The Widow Wagon: Second Chances

by Megan Michaels

  Contents

  Title Page

  About This Book

  By Megan Michaels

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - Widow Wagon - Book #2

  By Megan Michaels

  From The Author

  The Widow Wagon

  (Book One: Second Chances)

  Megan Michaels

  About This Book

  They’d found him with an Indian arrow in his back. What was a woman supposed to do with one dead husband, one untended farm, and zero options? Strength, sass, and a never-give-up attitude had served Sophie well, but after the death of her strict, but loving, Clive, she’d need a lot more than those qualities to survive.

  There might be one way though, one last desperate option... and they called it the Widow Wagon. Widows and their children could purchase safe passage in a covered wagon to the Oregon Territory — where they would all meet up with the strong, determined men looking for mail order brides. The Widow Wagon might be one man’s last, best hope.

  For Daniel Weston, losing his beloved wife had broken more than his heart, it had broken his confidence that he could conquer the west. From the first moment he set eyes on Sophie he knew he wanted her, to make her his in every way. Her dramatic curves, bewitching eyes and fiery temper drew him, called to him, fired his possessive lust. But would that attraction be enough? He could already tell there was going to be a reckoning — and that reckoning would be the heated meeting of his work-roughened palm with her soft, bare bottom.

  Yes, she was beautiful, intelligent, and with a little more attitude than would be good for the health of her backside, but Daniel thought he had what it took to break the spirited filly. What’s more, could Daniel dare hope for a second chance? How she reacted that first time he bent her over his lap — or strung her up in his barn — might be the key to whether or not this marriage of convenience in the American west might bloom into something so much more. Would this young, headstrong, mail-order bride allow herself to be molded, tempered, and disciplined into the woman — and wife — this demanding, dominant frontier man desired?

  Publisher's Warning: Intended for mature readers. 18 and over only!

  This is a MF BDSM Western erotic romance. Themes include: graphic sexuality, exhibitionism, spanking, bondage, anal play and other BDSM activities. If such content might offend you, please do not purchase this book.

  Word count: 37,078 words

  By Megan Michaels

  The Service & Submission Series:

  Finding Submission

  Mastering Inga

  The Widow Wagon Series:

  The Widow Wagon (Book One: Second Chances)

  Published By Stormy Night Publications

  What Naughty Little Girls Get

  The Little Princess Cruise

  Copyright © 2015 by Megan Michaels

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Rachel A Olson (www.nosweatgraphics.weebly.com)

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and as such, any similarity to existing persons, places or events must be considered purely coincidental.

  This book contains content that is not suitable for readers aged 17 and under.

  For mature readers only.

  Published in the United States of America.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2015

  Chapter One

  1865 Sugar Creek, Missouri

  Sophie would never forget Clive’s last words. He’d turned her way, cupping her chin. “You keep this door latched while I’m gone. Don’t answer it or open it for anyone. If I find out you opened it, you’ll get your backside tanned. I love you, and I’d die without you. I don’t want Indians grabbing you. You hear?”

  He watched out for her diligently, and her safety mattered to him more than anything in the world. It was strangely fitting that the last thing he had said to her had been a threat to spank her bottom if she put herself in danger again.

  The last time Sophie had seen her husband, he had gone hunting for their dinner. Their small cabin in Missouri was remote — like most of the homesteads — all sprawling farms and golden brown fields. Unlike in Independence, your neighbors weren’t within shouting distance but with a horse you could visit when there was time. But very rarely did anyone have time. You might meet your neighbors at barn dances, or when a baby was born and someone sent for the neighbor’s wife to help. Sometimes, it would only be on those sad occasions when you met your neighbors, when everyone would come calling when someone had fallen deathly ill — or worse.

  Sophie had watched him traipse down the hill, the grass wet with dew, the early morning sunlight glinting off the bright metal of his Winchester gun. He’d turned one last time, waving at her and giving her that charming smile of his. He knew she’d be watching him. She loved to watch him. He’d said he’d be gone for a couple of hours, in search of rabbits or perhaps a deer for dinner. Spring had finally come, the long, harsh winter behind them, but their meat supplies had dwindled to almost nothing. Clive had been anxious to refill the stores.

  Remembering his last words of warning, she’d been afraid to open the door to watch for him, instead peeking through the sun-bleached curtains to look out of the small, dusty window, hoping she’d see him coming up the hill any moment. She’d tried sleeping that night, but had been afraid that she’d miss him if he came home. She’d waited until morning, shotgun in her hand, debating if she should leave the house or not. If she walked out that door and Clive found out, she’d be standing for days. He didn’t fool around when it came to disciplining his wife. The last time he’d used a wooden spoon and threatened to use the strip of harness leather that hung on a nail in the barn if she ever unlocked the door in his absence. Her bottom had tingled just thinking about it.

  Just the memory of that spanking with the horrid spoon had her sweating as she stood in the living room with their shotgun. She set the worn stock of the gun down upon the floorboards, leaning the weapon against the wall as she wiped her brow. She decided to get a cup of the coffee that steeped in a pot by the fireplace.

  His words that day still rung in her ears.

  “Sophie Louise, you been told and told. Those Indians would love nothin’ more than getting their hands on a pretty woman like you. So, what did I find when I came home? You. You opening that damn door! I told you that I‘d take your skin off if you opened that door. And that’s what I’m going to do too.”

  He had grabbed her arm and dragged her into their bedroom off the living area. “Take your drawers down.”

  She’d hated that part of a spanking. Even in the midst of a punishment, she could look at him and see the handsome man she married. He’d cared for her. Loved her. He’d taken her from a bad situation at home. Her father hadn’t been a nice man and Clive saw it. He’d offered to marry Sophie at eighteen and she’d been eternally grateful to him. She took notice of his strong muscled arms and large hands, which were going to tan her backside today. And his hands were definitely harder than any wooden paddle — not that he’d believed her when she’d said it.

  She’d lifted her skirts and found the little ribbon in the back to pull down her drawers. The cotton glided down her legs, the soft fabric puddling at her feet. She reluctantly stepped out of the discarded clo
thing.

  Keep your skirts up. They aren’t goin’ to be down for a while. Lie your pretty backside over the bottom of this bed. I’m taking a wood spoon to your bottom.”

  A sob had stuck in her throat. “Clive, your hand hurts enough!”

  “Little girl you better get yourself over that bed before I decide you need more incentive and bring your naughty backside to the barn for some leather. Is that what you’re wantin?”

  “No. No, Clive. I’m laying down now.”

  She’d laid on the bed, holding her dress up, fisting her hands in the fabric to keep it out of the way.

  Then he had walloped her bottom with that spoon, beating out a rhythm on her flesh that had her clenching and writhing with each swat. Her pleas and yelps soon turned into sobs and wails of pain. Finally, it was over, her pitiful sobs lasting long after the end of her spanking.

  “Do you think you’ll be opening that door again?”

  “No, Clive.”

  “Remember, that leather will feel a lot worse than the spoon. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t. I promise.”

  “See to it you don’t. I can’t lose you. I just can’t.”

  Now, as she stood staring out her window, she wondered if Clive would come climbing over that hill and smack her bottom with the leather harness hanging in the barn. Despite her fear of disobeying him, she also knew that if she didn’t look for him and he was indeed dead, the wolves would be eating him before she could get him.

  Sophie opened the door, leading with her shotgun. All seemed quiet and she brought Rex. The spotted dog seemed placid and calm, but he was fiercely protective and precisely why Clive had bought him for her. The dog was sniffing the path to the barn obviously following a scent.

  The dog pushed the door open with his nose. Tucking the gun into the crook of her arm she held her skirts up as she ran into the barn.

  Then she saddled up her horse, Sugar, and with her dog in tow, rode off toward William, their closest neighbor.

  Upon Sophie’s arrival, William grabbed his horse and went in search of Clive, leaving his wife Beth to watch over her, to keep Sophie’s mind occupied. It was sundown before William returned home — with Clive slumped over the back of the horse.

  Sophie ran out to greet them, relieved that William had managed to find her husband. But as she approached them, her blood ran cold. An arrow was embedded in Clive’s back.

  William winced, unable to meet her gaze. “I’m so sorry, Miss Sophie. It was Indians…”

  And just like that, Sophie found herself alone. She crumpled to her knees, hot, bitter tears streaming down her face. William and Beth drew close, their soothing, understanding voices a cold comfort. One word kept sounding in Sophie’s mind, over and over again.

  Widow.

  Chapter Two

  1866 Sugar Creek, Missouri

  For the hundredth time since Clive had passed, she wished there had been an announcement — a warning.

  This is the last time you’ll hear his voice. Remember it. Kiss him longer! Hug him harder! You won’t experience this again. It’ll be the last time you’ll have him in your arms.

  Life didn’t work that way, though. Clive had died, leaving her with only the memory of their last hug. She had been left trying to remember every detail. She’d wondered what she’d said, how she’d said it. Had she been kind? Or had she been distracted or dismissive? What did he say? What were his last words to her?

  She had been on the Widow Wagon for only two hours and the smell of horseshit and the mindless gossip and prattling of women had about driven her insane already. She pulled her brown, wavy hair up and off her neck, the heat inside the bouncing wagon stifling, her hair and clothes were soaked with sweat. When she’d read the ad for the Widow Wagon outside the Mercantile, it certainly didn’t mention the heat, or how much walking would be required.

  Inside the covered wagon, it was a sea of gray and black silk. Custom dictated black dresses and veils for a year — at a minimum — for widows mourning the deaths of their husbands.

  Daisy, who appeared to be under twenty, had raven hair that matched the black dress she wore. “Why aren’t you women dressed in black?” Daisy scowled at everyone.

  Clara was an attractive woman for her age, which could have been mid-thirties. Her long blondish brown hair was pulled up into a tight bun with a bow that matched her deep gray dress. Clara, blinking, looked at Daisy. “I’m wearing gray because it’s been over a year since my husband died. My girls are wearing white which is customary for children.”

  Clara tucked a girl under each arm. Nellie appeared to be ten or so with long, blonde ringlets while Rose was younger, perhaps eight years old with the same blonde curls.

  Daisy stiffened, lifting her chin. “Well, I’ve heard that the more devoted a spouse is, the longer the family wears black. I loved my husband.” She sniffed, closing her eyes and turning her head in disgust.

  “Mommy, is that true?” Nellie’s imploring eyes filled with tears.

  “Of course, it isn’t true!” Daisy said. The other women in the widow wagon murmured their disagreement with Daisy’s proclamation.

  The women seemed to ignore Daisy then, perhaps growing tired of her outbursts. Most of them had a long journey ahead of them, and the last thing they needed was a fight within the first couple of hours.

  Sophie looked around the wagon at the women she would be spending time with for the next week or two. Some would be going all the way to Oregon, while others, like herself, would be exiting within a week or so.

  Though the women appeared to be a variety of ages, most were wearing the same shade of gray. Minnie looked to be about the same age as Daisy, but to Sophie the two women seemed to be opposites. Minnie had piercing blue eyes with alabaster skin, her hair a deep brown that flowed down to the middle of her back. Minnie seemed excited to meet her new husband, and Sophie wondered where the woman would finally meet him.

  Sophie had memorized the ad for her new husband, Daniel. At twenty-two, Sophie felt older than her age and yet, strangely excited about her upcoming meeting. The ad had read:

  Widowed man, twenty-four years old is looking for a woman who is kind, obedient, and neat. Needs help with cleaning and cooking. Minimal field work. Looking for a companion to love, marry, and have children with.

  Daniel Weston, Grantville, Kansas (near Topeka, Kansas).

  Sophie didn’t want to be someone’s field hand. She also wanted a companion, someone to love, and marry. She’d wanted children with Clive and though at only twenty-two she wasn’t old by any means, she was older than most of her friends who’d already had children. Children were definitely part of the dream.

  She looked over at Margie, a more mature woman but not old by any means. She guessed that Margie was early forties, with a hint of gray at the temples of her brown hair. Laugh lines accentuated the green eyes, while the creases at the corners of her mouth spoke of a happy woman who smiled and laughed often. Margie also wore a gray dress, a matching bonnet tied under her chin.

  They interior of the wagon was sweltering and although walking in the noonday sun would be tiring, she looked forward to the breeze – even if it was a warm breeze.

  Sophie remembered the events that had occurred that morning, and the fight that broke out over Daisy’s trunk.

  The women had gathered at the spot outside the post office, just as they’d been instructed. There were six of them. They’d been told they could only bring one trunk; the mules wouldn’t be able to carry more than six women and six trunks, along with the food and supplies.

  But there was always one in any group — and in their group that one was Daisy.

  Angus, their driver, had raised his voice informing the girl that she’d have to leave the bag behind. “Miss, you ain’t allowed to bring that. Your bag is stayin’.” Angus took her bag, tossing it to the ground.

  “And I told you, silly man, that I’m bringing that bag! That bag has some important things I cannot �
�� will not — leave behind. I’m not discussing it any further with someone of your position.” Daisy grabbed the bag and added it to the pile of items still waiting to be placed in the wagon.

  “Don’t you get all high falutin’ with me! Where you from, anyhow? You don’t talk like us.”

  “I’m from Boston. I came to see my Aunt after my husband’s death. It doesn’t matter to you anyway.” She pointed at the bag. “We’re taking that with us!”

  “Don’t be pushing me, girl. I’ll tan your backside, sure as the sun’s shining!”

  Daisy sputtered. “I never! You, sir, will not touch me!”

  A voice rang out and Charles, the owner of the Widow Wagon, quickly approached the women. “What appears to be happenin’ here?”

  Angus jumped in, pointing an irritated thumb at Daisy, explaining to Charles. “This brat here says she’s bringing this bag when she already done brought a bag. I told her that she can’t bring it and she’s done nothin’ but argue.”

  Charles turned to Daisy, holding up a hand before she could speak another word. “Miss Daisy you were told that you can only bring a trunk. I told you myself, and the paperwork states it clearly. The bag has to stay. Clear?”

  Daisy stomped her foot, her voice a frustrated screech. “No! I need that bag!”

  “Ma’am, you can stop the fit. It ain’t gonna help. You can take the important things and put them in your trunk. But that bag is staying here with your aunt. I don’t want to hear any more about it!”

  “Yes!” She grabbed her bag and dragged her trunk a few feet away to shuffle the contents.

  Good Lord, this will be even worse than I feared.