The Rustler's Bride

by Tatiana March

  “Why’s she do that?” Johnston asked.

  Declan shrugged, equally baffled. “To give the horse shade?”

  “There’s no more shade over there.” Johnston stared, then got bored with the mystery and went back to his daydreaming. “I got me saved twenny dollars. How much do you think a horse like this costs?”

  It dawned on Declan then. Something he’d never thought of before. Victoria and her father would not be the only ones hurt when the ranch was taken by the bank’s bailiffs. The hands might lose their jobs. And Abe and Cookie and Mrs. Flynn. The realization sent an uncomfortable sensation churning in his gut.

  He considered the ill-gotten gains he had stashed away. Two thousand dollars in gold. Seven cowboys. Blacksmith. Housekeeper. Cookie. Ten people in total. He would share the money between them. He had no idea how much a housekeeper earned, but for the rest of them the sum would represent six months’ wages. That should tide them over while they found new employment.

  Ill at ease, his mind rebelling at the idea of hurting innocent men, Declan turned back to Johnston. Five minutes later, his nerves got another jolt when Victoria came out again and moved Buttercup back to the corral from which she had a moment ago removed the horse.

  “Why’s she do that now?” Johnston said.

  “Because she’s a woman,” Declan replied. “You can’t figure them out.”

  The young cowboy howled with laughter. Declan stood and watched Victoria walk away, her hips swaying inside the tight canvas overalls.

  ****

  Dark clouds rolled across the morning sky. The first autumn storm. Victoria finished dressing and stood by the window, watching the thunderheads roll in. Her own life seemed just as unsettled. She had been married for five days now—five days of restless unease that thrummed in her veins and prickled on her skin.

  Since their encounter at the stables she’d barely seen Declan. Her father drove him like a slave master. He drove all his men like a slave master. How come they were down to less than a dozen hands? And where had the maids gone? She kept asking her father, and he kept mumbling something about the difficulty of finding the right people to employ.

  She had attempted to occupy her mind with reading, and writing letters, and cleaning the neglected house, but Declan crowded out all other thoughts. Every waking moment, some unseen force drew her to the window to keep an eye on the stable yard. If she spotted him, she would find some pointless errand that took her to the barn, to the corrals, to the blacksmith’s forge, wherever Declan might be, so she could catch a glimpse of him. So far, she had taken care to avoid trouble by not stopping to talk to him.

  In the evenings, Declan ate alone in his room. By choice, her father claimed. As they dined together, facing each other across the big banquet table, her father kept sipping whiskey and staring morosely into the air—that is, when he wasn’t staring at her, the way a mother hen stares at a chick when there is a fox around the coop.

  An entire year of this atmosphere of tension and mistrust and dislike. An entire year of this ache of longing inside her. An entire year of this tearing mix of uncertainty and a crazy hope that something wonderful—something more wonderful than she’d even dared to dream of—might be there for the taking, if only she was brave enough to reach out for it.

  She couldn’t take a whole year of this tension.

  She couldn’t take a single more day of it.

  Victoria threw on a fringed buckskin jacket, grabbed a measuring tape from the bureau in the corner of her bedroom and clattered down the stairs. Declan needed new clothes. That would give her an excuse. Although it seemed crazy that a wife would need an excuse to talk to her own husband.

  She’d misjudged the weather. The late August heat had not abated, but a wall of scorching air hit her the moment she stepped out of the door. Sweat beaded on her skin, even before she’d walked across the yard to the barn where they stored firewood. The steady thuds of an axe against a log stump greeted her. The interior smelled of pine resin and sawdust.

  “Declan,” she called out from the door. She knew better than to startle a man wielding an axe. Or a gun. Or a hunting knife. Or even a corded leather whip.

  The thudding sounds ceased. “Over here,” a voice called out.

  Victoria entered the shadowed barn. Declan stood at the far end. Shirtless, hatless, he slammed the axe into the chopping block and reached for his shirt draped on a stack of wood. There was resignation in his gesture. As if he too had spent hours fighting the need inside him and knew the battle was already lost.

  She hurried up to him. “No,” she said. “Don’t put it on.”

  Declan froze, the shirt clutched in his hands. Victoria’s eyes fell on the dark bruises that mottled his chest. She swallowed. Reaching out, she curled her fingers over the pair of knotted fists that gripped the garment. Lightly but firmly, she pushed downward, until Declan lowered his arms out of the way.

  With a gentle touch, she probed at his injuries. Angry red welts spanned across his ribs, and a patchwork of blue and purple bruises covered the ridged muscles on his abdomen. There was a healing two-inch scar beside the neat dimple of his belly button, and she could see another one lower down, half covered by the waist of his faded denim pants.

  “How did this happen?” she asked.

  Declan flinched but said nothing. She repeated her question. She could tell the tension that had seized him from the way his muscles grew taut beneath her cautious exploration.

  At length he said, “That red haired deputy.”

  The image of the freckle-faced bully formed in Victoria’s mind. He had the strength of a lumbering beast—and the clumsiness of one. Although leaner, Declan was almost as strong, and as agile as a mountain lion.

  Startled, she looked up at his face. “Mick O’Malley did this to you?”

  Icy anger flashed in the blue eyes. “He got me alone in the jail the night before the hanging. My hands were tied behind my back and the rope was lashed to the iron bars.” His expression grew grim. “I was no more able to fight back than a punching bag.”

  Victoria bit her lip, thinking how hard her father had been driving Declan. “It must hurt…to chop up firewood…to lift heavy things.” She kept up her inspection of the marks of violence on his body. She’d been horrified at the cut on his face and the swollen eye and the bruised lips, but those were superficial injuries, perhaps signs that he might have resisted capture, and they were well on their way to healing by now. This was worse. Far worse. The marks on his body were evidence of a calculated, cruel beating for the sole purpose of inflicting pain.

  “What are these circular cuts?” she asked, pointing at his collarbone.

  Declan hesitated. He gave a small shrug and spoke in a casual, who-cares-anyway tone. “That big silver ring he wears. I was lucky he didn’t have it on when they arrested me and he crashed his fist into my face. I could have lost an eye before he sheriff intervened and made him stop.”

  Dear God. Horror welled up inside Victoria. She inched one hand up his ribcage, testing for broken bones. “Tell me if it hurts,” she said as she pressed down on each narrow ridge and groove.

  Declan spoke very softly. “It hurts just to breathe.”

  Startled by his candid response, Victoria looked up. His eyes were intent on her. The cold fury had gone, replaced by the vulnerable sheen of yearning. She stilled, her fingertips resting against his naked chest. She could feel a shiver ripple through him. Could hear the sudden catch in his breath.

  “Stop,” Declan said in a rough murmur.

  A wildness seized her. Surely, this was the time to reach for the happiness that might lay hidden in the hazy mists of a future yet to unfold. “Stop what?” she asked. “This?” Her eyes held his as her fingers made a small, caressing motion on his skin. “Or this?” Slowly, she flattened her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart thundering beneath, could feel the heat that radiated from his body—heat and raw power and a faint quivering that hinted at masculine in
stincts barely held under control.

  The shirt fluttered to the ground as Declan loosened his grip on it. He lifted one hand. Steely fingers curled around her wrist. “It’s not a good idea,” he said. He paused, and then he made a sound of scorn, although to Victoria’s ears it sounded false. “What did you come here for?” His hold on her wrist tightened. “To taunt me with what the law gives me the right to claim but honor stops me from taking?” His eyes narrowed on her. The swelling had almost gone down, and now twin beams of blue bored into her. “Is that it?” he demanded. “Are you amusing yourself by testing your feminine powers on me?”

  “No!” Furious at the accusation, Victoria tried to jerk her arm free. “I came to take your measurements. You need new clothes.” She poked the toe of her boot into his shirt that lay in a heap on the sawdust covered floor. “This one’s going to disintegrate in the next wash.” She used her free hand to rummage in the pocket of her buckskin jacket. “See?” she said, holding up the tightly coiled roll of tape. “A measuring tape. If you let go of my arm and turn around, we can get started.”

  Declan contemplated her for a long moment. Victoria felt her cheeks flush beneath his searching gaze. “Turn around,” she said sharply. “I haven’t got all day.”

  He released her and turned his back to her. Victoria’s hands shook as the uncoiled the length of tape with lines drawn across it to mark the inches. What had she come here for? Now that his knowing eyes were averted, she could admit the truth to herself.

  He’d been right.

  She’d come to tempt him.

  “I can buy my own clothes.”

  The abrupt remark startled her. She’d been standing still, the measuring tape uncoiled between her hands. Prompted into action, she stretched the tape across his back, shoulder to shoulder. “Don’t tell me you have money,” she said as she craned upward to read the mark inked into the tape. “Twenty-one inches,” she muttered, and committed the number to memory.

  “I have money.”

  “Rustling must be a profitable business. No costs, only revenue.”

  Declan stiffened at her tart tone. Victoria gathered the tape and reached both hands around his waist. As she brought the tape together in front of him, her body came into contact with his. Her cheek almost pressed to his shoulder blade. She could feel the heat that radiated from him, could smell the mingled scents of sweat and sawdust and soap on his skin. She could not move. She simply stood there, her arms around him, her breasts pressed against his back, the tip of her chin nearly resting on the ridged groove of his spine.

  “Victoria—” Declan’s voice was a strangled moan. “Don’t.”

  She yanked her hands apart, thumb and forefinger pinched over the tape to mark the spot. She lifted the tape to her eyes to read the measurement. “Thirty-two inches. Turn around,” she said, and heard the tremor in her voice.

  Declan turned to face her. His jaw was set. His eyes glittered cobalt blue.

  Victoria reached the tape across his chest. An expanse of lean muscle. A sprinkling of light brown hair. Two flat male nipples. A trembling seized her hands. She could feel perspiration beading on her skin beneath her clothing. Her breasts tingled. The blood in her veins moved in heavy, languid beats that made her drowsy and alert at the same time.

  She lifted the tape away from him and read the measurement. Twenty-one inches across the shoulders, same as at the back. “Lift your arms,” she ordered. When he did, she raised her hands to line up with those flat brown nipples and reached her arms around him. The motion brought her face right in front of his.

  “Ria…don’t…,” he groaned and closed his eyes.

  Ria. As if he lacked the strength to say her name in full. She tilted up her face, no longer even pretending to be occupied with taking measurements. Her voice deepened to a sultry, breathless murmur. “When the preacher wed us, he forgot the last part of the ceremony.”

  Declan stood absolutely still. His eyes flew open, but his gaze locked on the stacks of firewood that surrounded them. Heat sweltered in the windowless barn. In the far corner, a cat pounced after a mouse that squealed and scampered off in terror. Behind them, a trapped insect bombarded the timber wall, making popping sounds, like distant gunshots.

  But nothing could break the spell that had fallen over them as they stood facing each other, their bodies almost pressed together from breast to knee. Almost. Almost. Victoria knew that Declan could feel the thudding of her heartbeat as she felt his, that he could smell the lavender on her skin as she smelled the dust and leather and soap on his.

  “What?” Declan said finally. “What did the preacher forget?”

  Victoria lifted up on tiptoe and tilted her head. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Her mouth halted within a fraction of his. She could feel Declan’s body quiver with the effort of not moving, of not breaching the single inch that separated them. She rose higher on her toes. Their lips were nearly touching. She could feel the warm puffs of his breath as they mingled with hers in the still, pine scented air of the windowless barn.

  “You may kiss the bride,” she repeated in a soft whisper. As she spoke, her lips grazed against his, the contact as light as a butterfly’s wings.

  With a harsh growl of defeat, Declan reached out and hauled her body against his. His arms banded around her. His mouth settled over hers. She could taste desperation in his kiss—desperation and hunger and longing, and the dark shadow of loneliness. It took her by surprise, the current of understanding and empathy that flowed through her in his embrace.

  His kiss told her of days and years spent in hiding. It told her of social exclusion and the dearth of human contact. It told her of a life that lacked a future beyond the next sunrise—a life with a dark void where hopes and dreams should have been.

  Greedy and wild, his mouth devoured hers. Seconds turned into minutes. Gradually, Victoria could feel the tension in Declan’s powerful body ease. His lips gentled, until they slanted over hers with a tenderness that made her ache. In that moment, the vague ideas Victoria had been afraid to accept burst into full bloom in her mind.

  She wanted to offer him dreams.

  She wanted to offer him hope.

  She wanted to offer him a future.

  Victoria felt bereft when Declan finally lifted his head from hers. His hands slid down to her waist. Gently, he eased her into a backward step, separating their bodies.

  “No, Ria,” he said in a low voice. “This is not a good idea. This never happened. It will never happen again.” He withdrew his hands from her waist and, lifting one arm, he swept the back of his wrist across his lips, as if to wipe away the kiss.

  She’d been floating in a sensual haze. Now, the gesture that had rejection stamped all over acted like a bucketful of cold water upon her. Reality came crashing in, reality and all the constraints of polite society she’d been brought up to respect. And yet, the knowledge of what she wanted did not fade away. I merely hardened into an understanding that there would be obstacles in her way.

  “Why is it not a good idea?” she asked bluntly.

  “Ria—” Declan paused, shook his head in frustration. “You heard what your father said. You need to be careful. It’s easy for a woman to ruin her reputation.”

  “I see.”

  Had Declan known Victoria better, he might have recognized the warning note in her voice—a stubborn edge that said she was going to dig her boot heels in and refuse to budge, even an inch.

  Footsteps and masculine voices drifted by outside. Declan froze. He cocked his head to listen. When the sounds had faded into the distance, his posture relaxed. He returned his attention to her once more and said, “You need to go now, Victoria. Before anyone notices how long you’ve been alone with me.”

  Victoria recalled how a few minutes ago Declan had feigned scorn, and she chose to do the same. She lifted her chin and smirked at him. “Are you afraid of my father?”

  His eyebrows lifted in a way that told her he’d caught on to her
bluff. “No,” he said. “But I’m afraid of you. Afraid for you.” He reached out one hand and touched the strands of hair that had broken free from her upsweep. “When this is all over, you’ll need to find a man to take care of you. You need to marry one of your rich, influential suitors. They can give you the kind of life you deserve.”

  Her eyes flashed in anger. “You’re as bad as my father.” She craned forward and poked her finger into his bruised chest, not caring if he flinched in pain. “I’m not going to marry by someone else’s command,” she informed him. “I’ll marry whomever I want. And if I don’t want to marry anyone at all, my father will continue to enjoy the privilege of taking care of me.”

  A shadow fell over his features. “Victoria…”

  “Victoria?” she mimicked, the sting of his unexpected rejection making her tongue sharp and her temper edgy. “What is it now? More marital advice?”

  Declan seemed to stop breathing, he went so still. His expression grew shuttered. His mouth set in a hard line. “Go back into the house,” he said brusquely.

  “You can’t order me about.”

  “I can, and I will.” He stepped up to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and spun her around to face the doorway of the barn, where a square of sunlight flooded inside. She could feel the powerful contours of his body behind her as he leaned down to speak into her ear.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Victoria?” he asked.

  “What?” she muttered, the flash of anger already fading.

  “It’s too late for you not to marry anyone at all. You already married me. And that means I can order you about. I believe there was a little something about obedience in the promises you made in front of the preacher.”

  She let out an angry huff. Then it escalated into a cry of indignation, as Declan lifted his hands from her shoulders with a tiny shove, slapped her on the rump, and said, “Go back inside. Now.”

  She scuttled off. At the barn door, she turned around. “Remember,” she said, and there was a deceptive sweetness in her voice. “You promised that if I obeyed, you’d cherish. Fine. I’ll obey. I’m going inside. And that means I’ll be expecting some cherishing.”