He even called himself the Sheriff. More

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