Lady Caroline’s Defiance
The Ranger’s Shotgun Bride
By
Maddie Taylor
©2017 by Blushing Books® and Maddie Taylor
All rights reserved.
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Maddie Taylor
The Ranger’s Shotgun Bride
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Chapter 1
Pop! Ping! Crack!
Inside the hot, dusty stagecoach, Amelia Banks curled her arms over her head and ducked as a barrage of gunfire erupted outside. Shouts and curses arose from the guards riding alongside, as they returned fire. At the same time, the driver snapped the reins, calling, “Ha!” to his team of six.
The horses immediately responded, picking up the pace and setting the already bouncing vehicle into a continuous shudder, jarring Amelia’s shaken, worn out, and overheated body. Not that the vehicle raced along so very quickly. More so, because the wheels of the poorly sprung coach had the uncanny ability of finding every rock and furrow on the road, the hard baked, deeply rutted stage route resembling a road in the very loosest of terms.
“A poor excuse for an overgrown cow path is more like it,” she grumbled beneath her breath, then squelched a yelp as the blasted conveyance lurched sharply. It sent her bouncing into the air, her backside leaving its perch on an overstuffed sack of mail—the only accommodating seat available in the torturous hell on wheels. The next instant, she landed with a grunt that turned into a low groan of pain as her bottom connected with the unforgiving floor boards, her twill split skirt and thin drawers offering little cushion.
Amelia sat immobilized for a moment, listening to the pounding of horses’ hooves against the hard, sunbaked ground, the nerve-wracking creaking of the jouncing vehicle, and the near constant gunfire. Every bone and muscle in her body cried out in agony, her aching behind in particular. Something worse, to her way of thinking, than being tossed around like a rag doll in this stifling hot box, was not knowing what in blue blazes was going on outside.
Stiffly coming to her knees, she glanced at the window and the weighty curtains, which throughout the ruckus swayed in constant motion, yet remained shut. Already she was plotting her course around the cargo, crammed floor to ceiling inside with her. She didn’t get far before she, and everything around her, shifted again, leaning sharply to the side as if taking a curve. While she prayed the thing wouldn’t roll over, something the top-heavy vehicles were known to do, she braced herself for the moment, resigned to holding on and hoping she got through this without a mess of broken bones or being flattened like a pancake from falling crates.
Heaven knew how long she would lie there unattended if one of the large chests fell on top of her. Especially with no one on the outside aware of her presence. How could they, when she’d done her darnedest to sneak inside before dawn that morning? A decision she had regretted countless times since. She hadn’t expected to ride in the lap of luxury but never would have guessed the harsh, cramped conditions she’d endured for the past six hours.
Only a few months ago, this passenger coach had been one of the company’s finest. But with rail travel becoming more prevalent and new track encroaching deeper into south Texas every day, traveling via coach—her father’s bread and butter for three decades—had dwindled. To make ends meet, the Banks-Prescott Stagecoach Company—once the premier lines in all of Texas—had taken on other contracts such as payroll transports, bank transfers, and they recently signed a lucrative postal delivery contract. This meant many of the luxury models, like the one she rode in today, had been stripped down, the bench seats ripped out, the plush velvet coverings discarded, and every scrap of padding that provided cushioning to a rider’s tender parts as they bounced and lurched across miles of rough terrain had been removed to make room for cargo.
As a stowaway, she had no right to complain. Still, she didn’t know which was more dangerous, taking a stray bullet from the ruffians outside, or having one of the heavy storage chests teetering above her head fall and crush her.
The distinctive snap of splintering wood penetrated her thoughts of impending doom. Not a second passed before the coach pitched severely to one side. Without the strength to overcome the violent jolting motions of the careening vehicle, her grip gave way, and her slight frame slammed into a nearby travel trunk. The brass reinforced corner dug sharply into her hip. She bit her lip, quickly suppressing another uncontrollable yelp—not an easy feat, considering it really hurt and was likely bruising already—but she didn’t want to alert any of her father’s men, or the ones shooting at them, to her presence.
It was doubtful they heard her over the frightened horses’ cries, the big animals clearly disliking the listing damaged vehicle and the bullets flying around their vicinity as much as she did. And she doubted her small squeak of pain broke through the melee of shouting and foul cursing. Some of the words she didn’t know, yet from the biting tones in which they were expressed, she doubted they were pleasantries.
As parcels and envelopes flew all around her, Amelia guessed the attackers—likely bandits after the bank transfer in the nearby strongbox—had shot out one of the wheels, putting a halt to the driver’s best effort to outrun them. Usually, losing one of the four wooden-spoked wheels would have flipped them on end, so she considered herself lucky they remained upright—or mostly so.
Uncertain whether to be relieved or scared out of her mind, as the vehicle slowed and teetered to a shuddering halt, and a heavily accented voice called, “Throw down your weapons,” she settled on scared out of her mind.
Just as she’d suspected, it was a hold up.
This wasn’t good.
Neither was being pinned down and helpless by one of the heavy mailbags that had landed on top of her during the wild ride. She needed to protect herself because, inevitably, they were coming inside after the money.
As soundlessly as possible, she hefted off the bag, her eyes on the door latch, expecting it to burst open any second. Then she began searching for the satchel where she’d stored her pistols. Crawling over sacks and boxes, her motions were slow and careful so as not to tip the already leaning coach and give away her location. She wanted to scream her frustration when she didn’t see her bag anywhere.
She did, however, find herself closer to the window. Her fingers were reaching for the edge of the heavy drape, eager to peek out, when the unmistakable ratcheting sound of a rifle being primed froze her stock still.
“The next gringo who moves, I shoot dead where he stands,” the same accented voice threatened.
Amelia believed him and didn’t dare blink.
Not so Old Park, the oldest driver in her father’s employ. “My count is at least twelve of the bastards,” she heard him say as boots shuffled overhead.
While saddle leather creaked and horses snorted, Amelia envisioned a dozen guns taking a bead on Park standing atop the busted rig with his trusty Winchester, which was never far from his side. She imagined he had it aimed dead to rights on the leader. If his count was correct, Park and the guards were outnumbered two-to-one.
“What’s yer call, boss?” At forty-two, Parker Runyan appeared fit, still in his prime, a rarity in his line of work, when men didn’t last long. He’d
been driving for nearly two decades, however, and had a reputation for being even tempered. He had to be, considering this was his thirty-first hold up. She knew this because she’d been in the office when he’d told her daddy about the thirtieth, which hadn’t been more than a month ago. Today, he wasn’t acting himself. Maybe he should have called it quits at thirty, while he was ahead and still breathing.
The planks overhead shuddered and popped as, once again, there was shifting up top. She offered up a silent prayer for Park not to do anything stupid. The bandit, who she assumed was the leader since he done all the talking, was of the same thought, only he didn’t bother with prayers.
“Don’t be estúpido, señor,” came his warning. “Put down your guns and hand over the payroll, if you want to live.”
Silence followed as nothing happened.
“It matters not to us if we get your cash dead or alive,” the bandit advised, his tone clipped with what she took as impatience. Her guess proved correct when he added, “You’ve got three seconds. Uno…”
“Stand down,” a familiar voice drawled. Although she couldn’t see the speaker, Amelia recognized the deep, leisurely cadence of his voice. She ought to, after she spent the past several months with one ear quirked for the sound of it whenever she visited the company office.
It belonged to none other than Jacob Steele, ‘the boss’ as Old Park had called him, Jake to the other men. To her father, he was the company’s security foreman, and to herself, the man she had fallen for—hard. She’d heard of love at first sight, but always thought it a bunch of romantic twaddle until the day she laid eyes on him.
As clearly as if it had been yesterday, the image of him walking across the forecourt of the main yard to her daddy’s office popped into her head. His size garnered her attention straightaway. Even from her vantage point, beneath the old oak tree that shaded half the large front corral by the stable, she could tell he stood well above six feet tall. With uncommon grace, for such a big man, he sauntered with a quiet confidence, his long legs covering a good deal of ground swiftly, although he didn’t appear in a hurry at the time.
As he moved, his muscles rippled and bunched. This meant there was a whole heck of a lot of rippling and bunching going on, because the man seemed to be made of nothing except sinew and muscle. His shoulders, biceps, and thighs strained the clothing that barely contained him, and the sleeveless vest he wore accentuated every beautiful bulge. She remembered vividly how the worn leather had shifted when he moved, and the slight breeze molded his shirtfront to the flat line of his belly, exposing a wide dark belt cinched around the waistband of a pair of far-too-snug-for-her-peace-of-mind tan trousers. They showed quite clearly how much of a man he really was.
Then, as now, her cheeks warmed at the boldness of her stare, but she found Jake too compelling not to draw a girl’s eye.
His features weren’t classically beautiful, his square jaw and ever present scruff of beard too rugged to be considered so, but he was handsome, despite the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, which suggested it had been broken in the past. It was a warning to others to think twice before messing with the big man. The small flaw also gave his face character, as did his full lips that made her wonder what it would be like to be taken in his strong arms, crushed to his hard body, and kissed breathless.
Aside from his handsome face, large, muscular frame, and the passion he instilled in her, the thing about Jacob that drew her in most—not that the aforementioned list of attributes did not—were his eyes. The same brilliant blue as the Texas sky on a cloudless day and framed by a thick fan of black lashes which any girl in Bee County would kill to have.
Who was she fooling? Every girl in the county would kill to have Jake—period. Herself included.
“No sense getting our asses shot full of lead over a little gold.”
The comment snapped her back to the stand-off going on outside. His easy capitulation was startling. Although she didn’t want to see him or any of the men hurt, he could at least put up a token resistance, like Old Park.
“Everyone, throw down your weapons,” Jake ordered next.
His command was met with a few snickers and some amused comments in Spanish—none of which she understood with her minuscule grasp of the language.
One by one, she heard metal thumping against dirt. Then there was another pause.
“You too, Park,” he added in the same low drawl.
“I ain’t gonna do it, boss. I’m goddamned tired of being robbed.”
“I know you are, but I also know—as do you—they don’t shoot unless provoked. Stand down,” Jake repeated. “Do not provoke them.”
“Dos…” the bandit called. He was being generous, for several seconds passed, which seemed more like an hour to Amelia as she waited.
Thankfully, tres didn’t come. Instead, another thump sounded, which she assumed was Park’s rifle hitting the ground.
The breath that had been locked in Amelia’s lungs escaped in a long sigh, yet indecision warred within her. Unarmed, the men were sitting ducks. But she had guns, was a fine shot, and had plenty of ammunition. It was up to her to save them and the money.
While looking down at the jumbled mess of cargo, she began shifting things aside as she searched for her bag. She found it pinned beneath several boxes and not easily accessible. Damn! This left her only defense the girlie derringer in her pocket. A gift from her father when she’d turned eighteen; at close range, the small lightweight pistol had the ability to put a sizeable hole in a man’s chest, but from a distance, it became as useless as firing a pea shooter at a charging elephant.
Not good enough!
She crouched down and, with her shoulder wedged against a crate, grabbed hold of the leather rope handles. With all her strength, she pushed with her body as she prepared to pull out her tapestried carpet bag.
Just as she was easing it out, the coach shifted sharply and another, much louder thud than a pistol or a rifle followed.
Unfortunate to have ridden in one of these bone quaking conveyances often enough, Amelia recognized the sound of someone jumping down from up top.
“I said, do not move!” the bandit barked.
”The gold you’re after is inside,” Jake explained. “If you allow me to fetch it, we can get this over with and all be on our way.”
“How do I know you don’t have more weapons stashed in there?” was the leader’s reasonable question.
“You don’t. But I assure you, I’m trying to see this done without anyone getting hurt.” There was a brief pause, before Jake added calmly, “So, if I may…”
“Go with him,” the same bandit ordered, undoubtedly to one of his own men. “Make sure he doesn’t suddenly grow a set of cajones and try something.”
Laughter greeted this statement, derisive in nature. Amelia knew questioning his bravery, not to mention his manhood, wouldn’t sit well with Jake. But he’d never show it, not in manner or deed. The man was always coolly controlled.
That didn’t make him a pushover, however. She’d heard the stories of how he’d stared down a band of Mescaleros, intent on raiding a passenger coach, before hiring on with the company, or picked off a would-be bandit at two hundred yards. Why he wouldn’t do anything now, and hadn’t at any time while in her father’s employ, puzzled her.
Her crush on him began the day he came to work for her father and remained unwavering until a week ago when she began to suspect he wasn’t the man she thought he was.
It was after supper and she’d gone to the gazebo to escape the heat of the house to read for a spell before dark set in. But she hadn’t been able to focus on her book, her thoughts full of Jake. Her father had invited him to dine with them, and he’d been as charming and polite in company, as he was in the times they’d been alone.
Those moments had been infrequent; he always seemed to be heading out when they encountered one another, but a time or two, he’d come across her by the creek or here in the gazebo, her favorite s
pot, and spent time with her, just talking.
Once, he took her hand, idly playing with her fingers as he told a story from his past. Afterward, he gallantly kissed the back of it before taking his leave, yet again. Her heart raced whenever she thought of those chance meetings that always left her wanting more.
As if her thoughts had conjured him, she looked up to find him climbing the nearby steps.
“Jake,” she greeted him with a smile. “Did you change your mind about dessert?”
He had left the table without tasting her Dutch apple pie, made specially for him because he told her once it was his favorite. But he declined, saying the third slice of her meatloaf put him over the top, though he looked forward to sampling it in the future. While disappointed, the comment gave her hope he might make dining with them a more frequent occurrence, especially since Daddy had given him an open invitation.
“No, Amelia, I don’t have long. I’m heading out on a run to Laredo.”
Unable to help it, her shoulders slumped, such was her regret over not being able to carve out more than a few passing moments with him, let alone a full evening.
His boot heels rang out across the wood floor as he approached. She watched as he pulled off his hat and dropped it on one of the benches, his actions contradicting his comment that he had to go. Before she could ask if something was wrong, he slid her book from her fingers, set it aside, and with both hands clasping hers, tugged her to her feet.
They stood close. He was so tall—an attribute she liked about him, a lot—she had to angle her head back to look up at him. Just as she did, he bent toward her, his large palms warmly bracketing her face, and much to her surprise and great delight, he kissed her.
Soft, at first, when she moved a step closer, welcoming his advance, one arm slid around her waist, hauling her up against him as he deepened the kiss. As he pressed her close, their bodies melded together, supple and curved to hard and well-muscled, just like in all her daydreams. Breathless immediately, she became more so when his tongue slipped inside her mouth. It searched out every nook and cranny, the intimacy robbing her of rational thought and making her legs limp as noodles. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging to him to keep from slithering as though boneless to the floor when he lifted his lips moments later.
Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys Page 105