The Lady and the Lawman

by Jennifer Zane

  “I can’t go with you!” she said anxiously.

  “Why the he...heck not?” Were all women so damn frustrating and confusing?

  “I can’t go off with you. I don’t even know you. It definitely wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?” he repeated as he stood to pace the small room. He ran a hand through his hair. She was not making any sense. Was it better to stay in a whorehouse than to leave with him? “I’m the damned sheriff!”

  “I should think even your reputation as sheriff would be in jeopardy.”

  He had to shake some sense into this woman. He tried a blunt approach. “Croft will be happy to have Dalton take my place tonight. If he’s fast, maybe he’ll share you with his men as well.” Staring at her, he let her debate the alternative. He pushed a bit more when she remained quiet. Being a little graphic might sway her a bit faster. “Dalton’s taste for aggressive sex is a little extreme. I've heard he likes to strip a woman down and take her roughly. Sometimes with his foreman's help. That means you'll be fucking not only Dalton but Bixby, as well. You'll be on your hands and knees with Dalton behind you, Bixby in front with your mouth on his—”

  “Enough!” She raised her hand. “I appreciate your candid and—and crude description of my other option. In comparison, it seems my concern for propriety is ridiculous.”

  The image of having her on all fours and fucking her from behind had his cock stirring once again. Having her mouth sucking him deep had his balls tightening. His cock, not Dalton's or that crony Bixby. Grant had every intention of getting her on her hands and knees as he'd described. Once there, she'd sure as hell beg for it, and then some. Not tonight, but soon. First, they had to get the hell out of the saloon.

  Since they were finally in agreement, he was ready to leave. “Do you have different clothes?”

  “I have the dress I wore when they took me from the stage, but it's ripped.” She wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

  God, she was pretty. And the feeling he had for her now was more than just lust. Protective.

  “Put it on.”

  She began to do as he suggested, opening one of the dresser drawers and pulling out a blue dress. She looked to him. Reading her thoughts, he turned his back, looked down at his large hands. Imagined the silky feel of her flesh against his rough palms. How her breasts overflowed his palms. Oh, what a bounty!

  After a moment, she cleared her throat and whispered, “I need your help.”

  Looking over his shoulder, he could see there was no way to extricate herself from the corset without assistance. With the laces running down her back, she’d have to be double-jointed to untie them.

  He took a restorative breath and tried not to think about the pale skin of her back he exposed with each pull on the ribbon. His knuckles brushed over her warm flesh. In order to keep from turning her around and covering her breasts with his hands, he turned his thoughts to the branding and castrating of cows.

  After an excruciatingly long time, his big hands finally finished with the last string. She held the corset up in place and offered him an embarrassed smile over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Trying to ignore her thick lashes and mesmerizing eyes, he spun around again. Branding irons, scalding cow flesh. Anything but cleavage, soft skin, luscious, pink tipped nipples. Dammit!

  She quickly finished dressing. “All right.”

  He turned around. She wore a blue, long sleeved traveling gown. It was a much more conservative outfit than the corset and petticoats, except for the gaping rent in the front she held closed.

  “What the hell happened to your dress?” He pointed at the front, or what was left of it.

  When she said it had been ripped, he thought maybe a torn sleeve, but he hadn't imagined this. Damn, what had those men done to her after they'd torn her dress half open?

  “I told you it was ripped,” she cried.

  Grant took the two steps separating them in one. She backed up, fear flaring in her eyes. But he refused to stop. He had to know.

  “Did he hurt you?” he demanded, as he looked her over. He finally noticed the chafed marks on her wrist he’d seen earlier, the skin red and raw. Only minutes ago, he'd thought the rope burns were from rough foreplay and lovemaking. Maybe with Dalton, but no one else. To imagine her involved in the man's darker sexual proclivities was almost laughable. “Was he the one that...?”

  She shook her head no. He scowled in confusion. If the man at the stage hadn't raped her, and Croft hadn't given her to a man before him, that meant she'd lost her virginity sometime before her plans got all shot to hell. Interesting. He wondered about the man who left her confused and still wanting. Damn fool. He could see the curiosity, the hidden desire buried deeply beneath fear and betrayal. She'd be hot, wild beneath this touch. He knew that for a fact. It was just a matter of time before he proved it.

  “He was rough...” She took a deep breath before she continued. She recounted all that had happened to her, her captor shooting his partner, the attempted rape. She finished with the ropes he’d tied around her wrists.

  Afterward, he was furious, ready to pummel someone. He looked at the red marks and brushed his thumbs over the tender skin. It would now be his job to teach her that having her wrists bound only meant submission and pleasure by his touch, his mouth, his cock. He would erase the bad memories from her mind and replace them with others so much more appealing.

  She sucked in her breath at his caress, but didn't break away from his hold. She’d been lucky she hadn’t been raped. As sheriff, as a man, it was now his job to protect her.

  “Can...can I ask you a question?” she asked tentatively.

  “Of course.” He looked down at her. Her eyes were lowered as if she was studying her hands still held in his. They were so small, so dainty in his large ones. Fragile, delicate.

  “When I was struggling against him, the bad man from the stage, I kneed him...there.” She paused, trying to find the appropriate words. She worried her lower lip between straight white teeth.

  He was confused for a moment, but he caught on to her vague words. He tried not to laugh at her innocence. “There?”

  Her eyes darted to his groin.

  “Th...there,” she repeated, refusing to elaborate. Her cheeks flushed yet again. It was quite an appealing trait. “You know where I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  He nodded, letting her off the hook. “Yes.”

  This woman was a total mystery. Where had she come from? Where was she heading when the stage was robbed? What man had taken her maidenhead? Because he hadn't taken her innocence. She was still completely, naively unaware of anything sexual. She'd forgotten he was holding her arms, and he wasn't planning on pointing it out. In fact, he was enjoying the feel of her creamy skin beneath the slide of his thumbs.

  “Well, it took him awhile to recover. In fact, I thought he was going to crush me while I waited.”

  It was easy to imagine the situation she’d been in. Attempted rape, a man whose groin had just been kneed sprawled on top of her.

  “I thought he’d rape me once he recuperated, but he was so upset.” She looked to him briefly then bit her lip again, as if contemplating her words. “He said he wouldn’t be able to...well, he said a vulgar word—”

  “Fuck?”

  She nodded her head, dark curls bouncing about her shoulders.

  “Yes. Um...that. Anyway, is it true he was...incapacitated?”

  He did smile then. She’d probably kneed the bastard’s balls up into his throat. Thank the good Lord she’d been sane enough to do that.

  “Well, yes, it is true that a man’s—”

  She pulled her hand from his light grasp and held it up. “You don’t need to go into detail, a yes or no answer was all I needed.”

  He couldn't help but chuckle. She was definitely a lady with quite a bit of schooling if he hadn't missed his mark. Here in Cranston she was like a fish out of water. Reminded him of t
he schoolteacher a few years back, with her regal bearing and prim mannerisms, although that woman was stout, grim and smelled of vinegar. “All right, then.” He smirked. “Yes.”

  He undid the star on his shirt and pinned the two halves of her dress together with it, the silver burnished brightly by the lamp light. His knuckles brushed over her warm neck. “There.” It wasn’t a great fix; he could still see a fair amount of her creamy skin and a bit of white chemise, but it would have to do. “Let's get out of here.”

  “Does this make me your deputy?” she asked, the corner of her lip tugging up. There! A hint of a smile. And it made her all the more beautiful. And right then, Grant felt something. Something besides a need in his groin.

  “This makes you...mine. Just mine,” he replied, his voice soft. Their eyes met and held. He could swear he could get lost in the dark depths of her gaze.

  “Let's go.” He held one of her hands. She kept the other one on the front of her dress. He led her down the stairs, through the noisy saloon, and barged into the office to the right of the stairwell. They surprised Croft, who sat behind his desk.

  “What's the matter, Sheriff? She wasn't to your liking?” Croft asked as he stood up. “Did she do something to ruin your pleasure?” He crossed the room to Maggie, clearly ready to punish her for whatever wrongdoing she’d done.

  Grant kept his eyes pinned to Croft, but felt her move behind him. He held up his hand to stop the man. “Don't get any closer to her, Croft. She didn't do anything to ruin my pleasure. You did.”

  “What? How—”

  Grant cut him off. “Cut the crap. I'm here to take her off of your hands. How much did you pay for her?”

  Croft’s jaw dropped, his double chin wobbling like a turkey. “I don't know what you're talking about. What did she tell you? You know these whores, they're all liars,” Croft blustered, his beady eyes fixed over Grant's shoulder on Maggie.

  “Here’s the deal. You tell me the truth and I won’t arrest you,” Grant hissed. “I can have this place closed down tonight.”

  “Now Sheriff, no need to go that far,” Croft replied, putting his two hands up. “She's not worth all this trouble. I only bought her for fifty dollars. She's not even worth that.”

  Grant ignored the man’s insult, otherwise he might do something he might regret. “I want a name and I want it now. No more stalling.”

  Croft sighed and cut the charade. Grant didn't need to explain who he was talking about. Croft would tell him, even if he had to break the bastard’s nose to do it. “I don’t know much about him. All I know is he said his name was Roy.”

  “He’s been here before?”

  “Once or twice.” Croft wedged a cigar between his lips.

  “Where can I find him?”

  Croft shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Grant eyed him, disbelieving. Croft knew all the shifty characters for fifty miles around.

  “Honest. He’s not from around here.”

  “If I find out you’ve kept anything from me, you’ll be serving whiskey from a jail cell.” He really should just punch him. Grant knew he'd feel so much better after. But he had Maggie to deal with, and he didn't need her to see any of his violent tendencies, even if it was derived from a fierce need to protect her.

  Grant turned to leave, Maggie in tow.

  “Hey, what about her?” Croft shouted.

  “Exactly, Croft, what about her?”

  Croft held up his hand, showing them the door, knowing he wouldn’t win this game either. Grant pulled Maggie out the door, through the saloon and out into the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Relief flooded Margaret like a swollen river breaking a levy. Fresh air, mixed with a tinge of horse manure, assailed her as she moved away from the double saloon doors. The cool air felt like heaven against her skin. The very idea of idea of being outside, away from that prison of a building, brought tears to her eyes. She was like a watering pot. It seemed she couldn't stop crying. Following the sheriff to one of the hitching posts in front of the building, she tried to pull herself together, blinked hard and said, “I can ride by myself.”

  “You ride with me.” His stern tone was one she was already familiar with. One that meant there was no arguing.

  Still, she fumed. Away from the nauseating smell of sweaty men and spilled liquor, she was more than eager to leave the saloon behind—and more than ready to get assertive about it. “I’ll have you know I am considered an accomplished equestrienne.”

  “Equestrienne? What the hell is that?” he questioned, sarcasm lacing his words.

  She groaned. Why did the sheriff have to be such a...man? Stubborn, opinionated, domineering. Attractive. Even in the dim light that crept from the windows, the man's strong jaw, brawny frame exuded manliness. Deep down, that elemental sense that made her a woman, was drawn to the sheriff, like a moth to flame.

  “You know very well what I mean, so stop poking fun. I’ve been riding since I was four years old. I can handle myself in a saddle quite well, thank you very much.”

  He strolled past her, unhitched a beautiful black Arabian and led it over to his, loosely tethering it to his saddle. “Just like you handled my gun in there?”

  Her cheeks burned. It was insufferable of him to bring that up. “Guns, no. Horses, yes. Besides, I didn’t have much choice. I didn’t know you and I had to escape before, well, before....” She looked to the sheriff, his shadow in darkness beneath his hat, as he untied his own horse from the post.

  “You still don’t know anything about me,” he replied calmly.

  He did have her there.

  She knew deep down his was a good man. If he wasn't she'd be beneath him in that dirty bed right now.

  “True, but you really didn’t give me many options, thus the gun to the head,” she countered, her voice contrary.

  “Exactly. And I’m not giving you any options now. You either ride with me, or I leave you here.” He checked the cinch and flipped down the stirrup.

  “Why?”

  The din from the saloon spilled out the closed doors behind her. She jumped practically out of her skin when several men slammed the door shut behind them and headed down the boardwalk. From their unsteady gait and rowdiness, she could tell they’d had their fill of drink, and probably women.

  Her choice was easy. There was no way she’d walk back into Croft’s under her own steam. Someone would have to conk her on the head again. She shivered at the very thought.

  The truth was, she had other reasons for not wanting to ride with him. Sheriff or not, she’d never been kissed quite like that before, let alone touched so intimately. What William had done to her hadn't been intimate. It had been one sided and clinical.

  This had been different. The thought of her breast being exposed to his gaze, to his touch, was embarrassing and enticing at the same time. The sheriff’s closeness, the feelings his touch aroused upstairs barely minutes ago, scared her. Was she supposed to have these feelings, these longings, for a complete stranger? Why had she been repulsed by William, whom she'd known for years, but craved the sheriff's attentions after knowing him all of five minutes?

  What was wrong with her?

  All her Philadelphia friends had told her she wasn’t supposed to enjoy associations with men. It was something to be endured, and that was exactly what she'd done with William. But she did enjoy—no, savored—Grant Masterson’s touch. She knew riding with him would only bring back the sensations she was trying very hard to forget.

  “Why? Because I said so.”

  “I’m not a little girl, Sheriff, ” she countered.

  “Ma’am, I’m more than aware of that.”

  His gaze lowered to his star, still pinned haphazardly on her dress. She felt her cheeks flare, remembering what he'd seen and done at Croft’s. And more surprisingly, how she'd responded.

  “Come on, let’s get going.” He’d already climbed up into the saddle and held his hand out for her. She took it and kept her anger
, her embarrassment to herself. He placed her in front of him, her legs straddling the horse in tandem with his. After wiggling her hips to get comfortable, shyness shot through her as she felt how snugly they fit together, her bottom and back pressed firmly against his solid chest and further down his body. Dear God, those specific areas of his anatomy...he was hard...everywhere. His arms circled her, engulfing her as he held the reins, his muscled biceps pressing into her shoulders.

  This was exactly why she wanted to ride on her own. She was too close. Too close to the man, to all of the man, who was the first to truly touch her, to ignite a spark she never knew existed. This closeness put her on edge.

  “Hmmph.”

  “What are you grunting about now?” he asked on a sigh.

  “I’ll have you know a lady doesn’t grunt.”

  He sighed again in response. “All right, what was that sound for?”

  “I was just thinking there’s really no point in forcing me to ride with you.” She twisted around the sheriff's large form to look at the animal tethered to their mount. “There’s a perfectly good horse back there.”

  His arms tightened around her like a vice, all but forcing her to face forward.

  “Maggie, winning Dalton’s horse didn’t mean I won his saddle, and there’s no way you can ride it without one.”

  She opened her mouth, ready to tell the stubborn man she was more than capable to ride bareback. “But...”

  He tensed behind her and she quieted. Clearly he didn’t want a woman arguing with him. God only knew what the sheriff would do when he became angry. She'd seen a glimpse of his irritation when he argued with Croft. He'd held his anger in check. Then. But if she riled his temper, really stirred it, would he hit her? There was no way to set him straight about her riding abilities without the chance of reprisal. Pride, and fear, kept her from telling him he was wrong. Fine! Let the man have his way.

  The horse’s slow gait made her bruised bottom smart. Wiggling and shifting, she tried to get comfortable in Grant’s lap.