Their Reckless Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 11)

“Grace, no,” I said and approached.

“He deserves to die,” she countered, not looking away from the fucker.

“He does, and he will. But not by your hand.”

She didn’t need that in her mind. I knew what it felt like to kill, even a worthless piece of shit like Finch. It lingered. It wouldn’t go away. Ever.

“Just like your father and brother. You shot them because of what they did to you, because they were going to kill us, but you didn’t kill them.”

“They’ll be hanged?” she asked.

“No question.”

“And him?” She didn’t lower her weapon, still intent to finish him. I didn’t care if Finch died, but I cared about how it would affect Grace.

“Absolutely.”

“And me?” she asked.

I looked at her, back in those fucking pants and loose shirt. There was no sign of her curves and that meant she had that fucking strip of material wrapped over her gorgeous breasts. Her hat was tipped low over her face, but I couldn’t remember how I’d ever thought her a man.

I knew how those lips felt on mine, on my skin. I knew what her pulse at her neck felt like against my lips. I knew the softness of her breasts, the feel of her tight nipple against the roof of my mouth. The taste of her pussy. The feel of it clenching my cock.

The way she looked when she came. I knew everything about her.

But then, I knew nothing about her at all.

“You’ll pay for what you did.”

GRACE

I HAD EXPECTED to be dragged back to Simms and jailed with Father, Travis and Barton Finch. To be locked up to await the judge and then sentenced to hang. Being with them until we were hanged would be far worse than dying. That would… I hoped, be swift.

If Charlie and Hank had seen me on the bluff, Father and Travis probably had as well, even writhing in pain. They’d know I was the one who shot them. Who’d left them to be arrested and put them in their current predicament.

Barton Finch would know I’d played him the fool.

Their necks were going to snap because of me and I wasn’t sure if I would survive a jail cell in their company.

Barton Finch had his hands in cuffs upon one horse, Hank holding the reins with his gun out riding beside him. I’d been in Charlie’s lap, his arms securely about my waist. As we rode into town, the more I worried, the more I panicked. Sweat dampened the binding about my breasts. My heart pounded as loud as a stampede and it was hard to catch my breath.

“Charlie, I’m sorry,” I said for about the fiftieth time. I’d known what was coming. I’d known all along, accepted it. With Barton being yanked off his horse, swearing at Hank as he did so, I knew my plan had worked. Charlie and Hank were safe. Everyone at Bridgewater wouldn’t be shot in their sleep. Still… I was scared.

He didn’t respond this time, or any of the others. Gone was the quick smile, the easygoing nature. The gentleness.

Hank shoved Barton toward the jail and inside.

Charlie didn’t move. Didn’t force me down to follow.

“Charlie—”

“I don’t want to hear it now, Grace.”

His words were cold and smooth as ice on a winter pond. No love on the end.

Five minutes later, Hank returned, mounted his horse

and we left town. Heading north, I knew instantly we were going to Bridgewater.