by Lee Savino
Stopping at the foot of the bed near his wife, Lyle turned and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Jesse said immediately. “It was wrong of me to say such things to you, brother.” He rubbed his face. “Truth is, I’m tired of the road. I’ve finished my business everywhere. I want to settle down.”
“Truly?” Lyle raised a brow at him. “Last I heard you were riding with the Royal Mountain Gang. Jesse, they work for Doyle.”
“It’s all rumor, brother,” Jesse said, noticing Rose had gone quiet at the mention of her old nemesis. “I promise you, anything you hear of that sort is false.”
“All right.” Lyle nodded slowly. “I believe you. But this behavior cannot continue. Rose and I looked for you up and down the Territory after our last run in with Doyle’s men. We needed you.”
“I know, brother. And I’m willing to hang my hat somewhere.”
“I hope so. Rose and I have discussed it, and we have the terms you must follow, if you wish to reclaim your stake. You may have your share of the mine, and all the profits so far and henceforth, if you build a homestead and move onto your share of the land.”
“Done,” Jesse said.
“That’s not all,” Lyle said. “Rose has an idea for the final condition. I’ll let her tell it.”
Rose had a small smile on her face as she explained. “You must take a wife and bring her here to homestead.”
“A wife?” Jesse fought to keep his mouth from falling open.
“Yes, brother.” Lyle sat down next to his wife and put his arm around her. “You must find and keep a woman. That is how you’ll prove you’re serious about settling down.”
“And no whores,” Rose warned. “If you chose a painted lady and pay her, I will know.”
“But…there are no ladies in these parts other than saloon girls. I shall have to send for one.”
“It worked well for Mr. Martin,” Lyle said, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Jesse blew out an exasperated breath. “What if we marry and she finds she’s not suited to life on a homestead?”
“She may leave, of course,” Rose said. “But you must marry and woo a woman, and bring her home and keep her for at least a month.”
“Not necessarily in that order,” Lyle suggested, and Rose frowned at him.
Jesse’s hand worried his hair. Take a wife—in exchange for a stake in the mine? “But come spring I have no income. I’ve finished all my obligations. How can I find a woman by then—in three feet of snow?”
“You’ll find a way.” Lyle grinned. “Unless you admit you can’t do it.”
Jesse looked from his brother to his redheaded sister-in-law. Rose had her eyes narrowed on him, and he knew the look well. She was a sharp lady, Lyle’s Rose, and saw right through Jesse. He was weighed in the balance and found wanting.
With an exasperated sound, he stomped out of the room. The festive crackle of the fire, and memory of all the couple’s grinning madly at one another did nothing to soothe his mood. He tromped to his bedroll, and his flask.
Three drinks later, he felt better. Lyle could take Rose and her haughty ways; the women in the West were too hard for him. He needed someone soft, loving, like little Carrie Donovan, though he better not let Miles know it. Donovan would kill any man who looked at his wife wrong.
Yes, Jesse decided, he needed a woman. Someone sweet and curvy in all the right places. A pretty lady, waiting for him to sweep her off her feet.
It wasn’t until after midnight, when he was back at the table, breaking off a piece of pie for a late night snack, that he saw the picture of his future bride. Carrie’s letter lay on the table, with the picture, envelope and all. Jesse took up the daguerreotype. In the low firelight, Susannah’s face in the picture glowed. She sat so prim and proper in her chair, poised and serene. Here was a lady. A real Boston lady.
“Susannah.” He tried the name and smiled as if it tasted sweet. He liked how she was perfectly coiffed and camera ready, but there was something determined in her expression. Maybe it was the lively glint in her eye, or maybe it was the little smile on her face that threw him a challenge. He wanted to see that smile in person. He bet, given a few minutes with the lovely Susannah, he could tease it out of her.
With a quick glance around the silent room, everyone sleeping, he pocketed the picture, and the letter.
He’d stay with Lyle until the snow melted enough for him to ride to Colorado Springs. As soon as he could, he would post a letter to Boston, and the smiling Susannah.
The End
Author’s Note
In 1887, a Kansas City paper called “Matrimonial News” published the following ad:
“I am fat, fair, and 48, 5 feet high. Am a No. 1 lady, well fixed with no encumbrance: am in business in city, but want a partner who lives in the West. Want an energetic man that has some means, not under 40 years of age and weight not less than 180. Of good habits. A Christian gentleman preferred.”
I have no way of knowing whether this spunky spinster found true love, but I am forever grateful to her for posting this advertisement asking for exactly what she wanted. May her words live on to inspire all women searching for a partner.
Thanks to all of you who are reading the Rocky Mountain Bride Series. I’m having a blast writing in this world, and I want to make clear that the real frontier brides who traveled thousands of miles to find matrimony are my main inspiration and reference. Their love and courage tamed the Wild West, and shaped the country into what it is today.
The Rocky Mountain Bride Series continues with Jesse and Susannah’s story in Rocky Mountain Rogue. Happy reading!
Rocky Mountain Rogue
Rocky Mountain Discipline - Book Five
Published by Blushing Books
An Imprint of
ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.
A Virginia Corporation
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©2016
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Savino, Lee
Rocky Mountain Rogue
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-366-0
v1
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.
Rocky Mountain Rogue
Susannah Moore peered out the stagecoach window at the passing Kansas scenery: a flat, grassy plain as far as the eye could see. The trees became fewer and fewer, the farther west they traveled, until all that was left was a stretch of baked grass under a punishing sun. Other than a few rock outcroppings as they grew closer to Colorado Territory, there was no end to the prairie in sight.
It was all very boring, really.
With a sigh, the blue-eyed beauty pulled back the window covering and sagged back onto her seat, waving a fan in a useless attempt to dispel some of the dust and cool down. Back in Boston, the journey west seemed so exciting. After weeks of travel by train and then private coach, she knew the truth: she was hot during the day, cold at night, and dirty not even two minutes after finishing her bath in one of the hell holes they called a hotel. The whole trip was uncomfortable, she was thirsty, and the adventure was non-existent.
Setting aside her fan, she drew out for the umpteenth time her one solace and companion on this nightmare journey: a photograph of her intended.
Jesse Oberon had dark wavy hair, light eyes she guessed to be blue or hazel, and an unsmiling face that couldn't hide how handsome he was. His tall, lean body looked sharp in a black suit and vest, long legs encased in shining black boots, and blac
k hat in hand. Susannah's finger traced the curve of his head and she smiled. Mr. Oberon, or as she already thought of him, her Jesse.
The coach bounced over a brutal rut, and Susannah nearly lost her seat. Frowning, she tucked the picture away and drew back the oilcloth to shout at the driver.
"What in heaven's name are you doing? I was nearly thrown from the carriage! Are you even paying attention to where you're going?"
"Sorry, miss." The driver didn't sound sorry at all. "Road's a little worn here. We're almost to Colorado Territory."
"Thank goodness," Susannah grumbled, holding on to her bonnet. She'd spent half the trip ricocheting around the inside. At least there weren't any other passengers with her, just a few trunks and bags, several of which were hers. There were no private coaches to Colorado Springs, so she'd contracted one that carried only packages. After an unpleasant experience on the train to St. Louis involving a drunken man serenading her beauty, Susannah had vowed never to travel as a single woman again. Which, once she arrived in Colorado Springs, she would no longer be.
As the afternoon wore on, the way grew rockier. Hanging onto her seat for dear life, Susannah was grateful she hadn't eaten anything all day. The journey had certainly been hard on her body, and her clothes. Her smart riding habit and jacket had been the latest fashion when she bought it, but now, soaked in sweat and covered in dust, they weren't fit to be cleaning rags. The food had been so horrid, she'd lost weight, though today her corset felt a bit too tight. The maid who'd laced her up that morning had seemed annoyed at Susannah's exacting instructions, and taken it out on her stays.
The road curved, and as the coach rattled on, Susannah uncovered the window again to see large, orange rock outcroppings. Craning her neck to watch them pass, she perked up with interest at the sight of billowing dust far beyond the coach's wake. Was it buffalo? Or Indians? She squinted to see.
After a few moments, she realized it was a lone horse and rider, galloping hard to catch the coach. The road turned again and the rider disappeared behind the rocks. Susannah sat back, feeling a little disappointed. It would've been nice to see something other than dirt and scrub brush.
The road ran along on higher ground, with a large ditch on either side. Susannah checked again, but the rider was gone.
And then he was right beside her, driving his horse out of the ditch to gallop up to the coach and pull level with her window.
He was clad all in black, from gloves to boots, with a broad brimmed hat shading his face and a black handkerchief covering half his face. He rode easily alongside the coach, a shadow no one was meant to see—except she had seen him.
As she stared out the window, he raised his head and looked straight at her. For a moment, green eyes met blue. The rider pressed a gloved finger to his mouth in an order for her to stay silent. His green eyes sparkled over his disguise, and as Susannah stared, he winked at her.
She fell back into her seat with a startled gasp. The sudden arrival on a lone stallion, the handkerchief disguising his face, this man was no benign traveler; he was a rogue up to no good.
Sliding to the other side of the coach, she drew back the oilcloth and stuck out her head as far as she dared.
"Excuse me," she called up to the driver and his partner. "Did you realize there's a rider trying to catch up with us?"
Then all hell broke loose.
Jesse Wilder knew the minute he'd been made. The guard next to the driver turned with a shout, gun already out. Ducking in his saddle, Jesse pressed himself flat, and slowed his horse to race behind the carriage, where the dust gave him some cover. He used the few seconds he bought himself to reach for his rifle.
He could've shot the driver and the guard back at the pass, but where was the fun in that? Besides, he hated waste, but didn't want to drive a team of horses back to Colorado Springs. Better to let the driver live to carry back the tale of a lone bandit who took Doyle's gold.
Of course, he hadn't reckoned on there being three of them, though. Whoever heard of a passenger on a courier coach? Someone had gotten greedy for extra fare. Of course, a slender blonde slip of a woman wouldn't weigh the stage down any, not like the big brute of a guard.
A shot rang out and ricocheted off the ground near Jesse: the guard making a nuisance of himself. Instead of shying, his horse, Jordan, just put his head down and powered forward. Even with the driver cracking the whip, the team of four horses couldn't outstrip Jordan. The increased speed made the bumps even worse, and as the coach rocked, the guard on the rooftop almost lost his balance. For a moment, his shotgun waved in the air, but then the man righted himself, ready to make trouble.
Jesse ducked in his saddle, keeping his head low. His stallion sped up, pulling alongside the coach again. Above him, the stupid guard was still struggling to aim his shotgun, pointing it down to where he thought the threat was, endangering the little miss in the cab below.
Clucking his tongue in disapproval, Jesse directed Jordan to run flat out beside the coach. He hated to see bad gunmanship almost as much as he hated anyone associated with Doyle. Any man who made so free with a firearm was a menace to everyone around him. Jesse would be doing the world a favor, really, by putting him down.
Slipping one foot out of the stirrup, Jesse put the stallion's body between him and the flying cab. In his precarious position, he balanced and raised his shotgun. Aiming with one arm, he steadied his body as best he could on the galloping horse. Jordan kept on charging; Jesse could shoot a fly out from between the stallion's ears and the horse wouldn't flinch.
The bald, hulking man by the driver would be one of Doyle's henchmen, usually a thug one step away from being an outlaw. Jesse had seen what Doyle's men had done to a prostitute up in Denver, and had no reservations about shooting the thug dead. Which is exactly what he did. Jesse's luck held, and with one bullet and one carefully aimed shot, and the big guard jerked backwards and flew off the coach.
The driver flapped the reins in horror, driving the horses on even as the body of Doyle's man bounced on the side of the road.
"Stop the coach," Jesse shouted. "If you stop it now, I promise you won't die." He raised his gun to take aim at the driver's hands. It would be a shame to hurt an innocent hire, but it was the driver's choice.
The first shot went wide by design, and Jesse readied his rifle for another, but the warning was enough. Crying out, the driver reined the horses back hard, and the coach stopped a hundred feet down the road in a great cloud of dust.
Jesse nudged Jordan forward, gun trained on the place where the driver would be. "Put your hands up. This is a robbery. Obey and I swear on my mother's grave you won't be harmed."
The driver yelped and dropped his weapon, and Jesse felt he'd finally gotten a piece of luck. The man was a coward, and probably not attached to Doyle.
Jesse dismounted and started walking up the side of the coach. "I have my gun on you," he called. "Just keep your hands in the air and I promise you'll survive. This coach has something of mine—"
He reached the side of the coach, just as the door swung open and caught him on his side. He staggered with the blow, and then a shrieking weight hit him.
Jesse went down under the human missile. He landed on his back in the dirt, scrabbling with his attacker, who seemed to be wearing a copious amount of frothy petticoats. Whenever he got a grip on the fabric, the fancy cloth slipped through his fingers. He redoubled his efforts, and the sweet smelling bundle turned into a hurricane of scratching nails, ear piercing squeals, and flying blonde hair.
He flipped her onto her back and stared down at the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen. Dirty blonde hair, pink lips, pert nose: the little miss would be lovely, if she wasn't such a screaming harpy.
"Madam, you will be silent." He shook her. For a second the lady seemed stunned into silence, staring up at him. Then her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she fainted.
Jesse took the opportunity to check on the driver, who watched the whole event silen
tly, his hands still in the air.
"Good man," Jesse said, still in control even though his arms were full of woman and his rifle lay beside him on the ground. At least his handkerchief was still in place. "I just want something in the coach that's mine. And then I'll let you on your way."
"Could you take her too?" the driver asked hopefully.
Jesse glanced down at his lovely armful and realized she hadn't come awake from her faint. As a man of the ladies, he could guess why.
Cursing, he flipped her over and tore at her dress, growling as he ripped at the tiny, delicate buttons. Goddamn women and their many layers. Usually he enjoyed this part and took it slow, but he had no time now for a fancy damsel who tied her stays too tight for some stupid fashion.
First the dress and the over-petticoat, and then he'd burrowed enough to find her corset. Drawing a knife out of his boot, he cut her stays and clapped the woman on the back. When she started gasping for air, he pulled off his glove and loosened her drawers so he could run his hand across her torso and down her slim waist and hip, checking for broken ribs. His rough hands caught on her silky skin, but there was no hurt, nothing but lovely, unblemished flesh, visible under the silky layers.
Jesse ripped off a strip off her fine drawers and bound her wrists while the woman heaved and coughed and drew air into starving lungs. With his help, she came up into a sitting position in his lap. A few seconds later, she realized her dress was gaping open, then discovered her hands were bound. Color came into her cheeks as she stared at him, open-mouthed. Jesse took the opportunity to give her a cheeky grin, which, even hidden by the handkerchief, more than implied how he felt about her in his lap.
She immediately regained her pique. "What is this? You villain! Untie me at once."