Bad Love: Cowboy Romance (Rebels & Outlaws Book 1)

by Lola Rebel

  They rode in silence for a while, except for Bill's wordless fussing over the pain in his leg. For a moment, Glen almost thought things were going to be alright. He took his hand off the Spencer for a moment to check the positioning of his pistol anyways.

  As he reached for it, a shot rang out, and the horse he was riding fell over. A voice cried out: "GO!"

  Bill's leg wasn't stopping him from riding, that much was clear. The other horse took off like a shot. Glen's leg was caught. He pulled on it hard, and it moved maybe a quarter of an inch. The horse was heavy, and it wasn't moving.

  Glen managed to roll just enough to get the pistol free, dropped it in the dirt beside him. Then he took the rifle. He was going to have to be ready for anything. But it was a very specific sort of anything, and as luck would have it, he was very good at this one.

  Movement in the rocks, off to the south. Glen pressed himself halfway-sitting and then took aim. The shot must not have hit, because a moment later a shot came back. A thankful miss.

  There was no reason to waste his ammunition like this. Not when he was at such a disadvantage. Glen needed to find a way to get out from under this horse, and fast. Sooner or later they would find a way over to him, a way that didn't expose them too much to fire. At this distance, he couldn't be sure of a hit.

  Once they were close, well… he was out in the open, and pinned there. It wouldn't be much of a fight, no matter how good he was.

  "Give up, Riley! We got you outgunned! We won't hurt you, you just give up on this!"

  They were closer now. He could hear it. Or perhaps they had him badly enough outgunned that they were all through the hills, hidden in different places.

  Well, that was just about great. After all, things were going so well for him already. Why not make it a party?

  Glen shoved the butt of his rifle under the horse's flank, lifted with all the strength he could muster. His leg moved a little, though the screaming pain that shot through him as he did it told him that he was in no shape for fighting.

  He shouldn't have been doing this. Should've had more men, should've done something unexpected. Instead, he'd done what anyone could predict he would do. He took Bill into the Sheriff. That, or the morgue.

  He let out a breath. What was he supposed to do, though? Kill the man, hide his body, and get ready for more trouble?

  That they were working together was no question. Howell hadn't waited more than an instant to bolt, like they had planned the whole thing. Like he was waiting for the signal.

  He levered up the horse again, screamed out in pain as he bent his leg out of the way. But he was free, and that was what counted for something—right?

  The nearest cover was fifty yards. If he was lucky, then they were still too far to hit him. But with his leg… could he get there in time? He could tell that he would only barely be able to use it. Might be he couldn't do more than walk the distance, and just about anyone could hit him, moving that slow.

  He had to risk it. He took a powerful stride with his good leg and caught the weight on his right side. Every fiber in his body was in agony. He grit his teeth harder, forced himself to stay standing, and took another step. If he kept the weight off that leg as much as possible, he could at least keep himself moving fast. But how he was going to get out of here alive, without being able to move, he couldn't say.

  What's more, if they knew he was here, and the whole thing was a plan, what was happening with Catherine? She wasn't safe. He'd need to end this, and he'd need to end it quickly.

  He leaned back against the steep slope of a rocky hill. He had to catch his breath, because he didn't have the luxury of wasting shots. He had to make this quick, because if he didn't, Catherine was dead.

  Thirty Four

  Catherine knew something was coming. She just didn't know what.

  Glen had taken the rifle. At least he'd listened to her that much. She had Billy's pistol, still kicked off in the corner. On second thought Catherine picked it up, rubbed it against her apron, and put it in her apron pocket. It was heavy, but she would manage. Then she set a chair in front of the children's room and sat down.

  Cole wouldn't like not being able to leave, but he would have to learn to deal with it. But the first goon to come through that door was going to get it. She settled in against the chair-back and pulled the gun free, checking and seeing that it was, indeed, loaded. Then she pulled the hammer back. It was a stretch with her thumb and hard to pull—she decided to just use two hands. She'd have to remember that when the time came. If the time came.

  Then she waited. Ten minutes. Then twenty. Then an hour. Nothing. For a long, deliriously happy moment she almost believed that she was overestimating the danger. Still she forced herself to stay upright, to keep herself focused. She couldn't let that focus slip for even a second. Her children were at risk. Too much of a risk.

  Jesus—the twins. She heard the noise an instant after the idea occurred to her, knocked the chair aside and yanked the door open. The giant red-head was already through the window, and he had Grace in his lap.

  One arm was around her shoulder, keeping her from escaping easily. The other, though…

  The knife gleamed from the lamplight in the front room. The damn lamps. She should have doused them, she knew. Anyone who wanted to could see her sitting there. Waiting. It would take a fool to come in through the front door seeing her there. It was her own fool fault that this had happened. But now she would have to deal with it. No time for crying.

  "Don't hurt them!"

  His deep voice was smooth and surprisingly calm for how excited the scene she came into was. "Of course not, Catherine. How's Billy doing?"

  She gripped the gun. "I couldn't say."

  "He told me he'd be coming by later, I thought I'd drop by and see him while he was in town."

  "Let her go."

  "You know I can't do that, Catherine. I need to make sure you won't shoot me, after all. A knife up against a gun? That's hardly fair."

  She stared at him, trying to judge whether or not she could trust him to let the girl go if she were to put the gun down. She knew instinctively that she couldn't.

  What other choice did she have? She wasn't going to try to shoot him through her daughter. She wasn't that confident, and it was dark. He could have that wicked-looking blade through the girl's chest before Cathy could get the gun level.

  The weapon made a loud, dull clunk when it hit the floor. "Now let her go."

  "Of course. I said I would, didn't I?"

  He rose to his feet, letting Grace off his lap. She took her brother and they scampered out of the room. Good, Catherine thought. Get out of here. Hide until Glen can get back.

  He could be in town by now. It was only a matter of time until he was back. An hour, or maybe less. Just a matter of time, but if she let things get violent… he was minutes, maybe an hour away. Not seconds. Not little enough time that she could outrun Rod until he showed up.

  "Come on, don't you remember me? Not even a little?"

  "G'away. I'll let you go. Nobody has to know—" she could hear the hysteria starting to overtake her voice, but she couldn't escape it. She was panicking. Too afraid to do anything but beg him to leave.

  "You don't remember when your husband let me—"

  Catherine could feel hot tears starting to well up in her eyes. They stung, and she wanted to reach for the gun. It would only be two long steps for the big man to be across the room and end that easily. Perhaps, even, permanently. She wouldn't have the chance to do what she was thinking of.

  "I was laid up for three days after. The doc had to stitch my face up."

  "You do remember!" Rod smiled, showing off a silver tooth that gleamed bright even in the low light of the room. "See, I knew we had something special. A girl like you—you're wasted on a guy like Billy. Tell me—did loverboy shoot him?"

  She nodded. Her voice wasn't working. She just wanted to be able to get away. Wanted him to stop being here. Wanted to forget all of
this.

  "Where's the body?"

  "He's not dead. We patched up his leg and they—they went on to—"

  "Oh. You know, I thought that might happen. Billy, you know, he's not too reliable. Well… you would know that. You're his wife, after all." The tears were still falling. She could barely see him walking up to her. "Poor thing."

  "Glen—when Glen gets here, he's going to—" she broke back into sobs, her back pressed against the wall. If only she were a better shot. More confident. If only she had a knife, or she could just get his attention turned away for a few seconds.

  "I don't think he will, Cathy. I don't think he will." Rodney reached down, picked up the weapon off the floor. "You see, I thought this might happen. I said that, didn't I? Well, so, I set up a little surprise party for him. On account of how old friends me and Billy are."

  She didn't want to believe him. But she had learned to do the smart thing, not what she wanted to do. And the way he said it, she didn't have it in her to believe him.

  "Just—don't hurt the children."

  "Of course not." He sounded so sympathetic when he wanted to. She could see the perverse amusement he got out of taunting her like that.

  She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

  Glen peered through the window, light shining out. He felt the spot on his ribs again. Shot, sure as anything. But it wasn't bad. He would live, if it didn't get any worse. He just had to hope it wouldn't.

  Glen let himself relax a moment. It was going to be a close thing. With his leg, he might have been a bit too slow this time. Catherine turned away and took a step. Glen ducked his head out of the way.

  It was a cruel thing not to let her know he was there, not to let her know that he was okay. But he needed a few more moments, perhaps an instant. If he could end this without killing Rod—he shouldn't have. He knew that in the moment that he thought it.

  The man didn't deserve it. Not after everything he'd done. But that wasn't Glen's decision. It never had been, not in truth. He took a deep breath and checked the ammunition on the Smith and Wesson. Still loaded. Good.

  He crossed into the room, glad for having seen the twins leave. They didn't need to see what came next. One thick arm went around the giant's neck, the other pressed the barrel of the pistol into his spine. He straightened up real quick, then.

  "You're coming with me, and we're going to go into town."

  Rod slipped Glen's grasp, turned. He saw the knife an instant later, but too late to knock it away. So instead he squeezed the trigger. The knife clattered to the ground beside Rod's body.

  "Are you alright?"

  Catherine slapped him, hard enough to hurt. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

  He couldn't help the smile that came across his face. "Yes ma'am."

  Thirty Five

  Epilogue

  Catherine watched her husband as he got out of bed. She wanted him to come back. There was still time left in the morning, and Catherine wanted little more than to spend it wrapped up in his arms, their limbs entangled—but he was always working early, at the desk before the sun broke the horizon.

  Glen pulled on his blue jeans and started working the buttons up, turned and saw Catherine looking at him. He smiled. "You checkin' me out?"

  She raised her eyebrows. "No, sir. I wouldn't dare."

  "That's what I thought." He pulled a shirt from the closet and put his arms through, one after the other. Catherine's looks hadn't changed one bit. Well, most of her. Her belly was just starting to show. Folks would be talking about that.

  He would let them talk. There was no stopping it. They were going to talk no matter what happened. They would have talked if they hadn't gotten pregnant, too. Just a matter of time. They would move on to something else.

  Glen couldn't help himself. He stepped back over to the bed, knelt on it and leaned in to give his wife a kiss. Three years now, and they were finally settled. Things felt normal. It took them long enough.

  He went back over to the bureau and ran the belt through the loops of his jeans. Fitted the holster through.

  "I love you," he said, turning to Catherine one last time before he left.

  "I love you too, hon."

  "I'll see you tonight."

  "I know you will. Be safe."

  "I always am."

  He smiled at the routine as he made his way to the door. Finally feeling normal. He pulled on the leather coat, looked down at the table by the door. The pin was still there, right where he'd left it last night. He fitted it onto his chest.

  Wouldn't be much of a Sheriff without it, after all.

  Time Bomb ??

  On The Run Romance

  She was the only woman he ever really loved.

  She's on the run from the FBI...

  He has to help her escape...

  She has amnesia...

  Only he remembers their sordid past...

  As long as he can keep her safe, he doesn't care what happens to him.

  Please enjoy this preview…

  Misty liked the feeling of pressing herself against him. She liked the way that he reacted to it. She liked the hard feeling of his muscles, under his shirt. She even liked the feeling of his stubble, scratching her cheek as she pressed a line of kisses across his throat.

  The thought that it was the same path she might use to cut it, if there was need for violence, popped up and then faded into thankful forgetfulness.

  Misty shifted her position to hold Grant tighter, his broad hips pressed between her thighs and reminding her in an instant that there was nothing else going wrong in their lives right now. She was good at forgetting. At least, she could try to forget. And that was all she needed.

  Her lips pulled back as her teeth sank into the sensitive flesh of his throat, scraping across stubbled skin.

  "Oh, God," he breathed, though Misty couldn't have said that she was supposed to hear it. His hand reached around behind himself, wrapping around her head and taking a handful of hair into his grasp. He pulled on it, pulled her over his hip and into his lap. Misty let him, slipping around until she was standing propped up on one leg, the other perched beside him.

  Then she pushed forward, and he was pressed back onto the bed. Her leg didn't hurt any more. It was like she'd never been hurt, though she knew she had. She also knew that if he pressed on it then that feeling of pleasantness wasn't going to last very long.

  She let out a long, low breath, and leaned over him until she was held up over his head. She let herself down enough for their lips to press together, just enough to be a little rough.

  "Are you sure about this?"

  The one question he shouldn't have asked. This wasn't time to wonder about whether or not they were sure about anything. This was time to decompress, to unwind, to explicitly not worry about anything or whether or not they were making the "right" decisions. Asking questions was anathema.

  "No," she said. "But I'm not thinking about that right now." She pushed herself up until she was straddling his hips. She wasn't wearing anything, and with her hands lifted above her head, anything that Grant might have had to say to her about his doubts was swallowed up by the need to look at her breasts. He let one hand come up to cup one.

  Grant was gentle with her. Too gentle, she thought. There was a time and a place for gentle. Desperation didn't go well with gentle, or sweet. Desperation didn't want to make love. Desperation wanted to fuck, and in that moment, Misty was as desperate as she had been the entire last year. The sooner she forgot about her worries and her troubles, the sooner that she could get back to thinking about them with a fresh head.

  She moved her hips up until she was sitting on his chest, and then with another scoot forward, her wetness hovered above his mouth. Grant didn't need a hint about what she wanted. His hands gripped her hips and pulled them down. His tongue started exploring immediately, parting her folds and probing. He started shallow, exploring the opening, exploring her clit. Tasting her.

  It was
nice, but it wasn't enough. Misty started to rock her hips against him. He didn't complain, nor did he speed up the pace. His tongue kept moving exactly as fast as he wanted it to, deliciously teasing her. Forcing her to wait for what she wanted, even though waiting was the last thing that she had any interest in.

  Then, just as she was about to give up, Grant seemed to change his mind. He decided to give her what she wanted after all, and pulled back, pressing his lips against her clitoris and sucking. She shivered at the sudden sensation, her fingers digging into his hair as if he could get any more pressed against her womanhood.

  His mouth went back to exploring, but with a desperate need that overwhelmed Misty in exactly the way that she had wanted all along. Her body shivered as he did, a pressure building up in her entire body as she threatened to come in a shower of juices and need.

  Her shoulders were the first to lock up. Her fingers tightened in his hair until she was sure that she couldn't have tightened them any more. Her toes curled up, and then the big muscles started to get involved, the long ones along her back, her abs, her thighs, until she was as tight as a drum from her forehead down to her toenails, and then… everything started to relax.

  Through it all, his mouth never stopped moving, never stopped exploring, never stopped sending delicious electric signals coursing through her. Misty rolled over, off of him. Her breath came hard and fast, and kept catching in her throat, but she couldn't have asked for anything more. At least, she hoped she couldn't have–what she'd been given had felt hard enough to control already, and she wasn't sure what would put her any further over the edge.

  She heard the zipper of Grant's trousers working, but it didn't mean anything to her exhausted, sex-addled mind. It didn't mean anything until he was the one hovering over her, and something hard and thick pressed against her opening.

  Then it meant a lot. "I just came," she breathed.