The Rancher and The Bad Girl

by Kira Barcelo

  Her eyesight slowly cleared. Through the fog of dizziness, she could see Reeve scowling at her and shaking his head as he carried her in his arms in the direction of the house.

  "You can put me down," she said weakly. "I can walk."

  "You can't walk. And you shouldn't have been working or anywhere near a horse," he lectured.

  She was so afraid she'd be sick right then and embarrass herself. "Oh, Reeve, please set me down for a minute. I'm—I have to—I have to—"

  "All right, honey, all right."

  He set her down but he didn't leave her side. She leaned against the corral fence and bent at the waist.

  "Please don't watch me," she moaned.

  "Aw, darlin'—all right. I'll turn my head."

  She knew she was being difficult, but she couldn't help herself. Holding onto the fence, she retched miserably. Since she hadn't eaten much more that morning than a piece of bread, what came up were mostly dry heaves.

  "Better?" he asked after a few minutes.

  "Yes."

  "Good. Up you go." Again, he swept her up in his arms, his long legs carrying her onto the back porch. With his shoulder, he pushed open the door and carried her up the stairs.

  "When you fell…did you hurt yourself?" he asked.

  "Um, yes. Oh!" He had set her in a sitting position on the bed.

  Her husband half grinned, watching her roll onto her stomach and rub her behind. "Want me to have a look at that?"

  "Oh, I'm sure it's—"

  Her face was even paler now, but pink spots appeared in her cheeks when she felt him lift her skirts and lower her underthings so he could inspect her derriere. Remembering his promise earlier to spank her, she clutched her pillow and bit her lower lip.

  "Well, that's a big bruise. Hurts?"

  "Only when I sit!"

  Reeve chortled. "Then we'll have Doc Wilmont have a look at that when he comes, too."

  "Have the doctor—oh, Reeve, no. Couldn't we just tell him I fell off Jimmy?"

  "Honey, the man's a hundred years old and he's seen plenty more than a black-and-blue butt. Now you are going to let him have a look and make sure you didn't break anything, or that'll be a black-and-blue and flaming red butt. Am I making myself clear?"

  She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, responding with a muffled, "Yes, sir."

  Then she looked over her shoulder at him, tears welling up in her eyes. "What about my chores? My responsibilities?"

  "Honey, you're sick. They'll get done. And if they don't, that's all right. What's important is that you take care of yourself." He kissed her forehead. "Now don't you ever do anything like that again, telling me you're all right when you're not. Understood?" The handsome face looking down at her regarded her with kindness, softening her heart even more.

  "Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry I worried you," she whispered.

  "Just rest now. Don't get up unless you have to. There's a bucket there in the corner in case you feel sick. And I'll get Doc for you."

  "Yes, sir. I'll be a good girl."

  His smile comforted her, but the respite was only temporary. A few minutes after he left the room, she closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the room that had again began to spin. Sleep mercifully came to her within that hour.

  * * * * *

  There was a storm like that one when she was a child in Maryland. It seemed malevolent, like an evil spirit that had taken the form of wind stronger than any of hurricane force.

  In fact… was she back in Maryland? How could that be? She was standing in what looked like a long hallway made of glass, and through that glass, she watched the storm growing more and more violent. At her side was Bartholomew Brooks, of all people, grabbing hold of her arm. Where had he come from? Where was Reeve?

  "Look at that wind!" Brooks was shouting to be heard over the noise. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"

  That wasn't home. That wasn't Baltimore. Where were they? Melanie looked around but only saw debris flying—paper, window shudders, dust, everything that could be lifted up by storm-force winds. She fought the panic starting inside her.

  "I need to get home!" she cried.

  "You are home. You're not going anywhere." He twisted her arm the way he had many times before, his face contorting with cruelty. She knew that expression of his well. "You're mine."

  "No! Not anymore!" Melanie began to cry. "I have to leave. I have to get home to my husband!"

  "You're not going anywhere, whore. Look at that storm!"

  They shouldn't have been out there, not with things flying around at them. Rain began to fall. She had to get inside.

  Then she heard a sound she recognized. She knew what that sounded like because of that other storm earlier in her life, the one that had knocked down a tree. It had fallen on the house where her family lived. Her grandfather had been killed instantly.

  She knew that was what she heard. The sound of a tree being torn out of the ground, roots and all. Looking up, her heart stopped.

  The bottom of that tree—as neat and even as if it had seen the straight edge of a saw—was being hurled straight at her, with only that glass hallway for protection. Within seconds, it would be shattered, and she would die. She was facing the inevitable moment of her death.

  There was no time to move, no time to escape her fate.

  * * * * *

  Something cold and soothing touched her forehead. Breathing in deeply, Melanie opened her eyes to see her bedroom around her.

  Her relatively new bedroom, the one she shared with her husband. There was no wind, no storm, and no man who had forced her to continue selling her body for money. She was alive and in no danger. Her body felt hot, like some tiny furnace inside her had been stoked to the highest heat, but she was alive.

  Reeve sat on her right, in a chair and leaning in close to press a small cold cloth against her forehead. In the dim light of a candle on the table beside her bed, she could see his brow creased with concern despite his smile. A shiver of fear coursed through her blood, especially in light of the nightmares she'd had.

  "Am I all right?" His voice came out raspy and weak.

  "You're fine, honey. You're all right." Soaking the cloth in a basin on the floor, he dabbed at her forehead with it. "It's just a fever."

  Just a fever. It was more than that, but he didn't want to frighten her.

  Or maybe he was being truthful with her. She couldn't remember having been that sick for so long. The last time had been when she had scarlet fever as a child. Her fear subsided slightly, her attention focused on the appearance of Bartholomew in her nightmare.

  "You do love me… don't you, Reeve?" Melanie was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

  The hand holding the cloth stopped. He stared at her intently. "Yes. Yes, Melanie. I love you."

  "Oh, and I love you. Do you love me the way I am? Even with—everything?"

  "Melanie, hush. Breathe…" He spoke softly to her. "Of course I love you. You love me with all my faults. Don't you?"

  "You—you have no faults. You're a good man."

  "Oh, I'm not perfect, honey. You come a lot closer to being perfect than I do, sweet angel." He touched her cheek. "You're a good woman. I love you just the way you are. Now shh. Rest."

  Nodding, she turned her head, which felt so heavy and hot on her pillow. Before drifting back to sleep, Melanie noticed how damp her nightgown was, so damp it was clinging to her body.

  I would die if you ever found out the truth. You wouldn't want me then.

  Somehow, even in spite of her fears, she at last fell back into a deep sleep, this time undisturbed by ghosts from her painful past.

  Chapter Six

  Melanie wasn't telling him the whole truth.

  She was feeling so much better, now that the fever and the illness had passed days ago. That was the only reason he'd gone into town with the specific reason of meeting someone at Mae's saloon. When he left, his wife was busy making preparations for her sister's visit. Melanie s
eemed content and energetic. She also seemed to have forgotten all about that conversation with him the night of her illness, during which he'd fretted that he would lose her.

  People say things when they're delirious, Doc had warned him that night, right before leaving the house. Don't take anything Mrs. Larson says tonight to heart.

  His instincts told him there was more to her mysterious words than just a delirium brought on by a high fever. His wife was keeping something from him, some dark secret.

  Sliding out of the saddle, he secured Twister to the hitching post. There was a tall, black stallion, a Mustang, already there. He was a beautiful, majestic creature, and Reeve had never seen him before in town. He wondered if that belonged to the stranger, the man supposedly waiting for him inside the saloon. If he bothered to show up at all, that is. The smells of the town—beer from inside the saloon, horse dung, and the very heat of the day—as well as cheap perfume permeating from one of Mae's girls, who waved at him as he came through the door—assailed him.

  The piano player was beating out the tune Lorena on the aging instrument in the corner of the saloon while men played cards and drank. One of the other girls was on a cowboy's lap, doing a sultry little dance for him while seated with his hands cupping her butt cheeks, and another was having a swallow of sarsaparilla at the bar.

  Reeve recognized the man. His gut told him that was Forest Parrish, sitting at a table by himself and nursing a glass of that amber liquid. The stranger must have realized that was the rancher he was there to meet, because he waved Reeve right over.

  "I believe I'm the man you're looking for," the detective spoke first, offering his hand for Reeve to shake. "Forest Parrish."

  "And I'm Reeve Larson," he introduced himself.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Larson. What'll you have?"

  Reeve wasn't much of a drinker, yet he replied, "I'll have a whiskey."

  "Oh, uh, little girl," turning, Forest took off his hat before addressing Sandra, another of Mae's girls. "Be a sweetheart and bring the gentleman a drink, all right?"

  Reeve sat down slowly. Forest was younger than he'd originally thought, closer to his own age. There was an absence of devil horns and a lizard's tail, and other than the scruffy appearance and stubble on his chin and cheeks, he wasn't a bad-looking man at all. Even a noticeable scar on his right cheek didn't detract from his dark, good looks, though it did add to his rather dark persona.

  "I understand you're having some trouble with some cattle rustlers," Forrest began, leaning back in his chair.

  "It's an ongoing problem, yes."

  "Uh-huh. Well, I charge two hundred and fifty dollars. That's not including my room and board."

  Reeve was struck by that cold, businesslike manner. Forrest hadn't wasted any time, instantly naming his price.

  "Well, that's assuming I hire you," Reeve reminded him, sitting back for the young woman to place his drink in front of him.

  "You don't have to. Won't hurt my feelings any. Hell, you got the marshal over there. He could take care of those rustlers for you, I'm sure."

  Parrish's tone reeked of sarcasm and a mischievous glint twinkled in his eye. Did he really want this man staying in his home? Meanwhile, Marshal Fraley sat there at a table with two other men, squinting at his hand of cards, looking anything but fierce.

  "Or you can get me. I'm a professional." Forest puffed out his chest.

  "The marshal carries a gun, but he likes telling people he doesn't use it," Sandra confided.

  "Oh, now that's a good strategy for dealing with criminals." Forrest laughed heartily, but then he gave the woman a sharp slap on her rear. "Run along, darlin'. This is business talk. Leave all that dull stuff to us men."

  "Yes, sir." She grimaced and tried to rub the sting from her bottom as she hurried off.

  "I got a wife at home," Reeve said, narrowing his eyes at him. "And her sister will be staying with us for a spell."

  "That's fine. I can sleep with the hands. Don't have to worry about me with the womenfolk. Last thing a man like me needs is a woman complicating my life."

  "You get the men doing this and bring them to justice."

  "I do the hard part and then I bring them to the marshal or the undertaker. That's their choice, whichever they want, makes no difference to me. Two hundred and fifty dollars."

  Reeve watched him fold his hands behind his head, his arrogance irritating to the rancher.

  "How long does it typically take you to catch these men?" he asked.

  "Two, three weeks. Maybe more, maybe less. Depends on how brazen they are. How smart they think they are."

  "You're smarter than them, you're saying?"

  "Without a doubt."

  Reeve gave his shoulder a shrug. "And what if you don't catch them?"

  "Then you don't owe me a dime. Any time you say it's over, it's over. You're the boss. Some ranchers keep me on sometimes, when it's an ongoing problem. But I always catch these criminals." Forrest leaned forward, his voice dangerous and low. "Always."

  Against his better judgment, Reeve nodded and downed his drink in one swallow. The whiskey burned a pleasant trail down his throat.

  "All right. When can you start?"

  "When do you want me to start?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Wonderful. I'll be there tomorrow, bright and early."

  Reeve stood and shook his hand, only because that was the way of gentlemen sealing a deal. But Forest Parrish was no gentleman.

  That was a fact that someone else in town was soon to learn.

  * * * * *

  The train arrived a day earlier than scheduled, and that was fine with Olivia Cranford. The problem was that she was stepping out onto the platform, right beneath the sign that read Garner Falls, and no one was there to meet her.

  Even with being thousands of miles away from Maryland, she wasn't afraid. It took more than being a woman alone in a strange town to frighten Miss Olivia Cranford.

  Who, for all intents and purposes, was a schoolteacher. Remember that, she told herself. That was the story her sister had given her husband, and that was the story she would be repeating to anyone who asked. Schoolteacher. What a nice, respectable calling for a woman.

  The beauty of it all was that no one would be the wiser. If she chose to stay in that town—and that was what she would be aiming for—she would be, like her younger sister, living a new life as a new woman.

  And if Melanie had found herself a rancher husband, then why couldn't she?

  With the skirts of her favorite dress, made of purple silk faille with brocade trim, swishing with her every step, she made her way across the street to the building marked with the sign that read SALOON. Probably not the best place for a respectable lady to go alone, but Olivia wagered that someone there could help her get to Melanie's ranch.

  She knew what those places were like. She had been in enough of them in the past few years. Inside, four young women, scantily clad, were performing a dance number for the cowboys drinking at the counter and at the tables.

  Olivia raised her chin and headed straight to the counter, where a middle-aged blonde stood chatting and pouring drinks, her ample breasts nearly popping out of her bodice.

  "Hello, sorry to disturb you, ma'am," Olivia said, setting her traveling bag down at her feet. "I was wondering if someone could help me?"

  "Sure, honey. How can I be of service?" Mae offered her a warm smile.

  "My sister's expecting me, but my train has arrived a day earlier than expected."

  "Your sister?"

  "Yes. I'm Olivia Cranford. My sister is Mrs. Reeve Larson."

  Recognition registered on the chubby blonde's pretty face. "Oh, you're Melanie Larson's sister! My, but it's good to meet you. I'm Mae. I'm a good friend of your sister's and her husband. Let's see if I can find someone to take you over to their ranch."

  "Oh, that would be lovely, my dear!" Olivia exclaimed, truly pouring on the charm. "I am so exhausted from my trip, I can't even tell you. I came al
l the way from Maryland, you know."

  "Yes, I do, in fact. Wait here a moment, honey, and I'll fetch someone to take you."

  "All right. Thank you so much." There. That was easy. Olivia stood primly. She adjusted her hat and smoothed the skirts of her dress, then looked around at the bar.

  Hmph! Not one of those bedraggled, carousing cowpokes looked like they'd even remotely make a suitable husband for her. That didn't stop them from ogling her. A hand touching her arm startled her and she whirled around.

  "Well, aren't you just pretty as a daisy?" The cowboy, somewhere in his thirties, drawled at her. "Buy you a drink, my calico queen?"

  Olivia stiffened. He was dressed in black from head to toe and wore a flashy ring. The man wouldn't have been half-bad to look at if he hadn't had that scar on his face. That, and if he'd bothered to shave.

  "I should say not. I'm waiting for a ride to the Larson ranch," she told him.

  He mocked her with pursed lips and mimicked her manner. Yes, she was putting on airs, but still—the nerve of the man!

  "Is that so, your royal highness? Now what business would a woman like you have out at the Larson ranch?"

  "A woman like—oh!" She smoothed her hair and her tongue. "I'll have you know I'm not that kind of a girl."

  "Oh… yes, you are, darlin'. You sure are." He stared back at her, daring her to disagree with him, both playful and defiant.

  Olivia trembled. How could that ruffian tell? She stood up straighter, giving a haughty shake of her head. "I happen to be a schoolteacher," she told him through gritted teeth.

  "Ah. A schoolteacher! How nice. Let me take you upstairs, so you can teach me…" the cowboy drew closer and whispered in her ear, "everything you know."

  Her breaths coming in faster and harder, both excited and enraged, Olivia grabbed hold of a whiskey bottle Mae had been using to fill customers' glasses. Before he could realize what she was doing, she poured out its contents—about half the bottle—over his cowboy hat.

  The piano player abruptly stopped playing. The women in the room gasped and the men stared in Olivia's direction.

  "Ma'am, do you know who that is?" one of the other cowboys asked in a hushed voice.