by Zoe Blake
The Cowboy’s Revenge
Ride Hard Series, Book 1
By
Zoe Blake
©2016 by Blushing Books® and Zoe Blake
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Zoe Blake
The Cowboy’s Revenge
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-906-8
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
The Gunfighter’s Pursuit
About the Author
EBook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
Blushing Books
Chapter One
Vulture City, Arizona
His only warning was a muffled feminine screech followed by the high-pitched sound of shattering glass. A large shiny object fell at his feet. Reaching down, Mason picked up the brush. It was sterling silver with an ornate floral patterned silver back and polished ivory handle.
There was the sound of a window sash being raised, then an indignant voice called out, “That is my brush!”
Mason raised gunmetal gray eyes to clash with irate cornflower blue ones.
Large blue eyes framed by a heart-shaped face with a pert little chin stared back. Her lush pink lips were topped by a small, round-tip nose. Thick ringlets of honey-brown hair fell unbound over her shoulders.
Tilting his Stetson back, to catch a better look, Mason drawled, “Not to be contrary, miss, but I believe it is now my brush. I did just find it here in the dust.”
Her pretty eyes flashed with anger as she pounded on the wooden window ledge with the heel of her hand. “I’m the one that threw it! It’s mine!”
Giving a low whistle as he twirled the brush by its smooth handle, Mason responded, “There again, miss. A thinkin man would say when a pretty lady throws a brush through a window, she no longer wants to possess it.”
The woman was leaning out the carelessly broken window of a massive three-story home with brightly painted wood and quarry stone. Its sheer size and purely ornamental garden in stark contrast to the clapboard, ramshackle cabins with their small, withered vegetable gardens lining Main Street and beyond. Only the bank and saloon could rival it in splendor. The mayor’s house…and this must be the mayor’s daughter.
Her comely looks were going to make his revenge that much sweeter.
“Listen, you gray back cow punch! I want my brush!”
He would also enjoy putting that naughty mouth of hers to better use.
Mason Weiser rolled his shoulders, adjusting the weight of the heavy leather saddlebags. Dressed in a navy, spun-wool shirt with leather vest and red bandanna. Buckskin California pants, hugging his waist and falling loosely over a scuffed pair of Cavalry boots and a thick black leather belt secured with a tarnished brass buckle emblazoned with a capital “CS”. He wasn’t exactly hiding the fact he was a cowboy making his way in the world after bearing the brunt of being on the losing side of the War Between the States. The holstered Colt 1860 Army revolver and coiled cow whip hung low on his belt let everyone know he wasn’t keen to talk about it.
At over six feet, there were few men who could look Mason in the eye, which suited him just fine. He preferred to keep folks at arm’s length. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of women of marriageable age…and some well beyond. Sharp handsome features, piercing gray eyes, coffee brown hair the wrong side of church-proper length and a scruffy jaw that had only had a passing acquaintance with a razor was a dog whistle to any woman looking to tame and civilize a man. Mason wasn’t interested. Give him a willing painted lady, a few coins and a decent shot of rotgut without too much turpentine and he was content. After what he lived through in the war, his expectations from life and society as a whole were low.
Until he received the letter.
The letter telling him his brother had been murdered.
Life took on a d
ifferent, singular, intense purpose. Revenge.
“Do you know who my father is?” snapped the bit-o-honey from the window.
Mason lowered his head, shielding his expression.
“Why yes, miss, I do. Soon, he’ll know me,” he cryptically intoned before stashing her brush in his saddlebag. Ignoring her shriek of fury, Mason strolled the rough-hewed boards down Main Street towards the bathhouse. He had a plan to put into action.
~*~
Annabelle was so shocked at the rude stranger’s action she raised her shoulders to shout one last time at his retreating back. The motion caused her to crack her skull on the windowsill. The sudden shock of pain not improving her already foul mood. Pulling her body back into the safety of her bedroom, Annabelle gave a large shard of broken glass from the window a kick, sending it sliding across the polished wood floor before tangling with the thick fringe of her bedroom carpet.
Rubbing the back of her head, she stomped over to the small upholstered stool in front of her mirrored vanity. Sitting down with a humph, she stared at her reflection in the polished glass. The encounter with that outrageous cowboy had given her cheeks a high rosy glow. The soft pink contrasted nicely with her porcelain skin. She took care to never step a foot out of the house without a bonnet and parasol to preserve her milky-white complexion. Cocking her head at an angle, she admired how a stray sunbeam made her unique violet eyes sparkle and her pale tawny hair appear almost golden. Instinctively she reached for her brush, intending to brush the lush locks to a burnished gold. Clenching her fists in anger, she pounded on the small table. Damn that cowboy!
Annabelle didn’t really care about the brush. She would simply buy another but there was a problem. It was part of a mirror and comb set gifted to her by her step-father. Every one of the servants in the large household were his personal spies. Reporting on Annabelle’s every movement. Her fit of anger and loss of the brush would surely get back to him. Even if her own maid did not betray her, as she was wont to do, her step-father was bound to notice the jagged hole in one of the house’s front windows!
There was no point in concocting a lie. He knew why she was upset.
Ever since the death of her mother two years past, her step-father had increased his attentions towards Annabelle. At nineteen, she was well-past marriageable age and yet he had refused every offer she had received. The latest from the rather handsome and very rich banker’s son. This time he didn’t even bother to come up with an excuse. There wasn’t much he could say about her suitor’s respectable family and their wealth. Sure the son was a bit boring with the personality of old dishwater but that wasn’t his problem, it would be hers as his wife. Annabelle couldn’t give a fig about being entertained by a potential husband. She would have his money to buy pretty gowns and jewelry and her own personal coach to travel to bigger cities where they had fancy restaurants and theaters! Entertained by a husband, indeed!
Over breakfast this morning, her step-father had the audacity to hint at forcing her to become his wife. The very idea was outrageous! Even though they didn’t share blood, he had raised her since she was a little girl. They had never been close but that was far from the point. Surely it would be breaking one of God’s laws?
What sent a chill up her spine was he just may succeed with the awful plan. As the mayor and wealthiest resident of Vulture City, he practically owned the entire town. No one stood up to Jacob Waltze. His German ancestry made him a stubborn force to be reckoned with under any circumstance. She might not have a choice. Her step-father had all the money and power. She wasn’t like those frontier women she saw coming into town for supplies. Eking out a living in the wild territories. Having to make do with home-spun cloth and boiled soap!
Annabelle ran a hand down the bodice of her sapphire blue princess cut dress. Sweeping her hair into a loose chignon at the back of her neck, she held it in place with a pearl encrusted comb. No, she couldn’t possibly run away and risk winding up in some shack making her own food and being forced to wash in some creek. She would just have to come up with another plan.
Perhaps she could convince that dumb banker’s son to elope and run away to San Francisco?
Chapter Two
Placing his hat over his still damp hair, Mason stepped into the dusty street. Having stowed his gear at a nearby boarding house, he enjoyed a quick scrub at the local bathhouse. Time to head to the saloon.
In the nearing dusk, it was easy to spot. A bright glow from the multiple chandeliers shone through the large windows. Since Vulture City was a prosperous gold boom town, the saloon matched Mason’s expectations; big, gaudy and loud.
Grimacing at the overpowering scent of attar of roses, unwashed bodies and stale liquor, Mason waived away the saloon girl who approached as he made his way to the large bar.
Unbuckling his holster, he wrapped the thick leather belt around his Colt before tossing it on the bar. Like most wild boom towns, Vulture City made you turn your gun in at the local saloon. It was the only way to keep the violence at bay. Mason couldn’t care less. He didn’t need his gun for this particular brand of revenge.
Taking in the expensive mirrors, oil paintings of half-naked women, expensive kerosene globe lamps and mahogany bar with brass fittings, Mason knew he might have a chance at getting a shot of actual whiskey. The town saloons had real money and reputations to worry about so they usually brought their liquor in from the East on the new railroad lines. It was the tented saloons of the backwater mining towns where you had to worry about them blending turpentine with some old tobacco and rotten wood and serving it up as whiskey.
“Bar-dog. Two shots of coffin varnish,” groused Mason as he threw a silver 50 cent coin on the bar.
Watching carefully as the bartender poured two generous shots from what looked like a reputable bottle, Mason grabbed the first glass and downed it. Palming the second, he turned to face the saloon patrons. The place was filled with the usual mix of misfits and respectable people. Landowners, cattle barons, fur trappers, cowboys, miners and of course the saloon girls peddling liquor and heavy card playing shoulder to shoulder with the prostitutes peddling their bodies.
He didn’t give a damn about any of them.
He set his sights on one man and one man only. Jacob Waltze. He was told the town’s mayor favored a long mustache and fancy silk vests shipped in from Paris. Waltze also favored a deep poker game. Mason smiled. He certainly hoped so. His plan depended on it.
He received the last letter from his brother John posted at a fort, ten miles from where he was standing. His brother had no interest in protecting the ideas of the South. John avoided the conflict by heading west. Like many before him, he sought adventure and a quick path to riches. In the letter, John said he was close to striking gold with his new partner and urged Mason to come to Arizona. At the time, Mason was in the middle of forcing back McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign against the South. Entrenched side by side with General Johnston preparing for a siege on Yorktown, he couldn’t leave his post or his men. Besides, it wasn’t the first time John had written predicting riches.
Mason just wished he had known it would be the last. The next letter he received was from a doc, telling of John’s death.
After three long years, the war finally ended. Mason retired his commission and headed for Arizona after a short detour running cattle up the Chisolm trail from Texas to Abilene for some ready money. With his pockets full, Mason traveled to the Superstition Mountains, determined to find his brother’s killer.
First, he tracked down the doc who tended to John’s wounds and sent him the letter. Seems John had been found face down near Hackberry Spring. Near dead from a gunshot wound. Doc Walker did all he could but it was no use. The good doctor found a letter from Mason tucked inside John’s bedroll, along with a photo of their mother and a lock of hair from a younger brother who died of consumption when they were lads. John’s real treasures. A peaceful, god-fearing man, the Doc tried to caution Mason against seeking revenge. It did no g
ood. His path was set.
Mason learned the name of John’s gold mining partner, a man named Jacob Waltze. Although back when John knew him, Waltze was called the Dutchman. It was a bastardization of deutsch. A nod to Waltze’s thick German accent. Seems Waltze had a struck of good luck in the weeks following John’s death. Showing up in Vulture City with enough gold to choke a horse. Like many miners, he refused to reveal the location of his mine but no one doubted the gold ore vein Waltze found was deep and long.
Jacob Waltze quickly turned the backward little trade-stop into the prosperous town Vulture City. Waltze’s luck continued when he married a beautiful widow and took in her even more beautiful young daughter. From what Mason had learned the man was not only now mayor of the town but it’s richest, most influential citizen and he wielded his power like a hammer.
Carefully tracking his brother’s last steps, Mason knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Waltze murdered his brother and Mason was going to make him suffer.
Unfortunately with civilization came the law. Vulture City was infamous for hanging its criminals from the Ironwood tree in the center of town for the slightest infraction. Besides, Mason didn’t want to murder the man…that would be too quick. He wanted to break the man. Take away his fortune both in gold and flesh.
From what he had learned, Waltze had two weaknesses. The first was gambling. He fancied himself quite the high-stakes gamer. The second was an almost obsessive interest in his now grown step-daughter, Annabelle, the all horns and rattles’ beauty he encountered earlier, Mason was sure of it.
No, killin was too good for the man.
Mason was going to ruin his daughter.
He sauntered over to the poker tables and put his plan into action.