Their Reckless Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 11)

The loud report made the sheriff flinch, but it was Father who fell to the ground.

“That’s for giving me to Barton Finch,” I whispered, watching Father writhe as he pressed his hand against the bullet hole in his thigh, the blood seeping around his fingers. He shouted out in pain, swearing, searching for where the shot had come.

I took the moment where Travis stared down at him, stunned and confused at what had just occurred to cock my gun again. It wasn’t hard to aim; Travis was an unmoving target, much larger than an empty whiskey bottle I was used to. Fired.

He fell where he stood.

“And that, Travis, is for being an asshole.”

The sheriff and the other man instinctively crouched to try to make themselves smaller, but went over to Father and Travis, grabbed their weapons so they were no longer a threat.

I hadn’t killed them, but there was no way Father or Travis would hurt the other men now. Ending their lives would be too good for them, too easy. I shot them just as they’d have done to the sheriff and other man. But unlike my family, I’d made sure the wounds I inflicted were survivable injuries, if seen to promptly. We were a few miles from Simms. The sheriff could drag their bleeding bodies back to town to be tended to by the doctor, then hanged. Or, he could leave them to rot. It was his choice. Either way suited me just fine.

Tucking the weapons in the back of their pants, the sheriff and the other man picked up their own guns, whipping about to point them in my direction. Their gazes searched once along the edge of the bluff for the shooter. For me.

Perhaps I was as cruel as my father to leave him and Travis to suffer, but after what he’d done to me? After he gave me to Barton Finch this morning, I had no mercy left. I’d escaped being raped. Barely. I just hadn’t expected revenge to come so quickly. Now, I had it. I stood and adjusted my hat, looked down at the scene one last time, a smile on my face seeing Father and Travis suffer and writhe. Fuck, I should have finished Barton Finch when I had the chance, then all of the Grove gang would be either dead or hanged soon enough.

When the two other men saw me, I stared at them for one brief moment and wondered what it would be like to be theirs, knowing it was never to be.

Two men didn’t want one woman, and I barely behaved like one. I didn’t even own a dress. My hair was long and wild, always in a braid and tucked up beneath my hat to stay out of the way. If that weren’t unappealing enough, there was one thing even worse. I was a Grove.

2

HANK

“WHO THE FUCK WAS THAT?” I said, making my way over to my horse, grabbing hold of the reins. The satchel they’d used to steal the cash was beside them on the ground and I grabbed that, tied it to the saddle bag. I didn’t want anything to happen to all that hard-earned—and easily stolen—money. As for the men…

I was sweating, my heart pounding, realizing how close to death we’d come. It hadn’t been the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But, fuck.

The man, hell, he couldn’t be more than a teenager, had taken down the Grove gang with two bullets. They’d been running wild for years, wreaking havoc, escalating their crimes to include murder. Ours were almost on that list. Except the kid had saved us, and I wanted to talk with him.

The band of thieves and murderers had killed my father, and I’d replaced him as sheriff solely for retribution. To see those fuckers behind bars. Hanged.

And now, with one bullet, then another, two of them were done for. Only one more remained wanted. Now that I didn’t have two guns pointed at me, I could relish the knowledge that they would pay. That they would feel the rough rope about their necks and know they were headed to hell. I wanted to see them behind the bars of a jail cell, but knowing they were bleeding all over the ground was enough for now. They weren’t going anywhere. Not with the wounds they had. Fuck those men. I wanted that kid.

He’d stared down at us, and I’d gone still, frozen as if caught out in a blizzard in January. I’d caught the angle of his jaw, but the rest of his face was in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. His figure was slim beneath the loose shirt and pants, that of a man not grown fully. A gangly youth.

“I have no idea. Not the last member of that fucking group. Too small based on witnesses. All I know is we’re not dead,” Charlie replied, easing his animal away from the water, patting the animal’s sleek neck, then mounting easily. I didn’t have to tell him my intentions; he knew we were going after the kid.

I was completely baffled by my reaction to seeing him standing up on the bluff. My cock had hardened like a fucking fence post. Perhaps it was an instinctive reaction to almost dying… but I’d been close to death before and my dick had never risen to the occasion. Being sheriff wasn’t the safest job; my father’s demise was proof of that. As I thought about it, my cock stand hadn’t happened when we were about to die, only when I stared up at our savior.

When the shot rang out, I sucked in my breath, thinking I’d taken the bullet. But it hadn’t even come from Grove’s gun, but from somewhere above us on the bluff. The location, with the rocky slope behind us, the land turning abruptly so one couldn’t see far, as well as the thick stand of trees was perfect for an ambush. We’d been stupid to ride into it, but we hadn’t been expecting to find the bank robbers this close to town. The fact that they hadn’t been up on the bluff to pick us off only went to their interest in killing face to face. It seemed someone else had already claimed that spot and saved our sorry asses. Thank fuck.

“Hey! Are you going to fucking leave us here?” the elder Grove shouted, his voice now laced with pain instead of cockiness.

I held my horse’s reins taut and looked down at Marcus Grove as he dripped sweat and grimaced in pain. His hand was on his thigh and blood oozed around his fingers. As for his son, he lay a few feet away, feet in the creek. He’d been shot in the gut, although blood stained his side, probably missing all the vital organs. He, too, was perspiring heavily, but he was pale, his breathing ragged. There was no chance either of them could mount their horses, wherever the fuck they were hidden. They would die out here… eventually. Perhaps this was better than waiting to be hanged. Hours of suffering.

I had little sympathy for them. My father had spent the last year of his life hunting those fuckers down. I should just shoot them dead and be done with it, taken them down like a horse with a broken leg. I wasn’t sure if the kid was a bad shot or if he’d actually aimed perfectly. Had he intended on killing or just injuring them? Had he heard what Grove had intended, to leave us for the buzzards? Was this turnabout or had his intention been for them to suffer? Or eventually have them feel nooses about their necks?

Who the fuck was that kid and what had he been doing out here?

I stared down at two of the men who’d driven my every action since my father’s death. Who kept me from the quiet ranch life. They were pitiful. A waste of humanity. And I was leaving them behind. Crazy, I knew, but I had more important things to dea

l with right now.

“Don’t worry, we’ll send help,” I muttered, nudging my horse into motion, not looking back. God might send me to hell, but many people had suffered because of the Grove gang. I didn’t really give a shit they were hurting or bleeding out and I doubted Charlie did either. I might be the sheriff and strive for justice, but seeing them taken down like rabid dogs was justice. My father would have shot them dead. Ironic, as that was how he was killed.

“By morning,” Charlie added with a humorless grin. His money was—had been—in the Simms bank. Before he left England, he’d saved some from his military life, then added to it here, working in a copper mine in Butte, then becoming part owner. He had wealth now, something he’d told me he’d strived for his entire life. It was important to him, only in that his mind was at ease that he would never be without food or shelter. He could survive. We lived at Bridgewater, had a house big enough for the family we’d someday have. But it was our goal to add acreage, raise cattle. Work a ranch of our own. A simple life. Nothing more.