The Cowboy (Montana Men Book 2)

  The Cowboy

  Montana Men, Book II

  By

  Vanessa Vale

  ©2015 by Blushing Books® and Vanessa Vale

  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.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Vale, Vanessa

  The Cowboy: Montana Men, Book II

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-768-4

  Cover Design 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.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Twelve

  About Vanessa Vale

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  CHAPTER ONE

  EMILY

  The sway of the coach should have lulled me to sleep, especially with the heat of the day making the small space stifling. The flaps on two of the windows were open to fresh air, but the continuous stirring of dust from the large wheels had us considering the heat the lesser of two evils. Caroline, my remaining travel companion, was asleep, her head tilted back as she leaned into the corner, her small mouth open. The never-ending boredom had my mind restless. I was too nervous to rest, my hands pressed tightly together in my lap, as if I could hold myself down. I wanted to jump out of the stage and run in the opposite direction, but there was nothing but endless prairie for miles and miles around. The Montana Territory was not a place to roam alone, without a weapon, food or any kind of means of survival. The question was, when I met my husband at the next stop, would he be worse?

  At Mrs. Bidwell's offer, I'd agreed to be a mail order bride, instead of just surviving off the good graces of others. I'd been left at the back door of my aunt's brothel one morning at the age of thirteen by my mother. I never knew I had an aunt, divorced from the family as she was by her profession. My parents had been poor and with seven children, not enough of anything to go around. My father, a cruel and abusive man, decided I could provide for the family since I'd developed womanly curves at a very early age. He dragged me the ten blocks to his sister, since the purpose for the visit suited him and offered him financial gain. He offered me to her, for money, and threatened to take me elsewhere if she declined, telling her I was quite the commodity.

  I was young, but I remembered the encounter quite vividly, for it was the moment when my life changed. Aunt Trina was much kinder than my father and paid him for me without question, for the sole reason of making him go away. When I was settled at the kitchen table with the first real breakfast of my short life, Aunt Trina had told me that I would need to learn my letters and numbers in order to be a proper lady someday. For the first time, I felt safe.

  Six years later, I was still at the brothel, with Aunt Trina watching me like a hawk. I was kept hidden as best as possible, but men began asking after the girl and I knew to be careful. I was wary, but became restless, ready to find a life of my own. When Mrs. Bidwell - a longtime friend of Aunt Trina's who I'd known for many a year - approached me with the prospect of my becoming a mail order bride, both Aunt Trina and I both agreed this would be the life I'd been waiting for.

  The coach hit a deep rut and I was pulled from my thoughts. I missed Aunt Trina; she was more a mother to me than my real one, and I owed her my life. What would have happened to me if I'd stayed with my parents was unknown, or if my father had sold me to another madam? I was certain it would not have been good. But what of my husband? Would he be like my father - cruel and tied more more to the bottle than his family? Would he be old? Most importantly, what would he do when he discovered the truth about me? Surely there wasn't a brothel out on the open prairie, so would he be so disappointed in his new bride as to force me out to survive on my own?

  "Lewistown!" The driver's voice was loud, even over the horses' hooves and the rattle of the coach.

  I took a deep breath and swallowed down my nerves. People spoke of getting butterflies in their stomachs when apprehensive, but this sensation of panic was more like a carpenter's vise about my chest. My heart beat frantically, each pounding thud loud in my ears. My breath was ragged, and the heat had become overwhelming.

  As Caroline stirred in her corner, I tossed the flaps up on my side of the stage, leaning out to gulp in the cooler air, the dust all but forgotten.

  The town was bigger than August Point where we'd left Eleanor two hours earlier, yet nothing but a blot on a green landscape in comparison to Minneapolis. The air was fresh, the colors verdant and bright.

  "I'm sorry, Emily, I fell asleep on you," Caroline replied. Her voice was as soft and dainty as she was. Her hair was a soft pale yellow, her dress a pretty blue that accentuated the color in her eyes. Her hair was perfect; not a pin or curl was out of place, even after hours in the stage. She didn't even look overheated. How she could look so...perfect while I felt like I was coming apart, like a dress at the seams when too small? One look in the stage and my husband would want Caroline instead of me. Hands down, she was more beautiful, more poised, more...everything.

  And yet, I was the one to whom Wyatt Blake was married. Even though he hadn't met me and knew nothing about me, I was his. I thought of this as the stage came to a jolting stop and a man approached and opened the door.

  Lifting a hand to my hair, I tried to smooth back my thick locks, but it was of no use. Hair clung to my brow and my nape in a most unladylike fashion. The curls were rioting and out of control, as usual.

  "Miss Winston?"

  The sun was directly at the man's back allowing Caroline and I to only see him in silhouette. His shape was of a behemoth. He was tall, his body filling most of the doorway. Wide shoulders would require him to turn sideways to enter.

  "Yes," I replied, finally finding my voice.

  This was my husband and yet I couldn't see him well enough to discern his face. What I could see was his hand that reached in, big and work worn. He stood silently waiting for me to take it. I glanced at Caroline, who nodded her head, a small smile about her lips.

  Ignoring my pounding heart, I placed my hand in his. The size difference was immediately apparent when he closed his fingers, so large in comparison to mine. His skin was warm. Rough callouses were across his palm, yet his hold was gentle. He stepped back and helped me down from the stage where I was able to see him for the first time.

  Even with the sun shining, the air was cooler than in the stage. A slight breeze blew through my hair. He raised his hand and brushed my hair back from my face. Tilting my head back, I looked at Mr. Wyatt Blake for the first time.

  His hair was as dark as my own, yet straighter than my curly hair, and it fell long over his forehead. He had a strong brow, long nose, and a wide jaw. His eyes were a soft hazel, similar in color to his shirt. If
he were a woman, I'd assume he'd chosen the color to enhance this feature, but Mr. Blake did not seem one to consider such frivolous notions. My eyes were drawn to his mouth as the corner tipped up in a knowing smile, well aware he was being assessed.

  I blushed hotly at being caught, but there was nothing to be done about it. I'd been waiting for this moment for over six weeks, when I first agreed I would be matched with a man in the Montana Territory.

  "You are Emily Winston?" His voice was deep and raspy, yet kind. "I want to make sure the proper woman has disembarked."

  I could only nod, yet when he smiled, showing off straight white teeth and little creases that formed at the corners of his eyes, I let some of my doubts slip away and offered a soft smile in return.

  Caroline leaned out the doorway and watched us curiously. It had been easier watching Eleanor leave us at the previous stop, knowing that I wasn't the one meeting my destiny. But now, it was my turn and Caroline once again felt the reprieve.

  Mr. McCallister dropped my satchel unceremoniously at my feet and headed with a grunt of farewell toward the front of the stage, climbing up to sit in his perch high on top.

  "Don't think of heading out with this young lady hanging out as she is," Mr. Blake called out to the man as he rubbed his fingertips over the brim of the hat he held. He pinned me with his gaze.

  Awareness of what happened the last time had Caroline ducking back into the empty space; the man had pulled away with the door barely latched as she called out her goodbyes. I offered a farewell of my own and Mr. Blake raised his hand ushering the driver to proceed. Once the sounds of pounding of hooves and rattling wood left us in their wake, we were quite alone. I looked up at Mr. Blake through my lashes, catching him regarding me closely.

  "Well, Emily, I hope you are as pleased with your new husband as much as I am with my wife."

  I turned to face him fully. "I've only said one word to you, so I am unsure of how you can make such a quick opinion."

  His dark brow rose in surprise, but his smile remained. "Well, I'll have you know, 'yes' was the one word I longed to hear from your lips." He leaned in close to whisper in my ear, even though there was no one about. "Especially if it is said breathlessly and with an accompanying sigh of pleasure."

  At his forward talk, I stepped back, yet was met with a smile this time that was much more playful, and a promise of his intentions. I couldn't hold him off forever; what new husband would stand for it? But delaying long enough to at least have a decent meal in my belly would help. Once he discovered the truth, I didn't want to be left to fend for myself on an empty stomach.

  He cleared his throat, filling the silence between us. "My buckboard is nearby and the ride to the ranch is an hour. Are you prepared for another journey?"

  He looked at me with such concern that I felt poorly for even considering he would abandon me for the secrets I carried, but I had to be realistic. Perhaps being a distance from town would be to my advantage. "Yes, of course," I replied.

  He picked up my satchel, then, with one hand at my elbow, led me to his buckboard. After putting my bag in the back with coils of barbed wire, he helped me up. Going around, he joined me, the seat dipping beneath his heavy weight. Clucking his tongue to the horse, he took us out of town.

  There was one main thoroughfare with several offshoots and buildings here were made of wood just as in August Point, only there were more of them. It was later in the afternoon, but people were going about their day. Mr. Blake tipped his hat on occasion to people we passed, and I asked him about them, the town, his ranch. In my nervousness, and perhaps with a dollop of sheer curiosity, I maintained a healthy stream of chatter.

  "Inquisitive, aren't you?" he replied humorously, and answered my questions one at a time.

  It wasn't until the town was well behind us that Mr. Blake pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon, the horse snorting and blowing at the delay. I looked over at him in question and opened my mouth to speak, but he silenced me with a kiss. Not a simple peck, but an assault on my senses. It was my first kiss and it was nothing as I'd imagined. I expected cold lips pressing against mine, a mere brushing and then gone. Mr. Blake, it seemed, was not a man to do things in half measure. At first, yes, his lips brushed over mine, but they were warm and gentle, but only briefly. His tongue plunged into my mouth at my surprised gasp and I tasted him, minty, as if he'd eaten a peppermint candy from the mercantile, with a hint of something else. Something manly and dark that promised my every carnal desire would be met.

  I didn't know how long we kissed, but when he pulled back, my fingers - to my surprise - were tangled in his silky hair at his nape. I moaned low in my throat at his retreat, which had me blushing. Or perhaps it was the carnality of it that did that. The kiss had bumped his hat askew and he righted it.

  "Now I know how to quiet you," he replied, his voice rough.

  My blood was heated, moving thickly through my veins. My nipples had tightened beneath my corset; even the softest of fabrics was abrasive against the now tender tips. I had not known them to respond in such a fashion before. How strange, yet tantalizing. And further down, between my legs, I was wet. I knew what happened to a woman when aroused. I'd lived in a brothel for six years, but this was the first time I'd experienced any of the activities I'd heard about, and the neediness that accompanied it.

  My own fingers in the dark - or playing with items that had been delivered for the girls yet I'd snuck away for my own use – had never made me feel this way. With a man, with Wyatt, it was so much more intense, so much more....more. It didn't matter, however. If I lived with whores and tried some of the tools of the trade and found pleasure in them, there was no question I was one. But neither was I a typical virgin.

  "I've been wanting to do that for weeks, even before I knew who you were. I've longed to be able to kiss my wife, looked forward to taking liberties with her--I still am, for all that--when I didn't even know your name."

  The flush of pleasure at his words had me glowing brightly, as if a candle lit me from the inside. I clenched my thighs together in certain anticipation and to ease the ache. "You received word, obviously, of my arrival," I stated, my breathing uneven. He wouldn't have been waiting for the stage if he had not anticipated me.

  "I did. Just the expected date of the stage and your name."

  "Mrs. Bidwell assured me that you were the perfect choice for me," I confided, shifting some of the weight of becoming his bride onto the decisions of another.

  He grinned rakishly, no doubt using that as a weapon against a lady's defenses to take liberties. It was most assuredly working on me. His handsomeness was overwhelming really. How had he remained unmarried for so long? And why?

  "And do you agree with her?" he asked.

  I licked my lips. Mr. Blake's eyes dropped to my mouth as I did so, his eyes widening briefly. "I...I don't even know you."

  Turning forward, he flicked the reins and we were moving once again. "Let's remedy that. Once we get to the ranch, we'll get to know each other very well."

  CHAPTER TWO

  WYATT

  As we stepped through the front door, I expressed general concern for her wellbeing. But it was banal words in comparison to my thoughts. I desperately wanted to fuck her on the kitchen table, or on a bed, or against the wall, but I could only claim her as I wanted after I’d made sure she was well following her journey. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, although that courtesy was tenuous at best.

  She stood just inside the door, looking to her left into my office, to the right into the living area and tilted her chin back to look up the wide staircase leading to the second floor. Her eyes were wide, curious. Glancing at me sideways through lovely, long lashes, she replied, "I am rather hungry."

  Was she being intentionally alluring and pulled in by her siren's song, or was it genuine naiveté that I found so endearing? I was hungry too, but not for the same thing.

  Leaving her bag by the door, I led her down the hallway to the kitchen at
the back of the house. My ranch wasn't small; it was one of the largest in the area. With over a thousand head of cattle, I had ranch hands and a foreman to keep the operations running smoothly. The house I'd built was large, especially so for just me, but with the addition of Emily and perhaps children, it would be filled as I'd originally planned.

  I made ready a simple meal - cold meat, bread and butter, cheese, apples and a jug of water. I sat across from her at the kitchen table as I watched her eat, my legs outstretched and my arms over my chest. Her posture was straight, her shoulders back, which of course had me noticing the lovely curve of her breasts. She had exceptional table manners, but – unfortunately – ate very slowly.

  "In the morning, I'll show you where everything is kept for you to make breakfast," I told her.

  With a forkful of ham halfway to her mouth, Emily paused and looked at me expectantly. "Breakfast?"

  "The hands eat in the bunkhouse, so it's only me you'll have to serve."

  She chewed her food and said nothing on the topic. Her posture was so erect I worried her spine might snap, her manners dainty and foreign to someone like me who was used to bachelor ways. "Oh, I forgot. I have a letter for you from Mrs. Bidwell."

  She picked up her reticule she'd placed on the table beside her and pulled out the travel worn envelope. I took it from her, but didn't read it.

  "Don't you wish to read it?" she asked.

  I shook my head, watching her throat move as she swallowed. "I'd rather focus on you right now."

  I wasn't lying; I was anxious for her to be done and did not want the woman's missive to cause any delay. What was written there had waited several weeks to get to me. A few more hours would be of no consequence.

  After drinking from her cup, then wiping her mouth on her napkin, she placed it beside her plate. Finally. I stood, my chair legs scraping against the wood floor.