by Maren Smith
He sniffed, tapping his fingers on the table, unsure how to proceed. When in doubt, he supposed, begin at the beginning. “Cullen Drake,” he said, then indicated his brother. “That’s my little brother, Garrett.”
“I’m two inches taller than he is,” Garrett corrected, winking again as he mixed up the pancake batter. “Technically, he’s the little one.”
Looking from Garrett back to Cullen, the girl said nothing.
Fingers tapping steadily now, Cullen tried again. “What’s your name, kid?”
Her little jaw clenched once, but just as he was beginning to think she might not understand English, very softly, she said, “Chen Chin.”
“Worse storm I’ve seen in ten years,” Garrett said, laying several strips of bacon into the pan to sizzle. “What brings you out in it, Chinny?”
“Riding the way you were,” Cullen interrupted, bringing matters more sternly to the point. “You could have killed yourself, or your horse. Did you get separated from your folks or are you running away?”
The press of her lips grew thin. Only the spit and sizzle of the cooking bacon and the whisk of Garrett’s fork whipping eggs into the flapjack batter cut the silence.
“Little girl,” Cullen said, very calmly and very evenly. He managed to stifle his impatience and even avoided growling at her. “I reckon tonight probably hasn’t gone the way you imagined it would, and frankly, it hasn’t been a chalk-line walk for me, either. I was every bit down in that water with you. Now, I’m a patient man—”
Garrett caught himself mid-snort, switching to a cough to cover the sound.
“—but,” Cullen continued, giving her the glare he’d have loved just then to shoot his brother dead with, “when I ask you a question, I expect a proper answer.”
Those midnight black eyes—fringed by lashes so thick, long and dark, that they’d have been the envy of every woman who saw them… were they not also flecked with mud—looked from Garrett back to him again. Her lips tightened, pursed and, finally, a glimmer of reluctance flittered across her face. Like a wisp of smoke, it was there and gone again so fast he couldn’t be sure if he’d really seen it or not. “I’m not running away.”
Most liars looked down or away, or twitched or did something to betray their dishonesty. Chin did none of that. She held his stare, and yet, sure as they were both sitting at his kitchen table, Cullen knew she was lying. He didn’t know how he knew it, but the certainty of it settled in the pit of his belly like a lump of hot, burning coal.
Cullen hated liars. He hadn’t always been what most would consider a good man, but he’d always strived for honesty. A man was nothing in this world without the strength and conviction of his word.
His chair creaked as he shifted, swiveling on his rain-soaked and muddy butt to face her head-on. His broad hands came to rest on his wet thighs. If she thought that not being his kid would save her, she had one hell of a surprise (and whupping, if she continued to test him) coming. Already his palm itched.
“One,” he told her in a measured tone.
Another wisp of emotion flittered across her muddy features, there and gone again before she asked, “One, what?”
“Lie to me again,” he clarified. “I dare you.”
The smell of crisping bacon, like hot summer’s comfort, wafted through the house. A log in the stove popped. Chin and Cullen stared at one another, neither blinking.
“I’m going to ask you only once more,” he said, keeping a tight grip on his patience. “This time, I expect the truth. Are you a runaway, girl, or do I need to get back on my horse and go searching for your kin before they fall in the same wash that almost killed you?”
Her tiny fingers tightened in the folds of her blanket, twisting the homespun before drawing it in close around her. She shuddered, for the first time dropping her gaze to her lap as if searching for her answer among the filthy wrinkles of her skirt. “My family died years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Cullen said without softening. “Where you headed?”
Black eyes rose and locked with his again. He knew professional gamblers with more revealing stares than hers. “San Francisco.”
Cullen’s chair creaked as he shifted again, that coal burning hotter. At the stove, Garrett stopped stirring long enough to tsk. His laugh came out as a rueful chuckle. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way,” he said, shaking his head.
“Two,” Cullen breathed, flexing his hand to the accompanying pop of two tense knuckles. His palm was itching so he could hardly stand it. “San Fran is in the ass-opposite direction. Try again.”
Stiffening, the girl hiked her chin and a snap of real fire lit the depths of her dark eyes. “I’m not lyin—”
And that was three.
He moved so fast, in the time she had to react only her eyes widened. After that, he had her, seizing her by one arm and a good handful of blanket at the scruff of her neck. He stripped it off her even as he yanked her out of her seat, leaving the blanket cast to the floor in disgrace and herself sprawled facedown across his lap.
He didn’t toss her skirt up. The way it clung, so wet and thin to her already tensing backside, he had a good visual of his target. And, as he’d already noted, she wasn’t his kid. Some barriers weren’t meant to be crossed, but, he thought as she snapped a hand back, grabbing blindly to stay his arm, nobody looked him dead in the eye and lied to him—not once or twice, and sure as hell not three damned times—in his own house.
Her whole body went stiff as a board when the flat of his hand caught the seat of her skirts. Water splashed in all directions, flying out from that meaty “SPLAT!”, as well as for the next four that followed it. He got mud in his eye, making her far from the only victim of her dishonesty. When he was done, he picked her up (this time by the scruff of her dress) and dumped her back on her chair. Then they sat there, once more squared off and staring at one another. From first swat to last, he hadn’t said one word. Eyes flashing angrily, apart from her own heavy breathing, she didn’t make a sound either.
“So, Chinny,” Garrett said cheerfully. “You want one flapjack or do you think you’re hungry enough for two?”
Cullen had only swatted her five times, but he’d made each of them count. From any other kid, he’d have expected some sniffling, maybe even tears. At the very least, his efforts deserved a rueful bottom rub, but Chin did none of those telling things. She trembled. From the looks of her, she was too mad not to.
“Try again,” he said, even less inclined toward sympathy than before. “Where were you running?”
“San Fran—” She broke off with a squeak when he grabbed her arm again and back across his knees she went. Her squeak became a yelp when the full displeasure of his arm came crashing down on her upturned rump. This time he gave her ten swats and his hand was feeling the sting by the time he heaved her back up again. He could dance this dance all night, if that was what she wanted, and he’d happily ensure there wouldn’t be a lick of mud left anywhere on the seat of her skirts when he was done. He let his stare tell her as much and this time, instead of dropping her back onto her seat, he left her standing beside him, ready to go back over unless she mended her deceiving ways.
Grabbing her backside, Chin tried to duck out of his reach, but again, he moved faster. He caught her wrist, forcing her to stay right at the end of his knee where all she had to look at was his lap and see how ready, willing and capable of continuing this spanking his hand yet was.
“One more lie,” he growled. “Just one more, and my belt comes off and your unders come down. That’s a promise.”
Almond eyes burning muted fury, Chin’s mouth snapped open, but then she caught herself. She glared at him before taking her hands away from what had to be a tender butt, if his hand was anything by which to judge. Smoothing her wet skirts, she twisted her fingers tight in the folds before slowly, reluctantly, making herself let go. It was hard not to admire the self-control it must have taken her to smooth her features the way she did. To kill al
l hint of the anger that left her trembling still, and resume that cool, damn near serene stare once more.
“Away,” she finally said. Short and without elaboration. “You have no right to ask me any more questions and I don’t have to answer them if you do.”
“I disagree,” Cullen replied. “Any day a man risks his life to help a little girl trespassing on his grazing land, well, I say he’s entitled to a few answers. Nobody decides to up and travel in a storm like this without so much as a proper coat or a change of clothes. Judging from the direction you were riding, I’d say Culpepper Cove is where you started running. How about you tell me why?”
At the mention of Culpepper Cove, a flash of fear cut through the serenity. Just like all the other wisps of smoke, it was there and gone before he could catch a good whiff of it. She was a cagey one, he’d give her that.
“I am not a little girl,” she spat. “I can go where I will, when I will and owe no answers to the likes of you, you… you cow poker!”
“Cow poker?” Garrett and Cullen said in unison, the former surprised at her vehemence while the later growled, low and dangerous.
“I do believe the term is cowpoke,” Garrett tried helpfully, but she cut him off.
“Poke by profession; poker by habit!”
“You little—” Cullen started to rise, but for the first time, it was she who moved faster. Exactly where she pulled that ivory-handled dagger from, he had no idea, but he only just caught a glint of light off the blade before he felt the sharp tip tuck right up under his chin. Cullen discovered two things then: one, her knife was as tiny as the rest of her, but it was sharp as hell; and two, she was a whole lot better at hiding her anger than she was at hiding the smug pleasure with which she lorded this win over him.
“I may be small,” she told him, sing-song soft as she dug the tip into the soft skin of his neck, “but even a small woman can carve the guts from a gwailo!”
“Oh, honey,” Garrett breathed, not smiling now though he did chuckle. “That was not very smart.”
Cullen didn’t bother saying even that much. “Now it’s the belt.”
Her black eyes narrowed, but that was all the time he allowed her to react. He grabbed her wrist, but not before he felt the nick of her blade drawing blood. He yanked back, clamping fingers over the sting. They came away tinged in crimson, but the smear wasn’t heavy. Anger held under very tight control, he wiped his fingers on his pants and checked again. Fortunately, the bleeding wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the cut felt.
Relieved, Cullen forgot about his neck and turned his full attention onto the slip of a girl tugging and yanking to free her arm from his grip. “Poker, am I?” he countered.
“Moo,” she lowed, her black eyes sparking pure defiance.
It was a very close approximation to a cow in heat. Cullen acknowledged that with a dry smile and a tsk of regret on her bottom’s behalf. Then he disarmed her, throwing the knife onto the table well out of both their reaches. She dug in with both feet when he grabbed his belt, the clank of the buckle preceding the leathery hiss as he whipped it out of pants loops.
“No!” She braced her legs, her butt going nearly all the way to the floor as she fought his pull. But he was bigger, he was stronger, and he was right. And right always triumphed, particularly over tiny slips of misbehaving young ladies in desperate need of what daddy so obviously didn’t give them enough of.
One hard yank pulled her right up onto her tiptoes and, with a shout, down she went again. There was nothing stoic or subdued about her now. She put up a better fight than most adult women he knew, but Cullen still wrestled her over his thighs. This time, he grabbed the back of her skirts. She grabbed at them too, but he wrenched and tugged until he won. Up they came. He dumped the whole sopping mess over her head, muffling her shouts in yards of muddy fabric and effectively trapping her flailing left hand to prevent its further interference.
What she shouted wasn’t in any language he understood as she grunted, panted, bucked and thrashed. She elbowed him in the ribs trying to free her arm, and then again, kicking furiously and twisting her hips to keep him from hooking her sagging bloomers. He ripped them down anyway, baring her before he doubled his belt in his hand, palmed the buckle and adjusted the length to compensate for holding her across his lap.
“Come on, Cull,” Garrett cajoled. “She’s had a tough day.”
“Mind your flapjacks,” Cullen shot back. “She’s also had three chances and she’s got this coming.”
It was all the scolding he intended to deliver and having given it, he let the belt do the rest of his talking.
There was no teacher quite like the supple length of leather. He and Garrett had learned that at their father’s hand, the way their father had learned it from Grandpappy. In specific, it was the bane of their father’s childhood (Grandpappy’s old razor strop) that had, for all the days of Cullen’s, hung on the back porch post until such times as he’d been sent to fetch it down. Well, he didn’t have an old and weathered razor strop handy, but right from the very start he suspected little Miss Chinny wasn’t missing out on any of the subtle differences.
She stiffened, sucking a loud gasp at the first stroke that wrapped the lower curves of her buttocks, hugging them in its painful embrace. After that, however, eyes squeezed tightly shut and fists braced against his thigh, she locked her lips to endure in silence. That resolve lasted only until that sixth whipping stroke. What she gasped out then was bleated under her breath and, again, in a language he didn’t know. She could have been swearing at him, but considering the mix of shock and smart in that single mewling phrase, he rather suspected she might be praying. He understood that kind of prayer. Heaven alone knew how many times as a boy he’d dropped his trousers and done the exact same damn thing.
Not that he softened his arm for her now. Nope, for the little knife-wielding hellion firmly pinned across his knee, he had every intention of dispensing the full measure of what he thought she deserved. And what she deserved, was a hell of a lot more than six leathery thwapps across her now blushing and tender sitter.
Two more and her stiff-armed and stiff-lipped endurance broke. With renewed franticness, she began to fight, but he only pinned her down tighter, giving her no leverage to break free. No matter how she twisted, kicked her feet or slapped uselessly back with her one free hand, he kept the rise and snapping downward fall of his belt as stern and as steady as the metronome on his Mama’s piano, lying forgotten on the westward trail somewhere between here and the east coast because it had bogged down the wagon beyond his ability to justify keeping it.
Chin was stubborn, he’d give her that. Somewhere around the thirteenth strike of his belt against the now quite rosy flesh of her bottom, he heard her first high-pitched squeak of a plea: “S-Stop! W-Wait, please stop!” And then in the very next breath, in a fit of anger hot enough to scorch his ears, “You sadistic, bullying, sick son of a bitch! I’ll see you hanged for this! Let… Let me go! Ow! Ow!”
Flipping pancakes and prodding bacon, Garrett shook his head, but Cullen only hoisted her more fully across his knee and redoubled his effort. It took another four strokes before that half-pint of stubbornness finally broke for good. She wasn’t his kid, and he was conscious of that. He stopped just as soon as she began to cry. Dropping his belt on the floor by his chair (just in case he wasn’t done needing it), he let her scramble loose.
Shoving backwards off his knee, Chin nearly tripped over her own fallen drawers before she caught her balance. She dropped, grabbing to haul them up her legs while keeping the shield of her skirts to protect her belated modesty.
Hands once more braced on his thighs, Cullen waited until she’d put her clothes to rights. Keeping his tone soft, authoritative and as far from smug as he could make it, he said, “Well, kid? You got anything more you want to say?”
It was in those next few seconds that Cullen received three of the biggest shocks of the night, if not his life. Chin swiped at her face, scrubbi
ng at her tears with the backs of both muddy hands. Hiccupping and gasping, she might be. Bawling with a bottom on fire, she absolutely was, but fury lit her eyes. That was his first surprise.
The second came fast on the heels of the first when, grabbing the front of her dress, she ripped it open, scattering a rain of tiny pearl buttons all over the kitchen floor as she exposed to him the twin mounds of her breasts. They were small, round, fully and perfectly-formed, elegantly packaged in a mud-stained lace chemise cut so low as to expose the slightly darker crescents of each areola, and they completely destroyed his earlier estimation of how old she really was.
“Whoa!” Garrett fumbled both his pan and spatula, and something fell off the stove. Exactly what, Cullen had no idea because he was still staring open-mouthed, the slow flush of a very real and unwelcome heat beginning to steal up through his face. It matched the equally unwelcome heat wending through his belly, twisting lower and lower, filling his groin and tightening his balls. Something, he supposed, no one could blame him for. He hadn’t indulged in a woman in well over a year. It was hard to justify the expense of visiting a brothel when he needed every penny he had to keep his farm from sinking deeper into debt.
The third shock he’d pretty much figured out for himself, but drawing a deep hiss in through tightly-clenched teeth, Chin gave it to him anyway.
“I,” she seethed, “am not a kid! In specific, I am not your kid! If you ever do that to me again—” She took a single step and loomed over him, a feat that never would have been possible were he not already sitting down. “—I will geld you in your sleep!”
Chapter Four
Chin awoke the next morning in what she at first thought was her own bed back at the Red Petticoat. She nestled down in sleepy comfort, swaddled in crisp white linens on an old but comfortable four-poster bed. The folds of a worn patchwork quilt were tucked up over her shoulder and under her chin. Her quilt back home was quite different, but even that irregularity wasn’t enough to bring her back to wakefulness.