Cowboy Doms Collection

by BJ Wane

  Lillian shook her head, admitting he was right; her thoughts about him jumped back and forth as much as his treatment of her. For two days, ever since she’d fled Brad’s house, got in her car and just drove, she’d been operating on remote control. She still had no destination in mind for when she left here and didn’t want to think ahead to the bleak future without Liana. Living for the moment was all she cared to do right now, and the sudden urge to have some fun with the good doctor took hold.

  Squatting down, she scooped up a wad of snow and formed a snowball, intent on showing Mitchell she was perfectly capable of deciding how much rest or inactivity she could handle. She was bruised and sore, nothing she didn’t have experience with even if this was the first time Brad had unleashed such uncontrolled anger on her and aimed for her ribs and face. She hoped the gash on his head she’d inflicted pained him as much as what she suffered.

  Taking aim, she let loose with the snowball, wincing at the pull around her upper torso. The extra discomfort was worth it when Mitchell spun around in surprise and glared at her.

  “Knock it off, Lillian,” he growled as she scooped up another wad of snow in her gloved hands. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “I don’t need to rest. I slept twelve hours between yesterday and this morning.” She shivered as he fisted his hands on those lean hips and his hazel eyes darkened to almost solid brown. She was learning to detect his mood by the color of his eyes and that look was becoming familiar, as was her heated response to his deep, demanding tone.

  “I think I’m better qualified to know what you need to do. Now put that down and get back inside,” he ordered.

  Oh, no, neither that dictate nor her body’s strange reaction was acceptable, leaving her only one way to retaliate. “Tsk, tsk, Doc, you’re getting bossy again.” Lobbing the snowball, she hit him in the chest. The disbelief on his face was comical until he came toward her with stealthy purpose.

  Sparring with Mitchell helped keep her mind off her plight better than anything else thus far. Laughing, she held out a hand, as if that would hold him back. “You have to be nice, I’m hurt, remember?”

  “You just said you were fine,” he reminded her in a voice soft as silk, moving through the knee-high pileup much faster and easier than she.

  Lillian backed away with a shiver, her pulse leaping as he closed the distance between them before she could reach the door. In her clumsy haste, she lost her footing and went down, the snow softening her fall but chilling her to the bone as the back of her bare head dampened. Mitchell came down on top of her, bracing on his arms, a small grin replacing the stern slash of his mouth.

  “Serves you right for disobeying me.”

  Lillian’s breath stalled and her heart thudded against her chest as Mitchell’s face looming above her blurred into Brad’s, his words hurling her back to the last time Brad’s threats forced her to endure his possession. For a few seconds, the same sense of humiliation, throat-tightening despair and white-hot fury clouded her mind. Refusing to give in to the panicked distress threatening her composure, she snapped back as quickly as she’d tumbled down that rabbit hole, Mitchell’s whiplash voice helping her to refocus on the present.

  “Lillian!”

  Getting to his feet, Mitchell throttled back his volatile reaction to seeing Lillian’s face go chalk-white and her eyes glaze with such a look of torment he could feel her distress. She rallied as fast as she’d shaken him with the knowledge that bastard had done more than strike her. She started to get up and he held out his hand. “Give me your hand.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Damn it.” Grasping her arms, he lifted her up, his efforts earning him a glare out of those dark eyes. “Yes, you do, whether you want to admit it or not.” As much as her intrusion on his privacy frustrated him, he once again found himself admiring her gumption as she shoved back whatever memory he’d triggered that had wiped the mirth off her face.

  Lillian pulled away and he released her, his own thoughts as jumbled as hers appeared to be. Mitchell didn’t want to involve himself in whatever trouble she was running from but couldn’t deny the desire to see her face infused with pleasure just once before they went their separate ways. It wouldn’t change the harm done to her, but it sure as hell would make him feel better, and her too for a short time.

  “I think I’ll listen to you and get back inside.”

  With some difficulty, he refrained from telling her to sit in front of the fire until her hair dried. “I’ll be in shortly.” He waited until the door closed behind her to retrieve his coat and gather up an armful of chopped wood.

  Mitchell had been reminiscing about the long weekends he and Abbie had enjoyed at their mountain cabin back in Colorado when Lillian startled him with that first snowball. The unexpected cold splat jerked him back from the heated memory of restraining his naked wife to a tree one summer afternoon in the secluded copse of their private retreat and the way her soft cries would echo on the fresh mountain air. Lillian’s amused defiance when he’d ordered her to stop and go back inside had shaken loose his ire, the impish look on her face and sparking in her eyes preferable to the desolation, pain or simmering anger she’d been portraying.

  Too bad his attempt to playfully show her who held the upper hand had triggered a memory that wiped off her engaging smile. He craved five minutes with the man who had tormented her, the strangling tentacles of his rage on her behalf unlike anything he’d experienced before. The cases of abuse that had come through the trauma center in Denver had stirred his pity and anger, but Lillian’s grit and determination in the wake of her trauma punched both those emotions up a notch. Considering that, he thought it was a good thing they would go their separate ways tomorrow.

  Mitchell used his elbow to unlatch the door and shoved it open with his shoulder. Kicking it shut behind him, he turned with his load toward the fireplace and saw Lillian sitting on the hearth, the soft amber glow from the sizzling embers highlighting the dark burgundy of her shoulder-length hair. At least the stirring of lust he felt when she lifted her head and gave him a bland look was a familiar reaction he could accept much easier than what her expression lying under him in the snow had conjured up.

  Dropping the logs except the bottom two into the bin, he said, “If you’ll move aside for a minute, I’ll stoke the fire.”

  “Sure. My hair’s dry, so I don’t need to sit this close anymore. Do you mind if I raid your food supply and come up with something for dinner? It would give me something to do.”

  “Knock yourself out, but I only stock the basics, some frozen hamburger and canned goods.”

  He listened to her rummaging as he got the fire up and going again and then spotted the notebook he gave her sitting on the end of the hearth. Picking it up, he flipped through it, gazing at the three pictures drawn with a talented hand. The woman in all three appeared to be Lillian until he looked closer at the details of her face. The nose was slightly off with a small bump, the eyes were the same oval shape but Lillian’s lower lip was fuller than the woman in the pictures, and this woman’s hair curled under her chin instead of hanging down her back.

  Because of the resemblance, he assumed the drawing depicted a family member. “Who is this?” He held up the top sketch as she peered around from searching an upper cupboard.

  Lillian’s slender body went rigid, her jaw tightening and her eyes filling with sorrow and then narrowing to slits. He stayed patient while waiting for her to answer, which she did after several moments of tense silence between them.

  “My twin sister. Does chili work for you?” She turned away from him and lifted down two cans of beans.

  “Sounds good. You’re an excellent artist. Will your supplies be okay sitting out there in these temperatures?”

  “No. I’ll have to replace my paints. I need a big pot.”

  Setting the tablet on the table, he walked over and pulled a large pan from under the sink and placed it on the burner before getting nosy agai
n. “What happened to her?”

  “She died,” Lillian returned, her clipped voice conveying both grief and anger. “Unless you want to chop onion, leave me alone to get this going.”

  “I’ll pass. That way you can blame your tears on the vegetable.”

  Lillian blinked away the watery sheen in her eyes, gritting her teeth to keep from railing at him and his inquisitiveness. She owed him for helping her, but not enough to give him more details about the circumstances leading up to Liana’s passing. She didn’t need anyone judging her for giving in to Brad’s blackmail.

  They settled into a companionable silence with him relaxing in the recliner with a book while she browned hamburger with onions and then stirred in the beans. As it simmered, she returned to the table to sketch another picture, this one of Mitchell with the glow of the blazing fire behind him. If she had her colored drawing pencils, she would shade the right side of his rugged face with a yellow tint. She eyed the mix of grey and black coloring of his hair and goatee, wondering about his age. The small lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes could be from squinting against the sun since she doubted they were laugh lines. She’d caught the same bleakness crossing his face she’d lived with since losing her twin but didn’t care to delve into his personal issues any more than she wanted him inquiring about hers.

  “What do you want to ask me, pet?” Mitchell looked up from his book and nailed her with one of those probing stares that never failed to shake loose something inside her.

  Ignoring the undesirable response, Lillian scowled. “Do you call me that just to annoy me?”

  “Partly. Now, ask.”

  She couldn’t fault him for being honest even if the continued use of the generic endearment grated on her nerves. “I was wondering about your age.” Waving a hand toward his head, she said, “Your hair color on a woman would make her look older, but on men it’s deceiving.”

  “I’m forty-two and the premature gray runs in my family.”

  Closing his book, he set it aside, pushed to his feet and stretched. Lillian admired his lean height, guessing he stood around six-four as she recalled what he looked like naked, his impressive, ripcord muscles and deceptive strength. Her blood flow heated, forcing her gaze away before he noticed her staring. The only explanation for her continued, strong responses must be stress, but regardless, she wasn’t in the market for another relationship. Not even a strictly physical one. She shut the notebook and went to dish out the chili thinking tomorrow and the snowplows couldn’t come soon enough.

  Like last night, Lillian donned his shirt and climbed into bed hours before Mitchell, staring into the fire until the heat and wavering flames lulled her to sleep. But unlike the previous night, tonight she wasn’t weighed down with exhaustion to keep the bad dreams at bay. Visions of happy times with her sister kept getting jumbled with the weeks she’d lived on edge under Brad’s roof.

  “Come on, sis. You can do it.” Lillian held her hand down from where she sat perched on the limb of the large oak tree in their front yard. “But hurry, before Mom sees us and makes us do chores.”

  “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things, Lil.” Liana grabbed her hand and swung up onto the branch next to her just as their mother popped her head out the back door and called for them.

  They both giggled, refusing to answer until they were threatened with getting grounded for a month.

  “I love you, but I’m not missing the eighth-grade dance just to get out of cleaning my room.” Liana delivered a playful punch to her arm and then jumped to the ground.

  Lillian groaned, clutched her arm and rolled over as Brad’s cold voice replaced her sister’s happy lilt.

  Gripping her upper arm as she entered the house, Brad swung her about with an angry glare. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  Her arm throbbed and Lillian pictured the new bruise already forming. Gritting her teeth, she ground out, “I told you I had an art class this evening.”

  Yanking her against him, his eyes bored into hers. “You better not be lying. One injection and Liana will suffer.” Releasing her arm, he delivered a punch to her stomach that doubled her over on a gasp. “Now come upstairs and make it up to me.” He hauled her up the stairs, Lillian cringing at the thought of him touching her again.

  She let her mind go blank as he stripped her, following his demands with feigned enthusiasm. He never hurt her in bed. On the contrary, he whispered words of apology, his touch gentle, his praise of her over the top. She went along, nodded her forgiveness and accepted his thrusts, all the while vowing revenge one day…

  With a quiet sob, Lillian slid out of the bed before she woke Mitchell. The extra warmth from the simmering embers beckoned and she padded across the wood planking to stand on the braided rug before the low, crackling flames. Her heart pounded and her body quaked from the conflicting emotions of sadness and fury, making her wonder which would eventually overtake the other. She’d always been the instigator of trouble and daring between her and Liana, her little stunts landing them in hot water nine times out of ten. She was used to accepting the blame and figured that was why she kept faulting herself for something neither of them could have seen coming. Her shame stemmed from being unable to find a way to defy Brad’s threats and keep Liana safe, and she needed to learn to live with her degrading compliance to his possession and painful punches.

  “Are you okay?”

  Lillian stiffened, anger rising to the surface with Mitchell’s intrusion. “I’m fine. Sorry I woke you,” she replied without turning around. Between sorrow pricking her eyes from missing Liana and bile lodged in her throat from recalling the distaste of Brad’s touch, she didn’t trust herself to remain bottled up if she faced him.

  Mitchell fisted his hands to keep from reaching for Lillian. Her soft moan of distress had woken him from a light sleep and he’d opened his eyes to see her walking to the fireplace. His shirt hung to her mid-thighs, leaving those long, slender legs bare. Need poured off her rigid body in waves as she looked down at the small, residual glow. For what, he didn’t know and shouldn’t care. So why was he standing behind her now, listening to her lie when she said she was fine? He swore he possessed no desire to get involved with her troubles, but the sob wrenched from her throat that had roused him shredded that resolve, the quiver in her voice just now tugging at his compassion.

  “Now, that’s a lie, pet,” he admonished, injecting a note of steel in his tone. He hated to ask but needed to know. “Were you raped?”

  She whirled on him so fast, he took a step back, those purple eyes blazing with hate and a hint of shame, her face red, either from the heat or anger, he couldn’t tell which. “No. I went to his bed willingly every time he bruised me. And if you think that makes me a pathetic moron, too stupid to live, I don’t give a damn.” Lillian poked a finger at his bare chest, the jab landing right between his pecs. “Quit calling me pet. I don’t like it.”

  Mitchell thanked his considerable control as he moved forward again, close enough his flannel shirt she wore brushed his abdomen. “I don’t think anything because that’s not the whole truth. There are all kinds of ways to coerce an unwilling woman. If you don’t want to tell me, fine by me. Since we will be parting ways tomorrow, you won’t have to hear me calling you pet again, which is good because I don’t take orders, I give them.”

  Her jaw tightened as she gave one jerky nod and spun around again, but not before he caught the same flash of despair in her eyes he’d glimpsed several times before, the same despondency that still pulled him down when he thought of Abbie.

  “Then there’s nothing else to say, is there?” The slight catch in Lillian’s whisper belied her stiff stance of peevish anger.

  No matter how much he did not want to involve himself, he couldn’t leave her hurting. Like he said, they would be going their separate ways within hours. What could it hurt if he gave her a better memory to think about when the bad ones intruded? It would sure help ease his conscience if
he could send her on her way knowing he’d done what he could to help her cope with her demons.

  “How long has your sister been gone?”

  She sucked in a breath and whispered, “Come morning, five days.”

  Mitchell swore, sympathizing with her. The acute pain of his own loss had abated to a dull ache, but those first days of shocked grief were still too easy to recall. Before he could change his mind, he rested his hands on her shoulders and rubbed the tenseness out of them until she released her pent-up breath on a sigh. Then he slid his hands down her arms, circled her wrists and lifted her hands to the wooden mantel just above her head.

  Leaning his head down sideways, he rested his lips against her ear. “You’ve trusted me for two days. Trust me a little longer and leave your hands there until I give you permission to lower them.”

  Her back muscles went taut and this time, her whisper trembled. “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “Make you forget the bad for a short time. Give you a new, better memory to leave here with. Trust me to do that.”

  Mitchell kept his hands over hers and called on his patience as Lillian took her time answering. When she did, the relief and pleasure her reply sent rushing through him would bear deeper scrutiny later, much later.

  “Okay, yes, I’ll do that.”

  Chapter 4

  Lillian had washed out her bra and panties and left them drying in the bathroom before turning in, and now braced herself as Mitchell reached around her and unbuttoned the shirt, wondering what the heck she was doing. She was done taking orders from men, wasn’t she? He hadn’t asked for her trust, he’d insisted on it. The seductive promise interlaced with the deep voiced command had tugged at something inside her, an ache for what he was promising, and prompted her to agree just to see where this would go.