The way he slurred his words and stumbled about, I knew Frank was drunk. Again. When he was sober, he ignored me, but when he came home full of rotgut whiskey and angry for losing even more money playing cards, he was downright mean.
He’d hit me only a few times, but more often than not, he’d come in late, drunk and eager to slake his desires with my body. I didn’t want him on top of me again, smelling of cigar smoke, cheap perfume the saloon girls wore and like the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He stumbled up the steps, swearing as he went.
I gripped the frying pan as I stood in the bedroom, waiting.
I wouldn’t hide, nor would I let him touch me. No more.
I saw his dark form in the hallway. It was a clear night and the moon shone brightly through the windows.
“There you are,” he barked. “Where the hell’s the money? It’s not in the jar in the kitchen.”
I stiffened my spine as I took a step toward him. The fact that he was more interested in gambling away our money instead of bedding me was telling. He was most certainly desperate. The frying pan was at my side and he’d yet to see it. It wasn’t the best weapon, but he’d taken the rifle with him into town. I had nothing else for protection besides the pan I used to cook him breakfast.
“I hid it,” I replied. I tried to hide the quaver in my voice, although he was probably too liquored up to hear it anyway.
“I owe Ralph that money. You go get it right now!” He waved his arms about.
I startled, but held my ground. I swallowed, then took a deep breath. “No.”
It was the first time I’d outright refused him. That money was for food, not to be lost in a game of cards.
“What did you just say?” Even in the dark I saw the dark gleam to his eye. “Why, you little—”
I screamed as he came toward me, his arm up, fist clenched and ready to strike. I was ready, too.
I dodged to the side and swung the pan with all my might. It made contact, hard, and I shuddered. The sound of a sickening crack filled the quiet night.
He slumped to the floor and I stood above his form. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing—I couldn’t hear his usual sluggish wheeze. I dropped the frying pan. It hit the floor with a loud thunk beside my bare feet.
I ran into the bedroom and lit the lamp, carrying it back into the hallway. Dropping to my knees, I couldn’t miss the way the side of his skull was bashed in. His eyes, so filled with hatred these past few months, stared blankly straight ahead.
I couldn’t leave him there. The sheriff would know. No one fell down and crushed the side of their head. I had to make it look like an accident, as if he were drunk and fell. The stairs! I pushed him, then recoiled back, at first afraid he would jump up and hit me. No. His eyes were vacant. He was definitely dead. Wincing, I pushed him closer to the stairs. His dead weight—I gagged once, thinking about what I’d done—made the work hard. By the time I had him precariously close to the top step, I was sweating in my nightgown. Resolute, I pushed with a deep groan. Down he tumbled, hitting step by step until he landed in a heap at the bottom.
Bile rose to my throat as I looked down at my dead husband. What had I done? I grabbed the lantern and ran for the bedroom, slammed the door shut.
***
I jerked awake with a gasp. Frank wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming after me. He was dead and buried and I was safe, at least from him. My nightgown was wrapped around me, my skin coated with a cold sweat. I took deep breaths to calm my racing heart. I was safe. I was alone in the house. I shuddered once, twice, remembering the feel of his dead body as I pushed him down the stairs.
Settling myself, I laid back down, pulled the covers up. Sleep wouldn’t come now. I tried to push away the knowledge that I’d killed my husband. It didn’t matter now. Everyone believed the tale I’d told. Why would they think other than what I’d said? Frank was a drunk. Everyone in town knew it. If he fell down the stairs after a night of hard drinking and gambling, who was going to doubt me? The sheriff himself had inspected the body and given me the death certificate with barely a question.
Except Ralph knew the truth. I didn’t know how, but he did. The fear returned, that gnawing worry in my belly. Perhaps he was bluffing, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t risk it. Frank had left me penniless and Ralph was after me for more. I’d offered him anything he wanted from the property; it all belonged to the ranch anyway. He only took the clock to show his power over me, but he wouldn’t relent. He knew it and still expected me to whore myself in trade.
Frank was as little help to me dead as he was alive. At least with him gone, I didn’t have to worry about him coming home drunk and wanting to use my body. I didn’t have to worry about him stealing the food money to gamble away. I’d been saddled to the miserable man for years. Unless I solved the problem about Ralph, I wouldn’t be truly free. He expected payment and come Saturday, I’d be his.
I thought of the families at Bridgewater. Olivia was married to three men. Three! Simon, Cross and Rhys were nothing like Frank. They were kind and caring and confident and they doted and loved on Olivia as if the sun and moon circled about her. They were also very protective and… dominant toward her, but she did not seem to shy away from that as I had from Frank. Just as Mr. Tyler and Mr. Xander had said, she submitted to them.
Did I want to submit to those two men? They offered marriage and all the promises that went with it. But did I want to marry them and let them be controlling and dominant and in charge? Would they be like Frank or like Olivia’s husbands? The possibility of those two taking away my burdens was powerful. I’d been a good wife, a dutiful wife to Frank, but he hadn’t been a worthy husband. Had that been the problem? Ha
d Frank been the problem? Would they ease my concerns? Could they protect me from Ralph?
Of course, they could. I sat up in bed once again, listened to the soft sounds of the night. The men were my only option. If I married them, Ralph would have to leave me alone, to give up. He wouldn’t want to fight Mr. Tyler or Mr. Xander. There was no competition there. I knew from Olivia that they ran a cattle ranch over a day’s ride from Bridgewater. If I married them, perhaps Ralph wouldn’t even know where I’d gone. The men could literally take me away from my problems.
The price, however, would be my freedom. My body. My life. I’d have to give over to them in everything. They’d told me so in very carnal detail. They wanted to fuck me. Just the thought had my body warming. I pushed the sheet off my legs. What would it be like to have two men? Could I handle it? If Olivia could satisfy three men, surely I could meet two men’s needs. Couldn’t I? I wasn’t a virgin, or young. I didn’t know the first thing about any of the carnal things they’d mentioned. What if I wasn’t enough? What if I couldn’t please them?
I groaned. I was thinking in circles. The solution to my problems had stood before me. Two tall, handsome, powerful men. My bedroom abilities were the least of my concerns. I’d wasted an entire day thinking about them. Had they changed their minds? What if they’d found another woman who’d struck their fancy on their way back to town? Were they that dishonorable? I panicked at the possibility. Nothing could happen now in the middle of the night. There was nothing to do except wait until morning, put on my best dress and ride to Bridgewater and find out.
XANDER