Their Reckless Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 11)

"Whatever that fence post did to you, it sure is sorry now."

The deep voice that came from behind me was such a surprise that I hit my thumb with the hammer. I was a mile from the house when I’d decided to work out some of my frustrations on the fence. The post had had a loose nail and I'd begun to pound it in, continuing to strike even after it was lodged back in the wood. I was still hammering when he caught me unawares.

I sucked in a breath at the searing pain in the tip of my thumb, holding the base of it in my other hand. I let a few less-than-ladylike words slip out as I winced, walking around in a circle.

"Chance Goodman!" I shouted, my anger and pain loud and clear. "You don't sneak up on someone like that."

The man was ten years older than I and lived on the nearest ranch. His parents had died a few years earlier and with much success, he'd taken over the spread, adding more cattle and even studding out his prized bulls. The latter made me flush every time I thought of it, for I knew what happened between a man and a woman—Miss Trudy and Miss Esther were former brothel owners and had given each of us girls a special talk—and I'd always pictured Chance's face in my mind when I imagined such acts. I'd seen one of his bulls and the...the thing that hung down from beneath its belly and it had me wondering what Chance would look like. Would he be large himself? Would he be just as aggressive when he mounted a woman? My nipples always tightened into hard points and I felt slickness between my legs every time I imagined such a scenario.

There was no other man for fifty miles who was so fine a specimen of manhood as Chance Goodman. I'd thought so when I was nine, and I thought the same now at nineteen. His hair was a chocolate brown which he let run toward the overly long. He towered over me; I only came up to his shoulder and made me feel...feminine. There were eight women in the house who cared about ribbons and lace when I was more interested in saddle leather and branding. But Chance often made me wish I'd combed my hair or worn clothing that made me appear more comely, at least in his eyes.

It wasn't his broad shoulders or thickly corded forearms that had my heart pounding whenever I saw him. It wasn't the way a dimple dented his cheek whenever he smiled. It wasn't the strong jaw nor the big hands so much as his dark eyes that attracted me. He was the only person who passed whatever facade I raised to hide my true self. It was as if I were constantly exposed, every emotion and feeling I had was clear as spring water to him. I couldn't hide from him, even when, like now, he stood right before me.

"Here, let me see." He took my hand as I turned toward him. Before I could step away, he lifted it up so he could look at it, then, to my complete and utter surprise, slipped my injured thumb into his mouth. My own mouth fell open in utter surprise. My thumb was in Chance Goodman's mouth...and it felt good. His tongue flicked over the injured tip, sucking on it as if withdrawing the pain as he would venom from a snakebite. His mouth was hot and wet and my finger pulsed—among other places—and it wasn't from the hammer.

"What...what are you doing?" I asked, my words tumbling out in a confused rush. Chance had never even touched me before. He'd given me his linked palms to use as a step to mount a horse, but that was nothing compared to this. The way his dark eyes captured mine as his tongue flicked over my thumb was new. Gentle, possessive, hot. God, this was the most carnal thing I'd ever experienced and it was just my thumb! What would happen to me if he took even greater liberties?

At that enticing and very scary thought, I tugged my hand back. He could easily have kept it, for his strength was so much greater than mine, but he released me of his own choosing.

"Better?" he asked. His voice was deep and rough, reminding me of stones in the river.

I could only nod in response, as I was still flustered.

"I think this is the first time I've made you speechless." The corner of his mouth turned up and his dimple appeared.

I put my hands on my hips, ignoring the pain. "What do you want?" I asked, my tone acerbic.

His gaze raked over my body, assessing. He sighed. "Right now? I want to know what's wrong."

"Besides my thumb?" I held my hand up. "Nothing," I grumbled.

"Rose," he said, his voice raised in that irritating warning tone.

"What? Can't a girl have some secrets?"

His dark eyebrows went up. "Since when do you consider yourself a girl?" He glanced down at the pants I wore instead of the skirt or dress of every other female. The barb stung, for it only validated my earlier insecurities. He didn't think of me as a woman. He thought of me as...Rose. Plain Rose in pants. What man could ever be interested in a woman who'd rather wear pants than ribbons and lace? What man could desire a woman who hammered fence posts?

"Since...." I clamped my mouth shut. "Oh, bother." I turned away from him and stomped off.

"Is Dahlia pestering you again?" he called out. "Or did Marigold eat your breakfast?"

I knew he was toying with me, for he'd never poke fun at the other girls. He was too much of a gentleman. It didn't keep him from poking fun at me. When Miss Trudy and Miss Esther found us girls, orphaned after the great Chicago fire, they hadn't known our names. Why they gave us all names of flowers, I'll never know. Moving to the Montana Territory had been a way for all of us to start over, especially Miss Trudy and Miss Esther. Well off from their years running a big city brothel, they'd wanted a new life and found it outside the town of Clayton. We were infamously known as the Montana wildflowers and were always considered as a group of eight, not as individuals.

"Everyone is the same. Nothing's changed."

"Are you wanting something different then?" He leaned a hip against the battered fence post, relaxed and at ease with himself while offering me his complete attention. I saw his horse in the distance, head lowered and nibbling grass. A bird flew overhead, its wings still as it rode a wind current.

"Something different? Of course I want something different!" I waved my arms in the air as I spoke. "I want to be independent, wild. Free! Not stuck in a house full of women who gab all day long about hairstyles and dress sleeve length. I want to do what Miss Trudy did—strike out and discover a whole new life in a far off land."

He patiently let me vent my spleen. "What do you plan to do?"

"I don't know, Chance, but I'm about to burst out of my own skin. Don't you see? I don't belong here anymore." I lowered my head with that admission, for I felt shame and guilt press heavily on my heart. Miss Trudy and Miss Esther had done so much for me, for all of the girls, and I was tossing all those years, all the love aside. I pressed once again to that spot on my chest as I felt tears well. Lifting my head to the sky, I sniffed and forced the tears back. I didn't cry. I never cried and I was mad at Chance for making me feel this way.

With his long stride, he walked toward me through the tall grass and tilted my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to look at him. My hat fell off my head to dangle by the long cord around my neck. His scent, a mixture of warm skin and pine and leather was something I associated solely with him. "No. You don't belong here anymore."

I couldn't believe that he agreed with me. The one person who I expected to fight for me—my friend—agreed with me. He wanted me to leave. I tore my chin from his hold and stomped over to my horse, quickly mounting. Using the reins to turn the animal, I gave Chance Goodman one last look. It was time to move on; he'd just confirmed that for me. My heart hurt, knowing I'd never see him again. I settled my hat back on my head, gave it a little flick with my finger in farewell and rode off. Not only did the tip of my thumb ache, but also my heart.