The Lawman (Montana Men Book 1) Page 7

  I pushed up on my elbow, aware that the sheet that covered me had slipped down to expose my breasts.

  "I'm not telling. You can wonder all day."

  His gaze was not to be torn from my nipples. In fact, he appeared quite enthralled by them. "And you can wonder if you'll have your ass spanked before I fuck you or while I'm fucking you for your impudence." With that, he gave a nipple a little tug, then turned and left.

  I wasn't sure who was more aroused at the moment; he couldn't hide the bulge in his pants at his departure and I couldn't deny how wet I'd become from just the briefest of touches on my nipple.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ryder

  I dealt with Robert Dray, who cried like the little boy he was before I even shut the cell door behind him. Needless to say, he learned his lesson about petty larceny swiftly and I doubted I'd have any more problems with him, at least until he was old enough to shave. By then, the consequences would be greater and the duration behind bars would be lengthier.

  By the time I reached the Todd ranch, the missing cattle had been found, so I was offered to share their lunchtime meal. In order to be hospitable, I couldn't refuse, even though I wanted to get back to Ellie as quickly as I could. I was confident she could adjust to life in August Point, and it was important that the transition was a smooth one. I didn't need to be married long to know a happy wife meant I was happy, too.

  She hadn't shared the exact reasons behind her registration with Mrs. Bidwell. She'd clearly been a virgin when I took her the first time, so her virtue hadn't been in question. She was refined, well educated and an exceptional prize for the man who claimed her. As that was me, I didn't want to think about a man who might have had her instead. Ellie had spoken of a suitor and her disinterest in his courting. The only likely explanation was that her interest in being a mail order bride was associated with that, but how? Why? In time, my bride would share.

  On the ride back into town, I realized I was smitten. Not only was she beautiful, she was passionate in bed, willful and fiery as predicted, some people said, by the color of her hair. For the first time, I was able to look to the future, one of my own making instead of a life on the family ranch as I'd been expected to run. Taking the step to branch out, I'd broken with tradition. Marrying Ellie was also divergent, as a homegrown bride would suit most men. I didn't want to settle. Not in profession and not in love.

  Love. Did I feel love for Ellie? Fondness, yes. Devotion, definitely. Possession, absolutely. She was mine and soon, she'd swell with my child. A little girl with curly red hair, or a boy with a stubborn streak a mile wide.

  After leaving my horse with Mr. Leudke, I walked back to the jail. Murphy called out to me as he stepped out of the restaurant two doors down. The other man was just a year younger than I. We'd grown up together, although I'd lived on the family ranch, and Murphy lived in town as his father ran the Mercantile. As such, we were good friends. He approached and held a letter out to me. "The stage came through, and this was left for you."

  I took it, glanced at the travel worn paper. Minneapolis. "Thanks."

  He left me to open the letter alone. It was from Mrs. Bidwell.

  Dear Mr. Graves,

  I hope this letter finds you happy with your new bride. I endeavored to find just the right woman to meet your needs, as well as for Mr. Blake. While I felt confident that the women met your personal specifications with regards to appearance, personality and proclivities, it is often difficult to ascertain their reasoning behind becoming a mail order bride. In the case of the other women sent to the Montana Territory, their histories were readily available. As for Miss Adams, however, some new information has come to light that I felt vital to share with you with immediate haste.

  Miss Adams had said she'd been courted by a local man, and a match did not come. Her reasons seemed sound, and a frequent tale of women I meet. A Mr. Allen Simmons, who is part of a very influential and prestigious Minneapolis family, has not been seen at the usual functions as mentioned in the society pages. While this is nothing in of itself, it did mention his attentions had been affixed to a woman by the name of Ellen Oldsmere who has gone missing. A woman with striking red hair.

  Shit. What had Ellie gotten herself into? I looked around me, at the small town of August Point. Life was so utterly different than in a big city like Minneapolis, yet men were men and red haired women were few and far between.

  On Saturday past, Mr. Simmons arrived to partake in the services of my girls at the brothel. Upon quick observation, he had a large gash on the side of his face that appeared to run into his hairline as well as a black eye. He explained away the injuries as a fall from his horse and hit his head upon a rock.

  This combination of details had me seeking the truth. I have ascertained the following: Your bride is not Eleanor Adams, but Ellen Oldsmere. An event occurred between her and Mr. Simmons for him to receive the injuries I mentioned. She took a new name and has fled the city, with my assistance, out of fear for either what she did or the repercussions.

  Regardless of her actions, Miss Oldsmere still is my choice for your bride. I have no doubts she is the perfect match for you. What you do with this information is at your discretion, however I felt it my professional, and personal, responsibility to share it with you.

  Respectfully,

  Mrs. Bidwell

  It appeared my wife was not who she claimed. In fact, it appeared she was not legally my wife.

  Ellen

  Carrying a basket as I walked down the main thoroughfare to the Mercantile, I found myself being stopped frequently by those I'd met at church, or by those who had not had the opportunity, but took one now. I felt content and happy, something that had been missing for a long time. The deaths of my parents had been the catalyst for the change, culminating in Allen's death. This entire time, I'd felt alone. Now, I belonged. It wasn't just Ryder who gave me that level of comfort, but everyone in August Point. Almost everyone. The fear, that heavy weight that I carried, was lifting as well.

  Entering the Mercantile, I approached the counter and asked the man for two pounds of coffee, knowing our coffer was close to empty. After the introductions, I realized this was Mr. Murphy senior. He and his son had similar builds, similar features, and beyond the graying of hair and a few wrinkles, they were clearly father and son.

  "Hello, Eleanor."

  I turned at the sound of my name. Myrna. I pasted on a smile as I could tell from her fake one that she did not approach me out of friendship like the others in town had.

  "Good morning, Myrna," I replied.

  "It will never work," she said.

  I glanced around the store. We were alone, as Mr. Murphy had to retrieve the coffee from the back room.

  "What won't work?" I asked.

  Her gaze raked over me. "Your marriage. I mean, look at you." Her voice was taunting and petty. "I can only imagine the reason for your departure from Minnesota."

  She couldn't guess as to the real reason. I wasn't egotistical to think I was important enough for news of my incident to reach Myrna. She was insinuating something else entirely.

  "And what might that be?" I looked at her haughtily. I was married to Ryder. It didn't matter what she thought of me, he was still mine.

  "Clearly your moral turpitude had gotten the best of you." She looked down her nose at me. If she'd stop her frowning and negative nature, she'd be quite pretty.

  "Moral turpitude?"

  "There are names for women like you." She sniffed. "Harlot, slattern."

  "Oh, don't forget ‘whore,’" I added.

  Her mouth fell open as I agreed with her instead of fighting. The only way to please her would be if I waved from a departing stage.

  "Well, it must be true then."

  I shrugged. "You are going to believe what you wish of me, Myrna. You could just ask me outright my reasons for leaving Minneapolis, or you could listen to the talk that's spreading around town. Instead, you are making suppositions."

  "T
hen I'm thrilled to have discovered Ryder's true nature before I married him. I would not wanted to have subjected myself to a man that lowers himself to a whore's lifestyle."

  Now I was getting mad. It was one thing to toss slurs and insults at me, another altogether to speak poorly of Ryder. I took a step closer to her, using my few inches I had over her to loom. "Are you insinuating that Mr. Graves -" I enunciated his name clearly to indicate she did not have free license to partake of his surname - "has less than scrupulous standards?"

  "He's with you, isn't he? A man with such base needs can't be trusted. In fact, I question his ability to protect our community."

  The woman was so angry to have lost Ryder to me - to anyone, really - that she was speaking without thinking. Even knowing this, it did not condone her words. And my anger toward her did not condone my next action, but there was no choice. She'd slandered my husband. "You can say whatever you wish about me, Miss Flanders, but you may not talk like that about my husband."

  So I punched her in the nose.

  She screamed, her hands flying up to cover her bleeding face.

  Mr. Murphy came running out of the back to see me standing directly in front of a weeping and bleeding Myrna Flanders. His mouth was pinched into a thin line, but he said nothing. Handing a clean handkerchief to Myrna, he helped her to sit on a stool, clucking over her.

  I shook out my wrist - that had hurt! - and picked up the brown parcel he'd brought from the back with him. "Thank you, Mr. Murphy. Please put the coffee on my husband's account." There was nothing I could do but leave. Word of my actions would spread across town faster than I could walk the distance home. At this moment, I didn't rightly care. I'd defended what was mine, just as much as Ryder had when he’d pulled me clear of Baxter’s threat. I knew then I'd do anything for the man, even telling him the truth about my past, about what I did, because I loved him. He deserved to know who he was really married to. I just had to hope he loved me enough in return to understand.

  Ryder

  When I returned home, I was livid Ellie wasn't there. At first. Then I realized it was better this way. I needed time to calm down, to be prepared to question her and listen rationally and with a clear head. When she did return, basket in hand, I was ready.

  Placing the basket on the table, she smiled. "I realize I must be truthful with you and tell you something - " Her smile and her voice faltered when she looked at me. "What's the matter?"

  I sat at the end of the table, my hands in my lap. "I know what you did."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "News travels fast." She pulled out a chair and sat across from me, her posture straight, her chin up.

  So she had hit the man. What was his name? Simms? Simmons.

  "Yes, it can certainly follow you. Did you do it on purpose?" My tone was even. Flat.

  "Yes."

  "You're married to a lawman and should very well know the difference from right and wrong."

  "Sometimes you do the wrong thing when you don't have a choice," she replied, her look even as she sat down. She wasn't fidgeting, sweating, crying, pleading. Nothing. Was she cold hearted and I was blinded by lust and didn't see it?

  "Ellie, you still have to face the consequences."

  Her mouth fell open. "You're going to put me in jail?"

  I sighed. I felt like my heart was ripping out of my chest. I paused, even my thoughts. My heart was ripping out of my chest. How could I be in love with this cold-hearted woman across the table from me? Tightening my jaw, and my resolve, I knew the truth. I was. I was in love with Ellie. "I want to know the truth. Every bit of it. Then we'll see."

  "Very well." She placed her hands on top of the table, folded them. "I hit her, but she deserved it. I know I shouldn't have, but she had it coming with those insults and - "

  I held up my hand, halting her words. What had she said? Her? "Who are you talking about?"

  She frowned. "Myrna Flanders."

  "You hit Myrna Flanders?" I asked, stunned.

  "Well, yes. She was saying bad things about you and I couldn't let her continue so I -" She was waving her hands around in the air to accompany her litany.

  "Myrna Flanders?" I repeated. What did Myrna Flanders have to do with the man in Minneapolis?

  She paused, just stared at me, clearly as confused as I was. "Who are you speaking of?"

  "Allen Simmons."

  All color seeped from her face so that her red hair was so intensely vibrant. She licked her lips. "How...?"

  I held up the crinkled letter, tossed it across the table to land in front of her. With trembling fingers, she picked it up, opened it. I remained silent as she read, gauging the emotions flickering across her face.

  Her head shot up. "He's not dead!"

  I frowned. "You thought you killed him?"

  "Yes." Ellie started to cry. Cry wasn't the right term. She was sobbing, one hand raised to cover her mouth.

  She was crying out of relief and pain and I wanted to go to her, grab her up and comfort her. I could only imagine what the bastard had done to her to have her hit him. From the wound Mrs. Bidwell described, she'd hit him with something pretty hefty and with quite a bit of force. Thinking she'd killed a man, she'd fled, changed her name and accepted marriage to a stranger just so she could stay safe. If the man were as well connected as the letter said, she would have been tried and convicted for the death.

  She'd gotten off the stage thinking she was a murderer married to a lawman!

  Comfort could not come now. Only the truth. Once her crying subsided into sniffles, I passed her a handkerchief from my pocket. Only when she used it to wipe her eyes did I push her. "Tell me, Ellie. Tell me everything."

  She glanced up at me with panicked, watery eyes. "What I told you was true. I was being courted by Allen Simmons. He was...is...rich, well connected and very eligible. He, for some reason, set his sights on me. For a few months, he took me to parties, dinner, walks. Always the perfect gentleman. Until one day in my back garden, he...pushed his advances."

  "He tried to rape you." I said it for her.

  She gave a small nod. "Yes. He had me down on the ground and I struggled, finding a rock that was part of the edging of the flowerbed. His hand went up beneath my skirt and I hit him. Hard."

  A shiver went through her. My hands fisted in my lap at her words. The man had intended to rape her and he was still alive. She might be glad he wasn't dead, but I didn't feel the same.

  "So you fled."

  "I wouldn't have been able to explain what happened. No one would have believed me." She pointed to her hair. "You'd be surprised what ridiculous things people have said, still say to me because of the color of my hair. Temptress, siren, Jezebel. The Simmons family is well connected enough to have had the police pinning the actions of the man onto me, painting me with a false brush."

  "How did you end up with Mrs. Bidwell?"

  "I saw an advertisement in the paper a few months beforehand and remembered it. I couldn't think of anything else. I had little money, certainly not enough to leave the city to such an extent where the Simmons family wouldn't find me, nor have people hear about the...murder." She gulped as she said the last. "My red hair would have made me very conspicuous wherever I went."

  I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the wood floor. She jumped at my actions. I was too wound up to sit. She looked up at me with a tearful, fearful face.

  "Were you ever going to tell me?"

  "That I thought I was a murderer?"

  I nodded.

  She stood too, came toward me, but stopped. "Yes! That's what I was beginning to say when I came in. I realized that what we shared, even in such a short time, deserved honesty. I didn't mean to kill him. Truly."

  "You saw what I do to murderers." My voice was cold.

  Her eyes widened. "You mean Baxter. Yes, I know your feelings toward people who commit such horrible crimes."

  "He was going to hang, Ellie."

  She swayed at the possibility of a simila
r fate, but settled. "Yes. I know. Are you...are you going to send me back?"

  "To Minneapolis?"

  Nodding, she swallowed, took a deep breath. "Yes. You shouldn't have to be with a woman who puts shame to your job, to everything you believe in. Or are you going to put me in jail?"

  It was my turn to take a deep breath. She didn't think she was worthy of me? She considered herself of the same ilk as Baxter? The woman was crazy if she thought that. Even more so if she thought I thought that.

  I went over to my gun belt, hung on a peg by the door and pulled off a pair of handcuffs. The hard metal was cool in my hand as I approached her, tears streamed down her face, but she lifted her chin and looked me squarely in the eye. So fierce.

  "Hold out your hands."

  She did with full compliance, yet she jumped as the final click of the metal was secured about her wrist. Leading her over to the door, I lifted her hands above her head and placed the chain of the handcuffs over a peg high on the wall I used for my hat. She faced the wall, her arms up far enough where she wasn't flat on her feet. She was trapped.

  "Ryder, what are you doing?" she screeched, shifting her hips to free herself. With the height and angle of the peg, she was truly caught. And at my mercy.

  I moved up close so she could feel the full length of me. The way she shifted and struggled had me rock hard. There was no question she felt my cock against the seam of her ass.

  "Do you truly believe I would arrest you for murder?"

  Her silky hair brushed against my chin as she nodded. "I thought I killed him."

  I reached around and started undoing the buttons at the front of her blouse.

  "But you were going to tell me anyway," I said, her bodice opening little by little.

  "It's who you are, Ryder. I couldn't let you fall in lo...I mean, be married to a woman who was everything you despised." She looked down at my hands, confused in her agitation. "What...what are you doing?"

  The blouse wouldn't come off with her arms caught above her head, but I wanted to see the top swells of her breasts. I undid the button of her skirt, pushed it over her hips and to the floor.