“Thought you didn’t know anything about him.”
“I knew enough, but I didn’t steal from him.”
“Man who killed him last night said he’s been robbing his men of gold. Any truth to it?”
“I’d say there might be some,” Lane replied, rubbing his chin.
“What I figured.”
“Noticed you have a few empty caskets.”
“Yep,” the marshal answered him. “What about it?”
“You got a hangin’ coming up?”
“Seems so.”
“Got a reason to hang ’em?”
“Do I need one?” the marshal asked.
Lane shrugged. “Depends. Do those men in your jail plan on bothering Victoria if you let them go?”
“That’s the word.”
“You tried talkin’ to them?”
“Talk is a waste of time when you’ve got true outlaws on the hearing end of the conversation.”
“I suppose so,” Lane agreed.
“Are you an outlaw, mister?” the marshal asked.
Lane shook his head. “I reckon not.”
“Do you consider yourself a good man?”
Lane thought about that for a second. Rather than answer right away, he turned the question around. “Are you a good man, Marshal?”
The marshal strode off the porch and pointed toward the prairie. “A long time ago, I used to think so. That is, until I fell in love with a beautiful young woman. She was as pretty as a California sunset, and just as hot as the heat in the middle of a damning drought. My ma and pa warned me away from her, but I wouldn’t listen.
“See, I was in love with that woman. I wanted her to be mine, and was pretty certain, at least for a time, she wanted me to be hers, too.”
“What happened?” Lane asked, thinking who the marshal loved really didn’t determine whether he was a good man or not.
A faraway gaze settled in the man’s eyes. “Well you see, she was as wild as them Indians she occasionally entertained. Don’t get me wrong, Gertrude—Gerty, that’s what we called her—she was a good woman for a spell. But she had a queer disposition. She was indifferent. That’s what she was. Reckon the only thing she ever really cared about was Victoria, and she didn’t give her the time of day much.”
They stood there staring out at the prairie together. Lane remained silent until the quietness became strained and uncomfortable. “I’ll be good to your daughter, Marshal.”
“I imagine you’ll be better to her than I’ve been,” he said, slapping him on the back.
Feeling satisfied, Lane started for his horse and the marshal headed back inside. Before he disappeared behind the door he opened, he called out, “If you’re not, I’ll come lookin’ for you.”
“I imagine you will, sir.”
“Call me Carl. It’s an ugly name, but somebody’s gotta use it.”
It was an ugly name, Lane thought as he rode away. But it sure had a better ring to it than “marshal.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dinner was on the table when Lane returned. Victoria smiled when she saw him. “We were getting worried about you.”
“I wasn’t,” Art grumbled, shoveling a helping of potatoes into his mouth.
“I’m sure you didn’t miss me much,” Lane said, removing his hat and taking a seat.
“I did,” she said, sitting beside him.
“How’d things go in town?” Art asked, barely looking away from his meal.
“Couldn’t have gone better.”
“Did you see the marshal?” Victoria asked.
“I saw him,” Lane replied, picking up his fork.
“How was he?” she asked.
Lane stared at Victoria and thought about several subjects he needed to approach. He wasn’t quite sure which one to address over dinner.
“Oh for God’s sake, quit makin’ the girl dig out the information. She ain’t hoeing potatoes.”
Victoria took a sip of water. “Well. Did things go okay for you?”
“See there?” Art asked, looking up from his food. “You’re makin’ her work for it. Spit it out. Tell her what happened.”
Lane chuckled. “She’s not the one who’s in such a big hurry to find out what went on, but I will tell you this. Max Carpenter is dead.”
“What?” Art dropped his fork.
“Seems the burly guy called him out into the street last night. They had a gunfight, and if the casket he’s occupying is any proof, he lost.”
“Won’t see me losing any sleep,” Art said. “What about his gang?”
“Apparently, the marshal still plans to hang ’em.”
“What’s the charge?” Art asked.
Lane shrugged. “I didn’t ask. The crime is obvious. They groped the wrong marshal’s daughter.”
“They threatened her, too,” Art reminded him.
“Well, I don’t think the marshal is threatening them. He seems pretty bent on hanging those fellas. There are several caskets opened down in the middle of town.”
Victoria shivered. She stared into her plate, and her eyes watered.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Lane asked, caressing her hand.
“It’s not right,” she remarked, shaking her head.
“What’s not right?” Art asked around a mouthful of food.
“Those men dying because of what they did to me. Look at me. I’m fine. I’m sitting here with the two of you enjoying my supper, and those men are there in that jail tonight thinking about dying. It just ain’t right.”
“Victoria,” Art warned. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“He’s right,” Lane told her. “You can’t, and I won’t let you. Keep in mind, your pa—I mean the marshal—he had a few other good reasons to put those fellas out of their misery. Evidently he figured out what was going on with Max and his gang. He knows they were squandering gold.”
She shrugged. “He’s still hanging them because of me.”
Lane reluctantly nodded. “You may have a little something to do with it, but I don’t think you’re entirely to blame.”
“Blame?” she screeched.
“Way to go, Lane,” Art said, dropping his fork in his bread pudding.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Yeah, Lane,” Art said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “What did you mean?”
Lane was backed in a corner. Of all the conversations he should’ve tabled for after dinner, he picked the one guaranteed to ruin a good meal.
Lane cleared his throat. “Here’s the thing, Victoria. Your pa isn’t going to let those men walk.”
“Quit calling him my pa.”
“That’s what he is. Whether you like it or not, he’s your father, and you’re stuck with him.”
“Don’t you mean he’s stuck with me?” she asked, standing.
“No,” he said, leaving his chair as well. “That’s not at all what I mean. Your father cares about you. He loves you.”
“Right,” she said. “He loves me so much he wants the world to know I’m his daughter.”
“I’m pretty sure those in Cripple Creek realize who you are now.” A beat later he said, “The older people would’ve talked, anyhow.”
She frowned.
Understanding she couldn’t possibly translate what he meant, Lane said, “Sweetheart, listen. Your pa loved your mother. She was the one who didn’t want him.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I do. Based on the letter Art and I overheard you reading and the rumors around this town, I believe your mother liked her life so much she never planned to change her way of doing things.”
“Why would she enjoy being poked by every man coming or going?” she asked, fury marking its place in her eyes.
Lane released a sigh of relief. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d sort of worried about Victoria’s past and how her future might in turn be affected. “Let me ask you something.”
She held her head high. “What is it?”
“Do you want the kind of life your mother led? Do you want for your children what your mother gave you?”
“Who said anything about children?” she asked, her voice an octave higher.
“Yeah, Lane,” Art said, hurriedly reaching for a biscuit. “Who the hell said anything about kids?”
“Do you think you won’t end up like her?” Lane asked. “If you’re having relations with one man after the next, you’re bound to end up pregnant. And then what? If the only way you can survive out here is lying down next to outlaws, what do you have to offer your future children?”
“Where are you going with this?” Art asked, his brow furrowed and his lips turned down.
“Victoria, I want to see you live a rich, full life. I want you to have children someday—my children—and…”
“Oh for the love of God,” Art said, his palm falling against the flat surface of the table. “Do you think we could eat dinner before you start babbling about a future filled with snotty-nosed kids and a marshal for a father-in-law?”
“Carl,” Lane said.
“Carl?”
“That’s his name,” Lane said.
Art sighed. “No wonder he became a marshal. He didn’t have a lot of options with a name like Carl.”
“I like that name,” Victoria said, smiling.
Lane touched her cheek. “Maybe you could use it every now and again. I bet the marshal would rather hear you call him Carl than ‘marshal.’”
She stared at him blankly. “What else did he say to you?”
“We just had a nice, friendly discussion. A discussion best left between men.”
“He threatened to kill you, didn’t he?” Art asked.
“No,” Lane replied.
“I bet he did,” Victoria said.
“Not exactly,” Lane assured her, returning to his dinner. Tucking his napkin at his collar, he added, “But I’m pretty certain if Art and I don’t make you happy, he’ll come looking for us.”
“Then I guess you’d best be making me happy,” she said.
Lane winked. “That was my line of thinking, too.”
Epilogue
One year later
“Art! Lane! I’m not happy with the two of you right now!” she screamed hell and damnation at the top of her lungs.
Wolf sat next to the front window licking his paws like he wasn’t at all affected, but Lane knew better. That damn wolf was so attached to Victoria that he’d probably attack him and Art if he realized they were responsible for her current predicament.
Art stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept his eye on the marshal. Lane paced the length of the porch, wishing he could be sitting by Victoria’s bedside as she gave birth to their first child.
The marshal had begun to pace, too, which made Lane very uncomfortable. He stayed right behind him, almost deliberately walking on top of Lane’s shadow.
He wondered if that action held any particular meaning.
“Help!” she screamed. “Lane! Art!” A beat later and she yelled again, “So help me God if I get my hands on you….”
Lane snickered. Apparently she forgot her role in all this.
Art turned five shades of red when the marshal stopped his stroll across the porch. “I’m going in there. I can’t take this anymore.”
The marshal stood in front of the door. “Don’t you move, son. You think you can’t bear much more. You think about what that girl of mine and what she’s goin’ through. I blame the two of you for her present condition.”
Art’s eyes widened. He took a step back and glared at Lane. “We don’t know for sure which one of us is the father.” His voice was shaky as he tried to get the marshal on his good side.
Lane would’ve laughed if this had been the time or the place to share a chuckle, but considering the fact Victoria had been screaming her head off for the last few hours, a group giggle was hardly appropriate.
“Art, shut up before I change my mind about you,” the marshal said, taking a seat on the stoop.
In recent months, the marshal and his wife, Caroline, had gotten in the habit of dropping by to check on Victoria. Lane and Art were quite fond of them, but at times like this, they knew better than to cross Victoria’s pa.
The marshal’s love for Victoria had become more and more apparent. His visits were more frequent. He occasionally outstayed his welcome, often keeping Victoria on the porch until the wee hours of the morning, telling her things he remembered about her mother while educating her on his family history.
Victoria and her pa were close. God forbid if something should happen to her.
A loud squeal resounded and Lane jerked, his eyes immediately affixing on the front door of the cabin. A few seconds later, Caroline appeared in the doorway. “You have a boy!”
“A boy! Did you hear that?” Art exclaimed, embracing Lane. “We have a boy!”
Lane and the marshal shook hands. Congratulations were passed around. Then, Art said, “I gotta tell ya. I sure am glad Victoria gave birth to a boy. I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl.”
Caroline frowned. Her eyes watered.
“What is it, honey?” the marshal asked, placing his arm around his wife’s thin shoulders.
She reached right inside the door and took the two bundles from the doctor’s arms. “I wanted you to rejoice about one child before you celebrate the birth of another.” A beat later she mustered up enough enthusiasm to exclaim, “You also have a girl!”
“Two?” Art asked. “We have two of them?”
The marshal laughed. “You know what this means of course, don’t ya, Art?”
Art stared at the babies. Rubbing his eyes with balled fists, he shook his head. “I reckon it means—considering our situation and all—one is definitely mine, and the other one is Lane’s.”
“Sure,” Lane said, pacifying him. “That’s what I was thinking, too.”
“How do we know which one is which?” Art asked, looking to the marshal for answers. “They both look the same to me.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait until they’re a little older,” Lane told him. “Then we’ll be able to tell which one looks like me and which one belongs to you.”
“But you really believe one is mine and the other one is yours?”
“Why hell no,” the marshal said, slapping him on the back of the head. “Wake up, boy. One of you is a daddy this time, and the other one will have to get busy after you figure out which one of you fathered the first two.”
“That’s not how it works, Carl,” Lane said softly.
“It’s not?” the marshal asked.
“Nope,” Lane assured him. “We’re a family. I’ll love the kids we bring into this world, whether they’re mine or Art’s, and he will, too.”
“But surely you both want boys of your own.”
“Did you ever want a boy?” Art asked.
The marshal shook his head. “I messed up a-plenty the first time around.”
“Pa! Pa!”
The marshal’s wife stepped out of the marshal’s way and he hurried inside. “I’ll sit with her a bit.”
“You do that,” Lane said. Before the marshal shut the door, he added, “Carl, about that boy? You didn’t need one. You were right about that. You did pretty damn well the first time around. And I don’t think you would’ve ever had a child who loved you any more than your daughter does.”
The marshal smiled, nodded, and disappeared behind the door. His wife handed off the two infants and returned inside as well.
Art took a deep breath and said, “I figured out how we can tell if the boy is mine or yours right off the bat.” He pulled back the blanket covering their baby boy and said, “Yep, he’s mine all right.”
“Oh for the love of Victoria! I can’t believe you think you can tell by looking there. He’s a few minutes old, for pity’s sake.”
Art laughed as well. Then, he said, “I do, you know.”
“Hell, don’t tell me,” Lane said. “Get in there and tell her. She’s waited for over a year for you to tell her what I say every day.”
“I reckon I’ll get around to it.”
“When?” Lane asked.
He shrugged. “I’ll wait until the heat of passion.”
“You may be waiting a few weeks.”
Art shrugged then pointed at the small window. “It’s never too late to tell someone how you feel. Look at Victoria and her father. They’re as thick as thieves.”
“They ought to be,” Lane said. “Thieves are the very reason we’re all standing here today.”
THE END
WWW.BOOKSTRAND.COM/NATALIE-ACRES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natalie Acres is one pseudonym for a best-selling Tennessee author multi-published in several genres. Natalie writes exclusively for Siren Publishing.
Also by Natalie Acres
Ménage Everlasting: Country Roads 1: Sex Drive
Ménage Everlasting: Country Roads 2: Pole Position
Ménage Everlasting: Country Roads 3: Bang the Blower
Ménage Everlasting: Cowboy Addiction 1: Sex Junkie
Ménage Amour: Outlaws 1: Wanted by Outlaws
Ménage and More: Bridled 1: Bridled and Branded
Siren LoveXtreme: Bridled 2: Bridled and Saddled
Siren LoveXtreme: Bridled 3: Bridled and Bucked
Ménage Amour: Cowboy Sex 1: Sex Party
Ménage and More: Cowboy Sex 2: Sex Games
Ménage Amour: Cowboy Sex 3: Sex Camp
PolyAmour: Cowboy Sex 4: Sex Holiday
Ménage Amour: Cowboy Boots and Untamed Hearts
Ménage Amour: Cowboy Boots and Unfinished Business
Available at
BOOKSTRAND.COM
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Acres, Natalie - Propositioned by Outlaws [Outlaws 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 12