The Lady and the Lawman Read online

  One dirty eyebrow lifted, skeptical. “This is all you’ve got?”

  Nodding, she silently praising herself for the forethought to hide some of her savings. “It’s all I have left after paying my fare.”

  Grunting, he stuffed the small bag, coins and all, into his pocket. Her captor spent a long minute looking at her. Really looking at her this time, taking in all her...attributes. She could see a new, considering look in his eye, as if he hadn’t really seen her before. A chill went down her spine at the unwanted caress. Head held high, she turned her face away from his touch. She'd done this with William. She could stand up to this man's touch as well.

  He removed his hat, wiping the sweat from his brow with his grimy shirtsleeve. He stepped closer, looming over her, blocking out the intense sun with his height.

  “What...what are you going to do with me?”

  “What do you think?” He reached out and grabbed the nape of her neck, pulling her hair, yanking her face in toward his. He laughed, showing crooked brown teeth.

  She knew to what he referred. Very clearly, in fact. The details of her unpleasant, and still slightly sore, encounter with William was fresh in her mind. The color quickly drained from her cheeks. No! It would be even worse than William. At least her fiancé bathed at regular intervals. She’d rather die than have this man have his way with her. Die like the men whose blood stained the green grass red. Being shot was a horrible possibility, but rape was a torture far worse than a bullet to the back.

  He dropped his gaze to the exposed curves of one of her breasts. He cupped its contour through the navy silk dress and his eyes practically bulged out of his head as he lifted it more fully from the neckline of her dress. She pulled away from his touch, to no avail. He pawed at the row of tiny buttons that held the remainder of her bodice and easily ripped the fragile fabric, sending small buttons flying. Her fashionable dress, now rent from collar to waist, hung open with only her tight corset and beneath, a thin chemise, covering her.

  The man’s hands were everywhere, breasts, hips, arms. Horrified, Margaret screamed, “Leave me alone!”

  She fought for her life, raking her fingernails down his face.

  He shouted, his hands lifting to his cheeks for protection. “Damned bitch!”

  Viselike grip gone, she stumbled away, scrambled, almost falling in her haste, catching her balance and running. Her heartbeat raced as fast as she did. Closer and closer she came to the men's horse, her chance at freedom. The animals’ heads were lowered, grazing on the new spring grass as if nothing were amiss.

  She heard footfall behind her. He could easily catch her, but she kept running, lungs burning. She couldn’t give up...give in.

  Her legs and long skirts were no match for the strong man. He caught up to her just before she’d reached the closest animal, not-so-gently hauling her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Struggling with all her might, she kneed him in the belly hard enough to elicit a loud grunt, but she wasn’t strong enough to stop him.

  She squealed when he smacked her across her bottom with a loud thwack and fought once again in earnest, a whirling dervish high above the ground. The man gained control of her flailing legs, his arm clamping down across the back of her thighs. Trying another tactical approach, she pretended to faint, sagging against the man, hoping her dead weight would be a nuisance.

  After being tossed to the ground like a side of beef, she tried to catch her breath. Quick as a rabbit, the man leaped on top of her, his face pressed to her breasts, which had popped free from the top of her corset, her nipples exposed. The blue sky was all she could see as she fought him off...to no avail. One hand, rough with callouses, worked up her skirts, the hot breeze caressed her calves then thighs as the material went higher. She felt his whiskers against her breasts. The thought of his foul mouth touching her made her sick.

  She screamed and shifted, wriggling beneath his weight as his hand reached higher, tugging at her pantalettes. Unseeingly, she lifted her knee and made contact with her captor’s groin. Hard. He fell on top of her like a dead tree in the forest with a loud groan. His dead weight pinned her to the ground. This time, no matter how hard she tried, struggled, she couldn’t escape.

  Tobacco Chewer wheezed above her as he tried to recuperate from her blow. When he could catch his breath, he let out a litany of profanity so severe it made Margaret blush. When some of his strength returned, he slapped her across the cheek so hard, she tasted blood.

  “Fuckin’ whore!”

  Really? That was definitely one thing she was not. She may have given herself to William, but the alternative had been grim.

  “Please,” she begged. “Don’t rape me.”

  “How the hell do you expect me to do that now?” he hissed. “Damn woman, my balls won’t come out of hidin’ for at least a day.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about or what kind of ball he was referring to. But she didn’t care. It sounded to her that these “balls” were needed to rape a woman and she’d taken care of that. Thank the good Lord.

  “What...what are you going to do with me, then?”

  His face was just above hers, she could see the pain still etched in his features. He spit his tobacco wad to the right of her head, saliva trailing down his chin.

  “You’re no fuckin’ good to me now. I’m going to sell you, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  Sell her? Did it mean what she thought it meant?

  Kneeling, then standing, although somewhat hunched over, he pointed his gun at her.

  “I’ll kill you dead if you so much as think of escaping.” The evil look he gave her backed up the deadly weapon.

  Nodding, she remained quiet. She had a choice, she could submit to this man now and save herself when she had the chance, or die. As she pulled her ripped dress together and settled her skirts about her, he stumbled to his horse and pulled a rope from his saddlebag. Returning to her, he tied her wrists together a bit too tightly for comfort. She was reminded of the Christmas goose the cook prepared every year. After being hoisted up onto his dead cohort’s horse, she took a bit of time to adjust herself in the saddle to get comfortable, bruised backside smarting while Tobacco Chewer held her horse's lead and led her to a fate unknown.

  They rode for several hours before approaching a small town, watching it grow in the distance. It appeared small, a few buildings and houses dotting the flat, green landscape.

  Her whole body ached as she shifted from side to side with the animal’s gait. Hot and tired from riding under the intense sun, her emotions were worn to the quick. Tears came quick to her eyes but she blinked them away, knowing it wouldn’t do her any good. She was going to be sold, unless God gave her a miracle. Crying wouldn’t change that.

  The ropes that bound her had begun to dig into her wrists long hours ago, but she continued to try to wriggle free. Her skin, rubbed raw in places, had become painfully sore. Sweat trickled onto the raw flesh, making it sting all the more. Her fingers had fallen asleep despite her effort to keep flexing them open and closed. But with the town looming closer, and her fate about to change, her numb hands were the least of her problems.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grant Masterson studied his fellow card players as he downed a shot of whiskey in one gulp. It burned a quick path to his belly but it didn’t quiet the pain, the anger that churned there. It was late, he was tired, and he was stuck in a low-life saloon, gambling with men who were the lowest of the low. His night couldn't get any worse.

  Croft didn't spend much of his profits on sprucing up the place. Sawdust coated the floors, blotting up the backwash of tobacco spit and whiskey. The saloon girls had been around one too many times and it showed.

  The room was full. Men from ranches all over the area were drinking their sorrows, or whatever else ailed them, away. And the ladies of the night Croft provided were there to help. The combination was raucous, the sounds of hard drinking, and in one corner that he could see, a little slap and tickle between a
randy ranch hand and a lusty barmaid, threatened to make the headache at the base of his neck even worse.

  “I don’t have enough to cover the bet,” Croft said hastily. The saloon owner rifled through the scant dollars left in front of him.

  “Too bad.” Robert Dalton pulled his gun out from beneath the table. “Bet!” He cocked the weapon and pointed it at Croft.

  Several men watching the game stepped back and found amusement elsewhere. Grant didn’t blame them. Most of these men needed more trouble like a hole in the head. Wishing he could just step away too, enjoy himself, maybe in the arms of a woman who hadn't been more than friendly with every man in a twenty mile radius. There wasn't a soft, desirable woman like that in town. Hadn't been one in years.

  Croft raised his hands. “Now hold on there. I don’t think—”

  Dalton cut him off before he could say more. “You’re right Croft, you don’t think. You listen to me,” he shouted. “I’ve already put more than cash on the line here, damn it. Now ante up!”

  The saloon owner jumped in his seat, startled by the tone.

  “Sheriff, aren’t you gonna do something about this? I’m being threatened in my own saloon!” Croft looked to Grant for help. He shrugged. It might be his job as the keeper of the peace to solve this problem, but Grant had no sympathy, no motivation to help the bastard.

  If Dalton wanted to shoot the mean old coot, it wouldn’t bother him in the least. One less cantankerous lout to deal with in a town full of them. In fact, he might even sleep better if Dalton did. Croft would be dead and Dalton would hang for the crime. Seemed like an easy way to kill two birds with one stone. Grant smiled inwardly at the appealing thought.

  Unfortunately, he had a star pinned to his chest and he had an oath to live up to. No matter how much he didn’t want to abide by it at this particular moment. “Now Croft, I’m sure if you just anted up, Dalton will put his gun away.” It was hard keeping the hatred out of his voice. “Isn’t that right, Dalton?”

  Dalton nodded his agreement, although somewhat reluctantly.

  One small problem solved. After an hour of petty bets, this game had gotten quickly out of hand. The stakes had been raised to a point where Dalton had bet his horse. His horse! The man took better care of horse flesh than he did a woman. His hand must be a sure thing.

  Croft, on the other hand, was stalling. The man was a miser. He probably had more money than God, but wouldn’t part with a dime unless his life depended on it. He lived, ate, breathed the saloon.

  Grant figured he’d have to offer up his own horse as well, to stay in the game. Maybe he should just fold and call it a night. Walking away with his dignity in shreds was much better than walking home without a horse.

  Besides, it wasn’t his style to gamble with more than cold, hard cash. He never bet more than he was willing to lose. This game was a different kettle of fish, though. Dalton was all in, and Grant never backed down where Dalton was concerned.

  The two had been friends once. When they were in nappies and short pants. Not anymore. Now, Grant had made it a consistent goal to see Dalton bested in everything. It was as good a time as any to see the man lose. It warmed his heart thinking of Dalton walking home without his trusted steed.

  “I don’t have anything of value,” Croft said warily, eyes darting between the men.

  Grant chuckled and poured another shot of whiskey from the bottle on the table. Clearly he expected them to buy the flimsy line beneath his cool facade.

  “You think we’re wet behind the ears still, Croft?” Grant asked.

  The saloon owner tapped the ashes from his cigar into an empty whiskey glass.

  “You got the deed to this place?” Dalton placed his gun on the table, ready for action if things didn’t go his way.

  “Now, hold on there a minute! Just because you own every other building in town doesn’t mean you’re gonna get your hands on mine.” Croft pushed back away from the table, chair legs scraping against the wood floor. “I’m not giving up this saloon to you, or anyone else over a...a stupid card game.”

  Dalton didn’t reply, but his cold stare said volumes.

  Croft squirmed in his chair as if he had a snake in his pants. Grant enjoyed this immensely. The man would have to think of something of value, and quick, or his saloon could be a thing of the past.

  “All right, now just wait,” Croft said, stalling to consider his options.

  The man took his sweet time trying to think his way out of his quandary. In the meantime, Grant witnessed a man get punched in the face, knocked unconscious and left sprawled out on the wet, dirty floor. It might be his job to step in, but the man probably deserved it, and he wasn't in the mood. Grant could see Dalton’s patience wearing thin, as was his. It was the first time in years that he probably shared similar emotions with Dalton, something he’d never admit to anyone.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got just the thing. I was hoping to keep her longer than a couple of hours but, hell, I’d rather lose her than the saloon.”

  “What ‘thing’ are you talking about?” Grant asked, tired of listening to the old man’s complaints. Thinking the ‘she’ Croft referred to was some mare, Grant wanted to get this man, and the game, moving so he could fold and be on his way.

  If he wasn't going to be lucky enough to find a woman agreeable to his very lusty needs, his own bed and a good night’s sleep sounded better by the minute. Grant didn’t want to be stuck with an old nag of Croft’s, and he certainly didn’t need to be watching his back for the foreseeable future after winning Dalton’s prized steed. The less he saw of Dalton, the better.

  Grant ran his fingers over his face, wiping some of the exhaustion away. He’d originally come into the saloon looking for leads into the stage robbery. In years past, before he became a lawman, he came in for a game of cards, a drink, and a woman. A man had to sow some oats. Grant had certainly done his share when he was younger. Now, at thirty-two, a brothel wasn’t quite his style anymore, nor were the women Croft provided. He only walked through the doors these days to break up fights and to maintain the peace, especially during the annual cattle drives when rowdiness prevailed on a nightly basis.

  Tonight, he’d hoped some whiskey and a game of cards might loosen some tongues, so he’d pulled a chair up to the table and anted up an hour earlier. In that time, he’d come up dry as a creek bed in a drought. No leads as to who’d perpetrated the robbery that left Bill Cawley dead. It had taken most of the day to bring his friend’s body and four worn horses into town from the overturned stage. Sadly, he’d known Bill his whole life and the old man would be sorely missed.

  The scene of the crime was in such a state, it appeared as if a tornado had struck. Clothing and bags had been strewn around the tipped stage, the horses skittish and edgy. Bill’s dead body made the wreckage all the more grisly. Another body had laid broken on the ground, but to Grant’s expert eye, appeared to be one of the stage robbers. Maybe Bill had been able to get a shot off before he’d been gunned down.

  As Grant had searched through the wreckage, in and out of broken trunks and carpet bags, he’d come upon women’s clothing, but no passengers were found, male or female.

  It had been easy to track horses to and from the area. From the direction of the broken grass, one trail led directly to Cranston. Any man, law-abiding or not, would stop in for a drink after a long day on the trail. Especially after instigating, or surviving, the carnage that had been in front of Grant.

  “I got a new girl today who was with a drifter. She was gonna to be my newest girl, but my saloon is worth much more to me than she is. She goes to the winner of this game. A virgin. Good enough, Dalton?” Croft turned to look at him. “Sheriff?”

  Mean as he was, Croft didn’t see the harm in bargaining with more than horseflesh. Grant shook his head in disgust. What had this card game turned into?

  “Hell, Croft,” Grant complained.

  Croft blustered. “She’s better off with me than the man who had her, Sher
iff. At least here, she gets a roof over her head and a way to earn her keep. Tonight, gentlemen, one of you can sample the goods before anyone else in this town. I’m doing her, and whoever wins, a favor.”

  Grant didn’t buy this harebrained scheme. He wouldn’t put it past Croft to force one of his new girls to act the ‘virgin’ for a night to get out of a sticky poker game. Trust was not something Grant put in many, especially the low-life saloon owner.

  It seemed neither did Dalton.

  “A virgin?” Dalton laughed, a cigar clamped between his teeth. “Come on, Croft. Do you think I’m that stupid?”

  Croft just shook his head. “I don’t rightly care if you believe me or not. One of you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “There’s nothing illegal going on here, is there, Croft?” Of course there was, but as sheriff, he had to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Without any evidence to the contrary, Grant had to let the man play his games, sick as they were.

  Croft looked stunned he’d even suggest such behavior. “Of course not, Sheriff.”

  “I'm not betting on anything I haven't seen, especially a woman. Especially a woman I’m going to take upstairs and bed in a few minutes,” Dalton insisted.

  Cocky bastard. Dalton wasn’t above using and abusing a woman, or even worse, a virgin. Grant knew firsthand how Dalton treated women. Instead of backing out of the game and heading home to bed like he’d wanted, Grant now had to see this woman Croft offered. If she needed protection from the likes of Dalton, it was his job as sheriff to provide it.

  “Fine, fine,” Croft replied. “I understand.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Dalton demanded. “Are you slow or just stupid?”

  That shook the saloon owner into motion. “Jimmy!” Croft shouted. A young man appeared from behind the bar, wiped his hands on a rag and laid it over his shoulder. “Watch my cards while I’m gone.”