Claiming Coral
The Red Petticoat Saloon
By
Maddie Taylor
©2016 Blushing Books® and Maddie Taylor
All rights reserved.
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Taylor, Maddie
Claiming Coral
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-732-3
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
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.
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Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
About the Author
EBook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
Blushing Books
Chapter One
Holding her breath, what little she had left, she strained to hear. What she thought had been footsteps in the hallway, was mistakenly the pounding of her heart in her ears. Near panic, she called out again.
“Help!”
Intended as a deafening cry that would resonate and carry great distances, bringing all manner of assistance, it came out as a weak, wheezing whimper that barely reached the door. That was all the breath she could muster, however. Still, no one came.
Feeling like weeping, or worse, giving up, Carissa focused all of her waning energy on one last attempt at trying to shove aside the immense weight crushing her chest. Although it was futile, she attempted to wiggle enough to slip out from under the bulky mass pinning her to the soft mattress, but he was nearly twice her size and wouldn’t shift or move an inch.
How long had it been? A quarter hour? Perhaps more? It didn’t really matter, for she felt sure if someone didn’t come to help her soon, when they eventually did, she’d be dead.
Sucking in as much breath as she could, she tried yet again. “Help me, please!” Still, her call was feeble and gasping.
A knock sounded at the door, at long last, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
“Hello? It’s the chambermaid, ma’am. May I be of help?” a soft feminine voice called.
Her hopes were instantly dashed. One lone woman wouldn’t be enough. She could go for help, though. With no other options, she’d have to make the most of it.
“I’m here. Please, help me. I’m stuck!” Though reedy thin, her voice was loud enough because the next instant the door creaked open.
“Oh, excuse me,” came the embarrassed response.
“No! Don’t go. I’m trapped under here.”
“You mean...” There was a quiver of disbelief in her voice, clearly shocked at what she’d walked in on. “But...”
“I know,” Carissa replied with a gulp. “Please, get help. I can’t breathe.”
She couldn’t see the maid, although she could picture her in vivid detail. Hair tucked up under a mob cap, starched white apron tied precisely at her waist in front, her flushed face draining of color as she realized what she thought she’d interrupted wasn’t an intimate scene as one would expect in a bedroom in the Grand Hotel, but was actually something quite morbid and horrifying. Then, Carissa imagined her mouth rounding as she screamed.
As if scripted, a shrill, ear-piercing shriek rent the air, followed by thuds as the maid’s feet struck the carpet runner in rapid retreat down the corridor. At first she wanted to cry in disappointment, then she heaved a shallow sigh of relief, knowing the alarm raised by the frantic woman would bring help. At last, the most horrendous event in her life was drawing near an end.
Waiting patiently—for what else could she do—Carissa silently tallied the seconds that passed until aid came. Alerted by more footsteps and several male voices in the hall, she twisted her head on the pillow and tried to see the door. The muffled noises started softly, growing louder and in what sounded to be sufficient number—much to her relief—as they came closer. A few moments later, there were many voices in her room.
Appalled indrawn breaths and a few “good God’s!” preced
ed a male stating baldly, “Well, if you gotta go, what better way than to die in the saddle.”
“Jerome!” A second man reprimanded the first. Still another chuckled low, and quite inappropriately considering her predicament.
“Please… I’m trapped. And, I don’t have much air left,” Carissa gasped.
There was a brief pause, then came a shuffle of footsteps, and a few argued words on how to approach the dilemma. A wonderful rush of cool air washed over her bare skin the next second as the group of faceless, nameless, countless men, heaved as one and rolled poor George—husband number three, her groom of only eight hours, who in the throes of his passion had succumbed not to that climax, but to death in the final thrust—off from on top of her.
As his heavy form lurched stiffly, then sank into the mattress beside her, she was left entirely exposed except for the nightgown bunched up beneath her arms. Carissa shot upright, her hand at her throat, while she struggled to fill her lungs. Heedless of her nudity before the group of strangers in that moment, her focus was more on gulping in life-sustaining air and expanding her chest fully for the first time in at least an hour.
Someone, perhaps the maid, or a kind man who took pity on her dilemma, tossed a blanket over her and covered her shame.
* * *
Huddled in embarrassment behind the dressing screen in the corner a short while later, Carissa listened to the comings and goings in the room. Hotel management had arrived while she was climbing from the bed, not daring to look at George’s lifeless body, while she pulled down her gown with quivering hands. When covered, she’d looked up and flushed crimson at the horrified and knowing looks the hotel staff were giving her. Though her modesty was long since compromised, she bolted for the protection of the dressing screen, where she had remained until now. And although they couldn’t possibly see her through the four solid tapestried panels or around the tall, gilded frame, she covered her face with shaking hands at their whispered comments.
“This is dead husband number three. I read it in the society page.”
“Yeah, and all died under suspicious circumstances.”
“Don’t know what’s suspicious about this. He’s forty years her senior, if he’s a day. His old ticker surely couldn’t take the excitement.”
“She’s the black widow,” a woman breathed.
“What’s that, Sally?”
“I read her first husband died of food poisoning, then Mr. Barrett, he was the second unfortunate spouse. You know him, Joe, he managed the bank down the street.”
“What of him? Get on with it, girl.”
“No need to get testy,” Sally bit back. “D’you wanna hear or not?”
“Sorry,” the one sounding like Joe mumbled.
She huffed impatiently, before going on. “Like I was sayin’, Mr. Barrett, he passed in a freak fall down the stairs. Snapped his neck like a twig.”
“Are you suggesting she might have killed him? Pushed him perhaps?” another man asked.
“I’m not suggestin’ nothin’. I’m just tellin’ you what the paper said.”
There was a pause, then one of the men added, “Good thing after I sent word to her family, I also summoned the police.”
Carissa was ready to step around the screen and ask if they had all lost their marbles, or if they thought she was deaf and couldn’t hear their spiteful gossip, when a familiar voice entered the mix.
“Where is my daughter? Carissa Anne?”
Evan Fulwiler’s booming voice instantly stilled the wagging tongues as silence fell over the room.
“I’m here, Papa,” she whispered. Not moving, she listened to the thud of footsteps on the thick, rug covered floor as her father came to her, appearing at the end of the screen.
“Come along, daughter,” he said with a heavy sigh, holding out his arm for her. Although she was angry with him for putting her in this position to start with, she rushed to him and flung herself in his arms, wailing miserably. “Now, now.” Not one for displays of affection, he thumped her on the back once or twice, then murmured gruffly, “Hold the waterworks until we get in the carriage.”
He then guided her out from behind the barrier and across the room. Carissa didn’t look at the others, assuming nasty looks would match their hurtful words. She just wanted to go home and not see any of them ever again. Papa paused to speak to one of them, however, thwarting her quick escape plan.
“Send her belongings to my address tomorrow, good fellow,” he ordered one of the hotel staff as he passed him his card. “I’ll have my secretary see to the arrangements for the deceased.”
“The police have been called, sir. They’ll want to speak to the widow.”
“Good God, man? Whatever for?”
“Um, well… he died, sir.”
“Look at him. At his age, he had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Having a young bride in his bed was the nudge that took him out. Nothing nefarious here.” He turned with a red faced Carissa toward the door.
“What should I tell them?”
“That he died happy? How the hell should I know? If they insist on asking ridiculous questions, they may come by my house in the morning after breakfast.” He said this over his shoulder as he escorted Carissa out the door. As he did, he looked down at her. “Good grief, you’re not dressed.” He shrugged off his day coat. “Put this on. It will save us time.”
“I feel sick,” she murmured.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, don’t puke. The gossip is already going to be terrible!”
As he hustled her down the stairs, she averted her eyes from the curious stares that came her way. When she had climbed into the carriage and her father followed her in, she slumped against the cushions, burying her face in her hands as she fought off both nausea and a throbbing headache.
She was done. Thoroughly distraught, she’d already made the decision and was determined to never go through this again.
Opposing all three of the marriages Papa had negotiated, in the end, when he insisted vehemently, and quite loudly, like the obedient daughter she’d always been, she complied. Going willingly to the altar, or the justice of the peace in her and George’s case. And perhaps that was the crux of the problem.
Her father was a force to be reckoned with. And, he wasn’t only bluster. She’d learned that by watching his ruthless business dealings, where lesser men trembled in their boots under his intimidation. And, from being on the business end of a paddle a time or two herself in her youth. That had shown her the error in trying to defy or argue with him. He wasn’t a cruel man, just distant and pragmatic, especially where his only child was concerned. It hadn’t always been that way. Before her mama passed, he’d smiled often, laughed fully, and Carissa knew with all her heart that he loved them both. He’d changed after that, lost in grief and anger at first, then becoming remote emotionally, turning his focus on business and building his wealth, both of which he could control.
Yes, he continued to care for his daughter, but nothing was the same again.
As far as Carissa, she’d withdrawn. Always a shy girl, she’d become more so, retreating into fantasies in her head, and those between the covers of her books. Often, her papa told her to get her head out of the clouds and pay attention. For a young girl dealing with loss, however, the dream-like world she created was so much better than her reality. In her mind, her mama was still with her and her papa, happy and loving. She grew up to be the bride of a handsome young man who loved her dearly. He provided for her and the babies they would have, and put her and their family ahead of everything, especially money and business. But after three dead husbands, she’d come to the realization that girlish fantasies were only good for books and pipe dreams.
It was times like these she missed her mama dearly. She wouldn’t have let her give up on her dreams, ever. And she would have interceded before letting her papa marry her off to old men. Tears tightened her throat and she couldn’t contain a shuddering sob.
�
��Dry your eyes, girl,” he droned, deep and low, hating tears, always. “Papa will take care of everything, again.”
That’s what she was afraid of. His way of taking care of her was marrying her off to one of his friends, all like him, wealthy, successful, older men.
At forty-two, her first husband, Jeffrey Ward, hadn’t been doddering, though twenty years her senior was significant. Although not a love match, he’d been kind, and surprisingly gentle when he’d taken her virginity on their wedding night. In the six months that followed, she settled into their amenable marriage convincing herself she could be content. In reality, she’d given up on her dreams of being swept away by the love of her life. In fact, she’d put away her silly romance novels that she’d voraciously gobbled up as a single young woman. Instead, she focused on making the best of her life with Jeffrey. And, she grew fond of him, so when he’d died abruptly during supper one night, she’d been greatly distressed. A reaction to the shellfish she’d served, the doctor surmised. That was hardly her fault.
Her second husband, Randolph Fischer, was certainly too old for her at the age of fifty-seven. And like Jeffrey, he was a longtime business associate of Papa’s and had begged for her hand. Her father had agreed on her behalf, saying that a widow who was less than fashionable—referring to her red hair and freckles, and her rather rounded figure—couldn’t hope for a better offer. She suspected it was also to accomplish a profitable merger of their two businesses, as well as two families that had sweetened the pot for them both. Carissa had once again gone reluctantly to the altar, having nothing in common with her groom, a man old enough to be her father.
He was kind to her, but there was no romantic spark like she’d read about in her books. And what happened in the bedroom was uncomfortable. After three months, he tripped on a loose rug in the upstairs hall at the top of the stairs, and tumbled to his death.
Claiming Coral (The Red Petticoat Saloon) Page 1