Their Reckless Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 11)

his shoulders brought up his rank body odor. My nose wrinkled, but I didn’t move. I didn’t dare.

“Seems to me I’ll have to make a little visit to Bridgewater. Late at night.” His hand settled on the butt of his gun at his hip. “Maybe I’ll do a little shooting of my own.”

My biggest problem now wasn’t being raped by him. He was now a danger to those who had taken me in, become instant friends. They’d made me one of their own unconditionally.

But there was a condition. They wouldn’t want me if I were an outlaw and Barton Finch was forcing me to it. But I would rather them all hate me than see them hurt.

“When and where?” I asked.

He grinned again. “Like I said, smart woman. Carver City Bank. Noon tomorrow. After, you’ll come to my cabin. We’ll spend the night getting to know each other.”

I didn’t say a word. The idea of being in his company now, let alone spending the night with him made me nauseated.

“You and I are going to get along just fine. Don’t worry, I won’t mind a broken in pussy, but I bet that ass is virgin. I’ll take it and make it mine. Since you kneed me in the balls yesterday, I’ll be sure to tie you up nice and good before I get on you. That way I can take my time with you.” His hand came up and he grabbed my breast. I didn’t move, but I did flinch, for his hold was rough, painful. Nothing like the way Hank had touched me the day before. I stepped back.

Lightning quick, he gripped my wrist and I tugged, trying to pull it free.

“Fight me. I like it,” he growled.

I stilled, pursed my lips and tried to slow my breathing, to calm myself.

“Carver City Bank. Tomorrow. Don’t show, I know where to find you. You decide to give your men the proverbial knee to the balls and get on the nearest stage out of town, I’ll still kill them.”

“And if I tell the sheriff?” I hissed.

“Tell that sheriff husband of yours everything. You’ll end up in jail beside your father and brother. Those at Bridgewater will still end up dead.” He pulled his gun out, checked to see if it was loaded, then put it back in the holster, which had me wishing I’d stolen every weapon the man owned. “Or don’t tell him. Fuck, I wish I could see his face when he finds out his soon-to-be wife is an outlaw. Happy wedding day.”

He turned around and walked away, laughing.

I had no idea how long I stood there, staring at nothing. Thinking. Trying not to cry.

I wouldn’t do anything to get those at Bridgewater hurt. Barton Finch didn’t toss out empty threats. I couldn’t tell Hank or Charlie about this. I was going to the gallows no matter what I did, but I’d see them alive and safe. I’d saved their lives once; I’d save them again.

I had until tomorrow. Between now and then, the time was mine. My life was mine. I could be who I wanted. I could be married, to two men. I would try to forget everything else and enjoy one day as a wife, one day where everything was right in my world. Where everything was good. I had one day to be happy, then it would be over.

I’d no longer be Grace Grove. I’d be Grace Pine and though not legally, I’d also be the sheriff’s wife. Then… I’d become what I’d always vowed never to be… an outlaw.

Soon to be dead.

10

C HARLIE

“FUCK ME,” I whispered, standing beneath the tall cottonwood tree outside of Kane, Ian and Emma’s house. Hank was beside me, both of us in our Sunday best of black suits, white shirts, vests and ties. While we were in the shade, the sun was warm, but I barely noticed. Grace was all I could see as she walked toward us, escorted by Robert.

My cock, which had been semi-hard all day, went instantly hard at the sight of her in a pale pink dress that fit her like a glove. It was the first time—besides her being naked—we’d seen her curves. There was lace edging at the high neckline and at her wrists, making her appear almost dainty. With her hair pulled back, not in a braid, but in a bun at the nape of her neck, she was a vision. She was Grace, but at the same time, a different person entirely. I didn’t care what she wore, or hell, if she wore anything at all. It was the perfect female beneath the pink fabric and lace I would marry.

She glanced at us, both of us, with a tremulous smile. I realized then, she was nervous, not to wed us—well, perhaps that, too—but about her clothing. She’d said she had never worn a dress before.

I couldn’t help but smile back. Beam, even. Fuck, if those bloody bastards who ran the orphanage could see me now. They’d told me I’d never amount to anything, that I was worthless. I might now be a simple rancher, but I had everything I ever wanted walking toward me.

She was the woman I’d always wanted but had been waiting for. She was the start of the family of which I’d dreamed. She was what I’d worked my bloody fingers to the bone for in those wretched copper mines. She was the sun and the moon and I was the stars. Shakespeare had it bloody right.

When her eyes met mine, I let her know with a look alone that I was ready for this. For her. I was ready to marry her and make her mine. Yes, we’d claimed her, but God and everyone at Bridgewater would know she was mine forever. She’d take my name. She’d be Mrs. Charles Pine.

Fuck me.

Her hand came up, her fingers playing with the lace at her neck. I was proud of her, doing something so profoundly different. For us. It made my heart pound, my palms sweat, to know that she put in such an effort, even at an emotional risk for herself, to do so.