Their Reckless Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 11)

The sheriff grunted. “It’s only going to get you spanked.”

Appalled… and aroused, I spun to look at him, then stormed over to him, poked his chest. “Enough! Leave me the fuck alone.” I poked him again—felt how densely muscled he was—then pointed toward the west. “Get on your horses and ride out of here.”

I was used to Father turning puce and his veins bulging. I’d never raise my voice to him in such a manner. I’d learned at a young age his temper quickly flared like a lightning strike on a dry prairie. I’d never poke him in the chest. Never intentionally rile him.

But the sheriff… his expression didn’t change. He didn’t even blink when his arm banded about my waist and pulled me tightly into him. I gasped at the hard feel of him. He tugged down the back of my pants. Loose on my hips to begin with since they were an old pair of Travis’, they easily slid down my thighs, even with my squirming. His free hand came down on my bottom with a resounding spank.

“Hey!”

“That is not the language of a lady,” he said, his voice low and even. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even holding me with aggression. I tested his grip and though it wouldn’t relent, it wasn’t painful. He wasn’t hurting me. Well, my stinging bottom disagreed, but he hadn’t hit me like my father had. This was a reprimand of a different kind.

With that one stunning action, I felt equally appalled and oddly comforted.

Regardless, I would not falter before either of them. Through gritted teeth, I said, “I thought it would be obvious to you, I’m not a lady.”

That should drive them away. No man—or men—would want me. They wanted a delicate flower who laughed and simpered, preened over a new hat or the pretty color of a new dress.

He spanked me again. “Very well, then I won’t treat you like one.” He scooped me up in his arms like a bride being carried across the threshold. Instead of entering the shanty and raping me, which had been my immediate thought, he walked up the edge of the creek, bent down and dropped me unceremoniously into cool water. I screeched and sputtered at the sudden feel of the cold water, my already sore, bare bottom resting on the sandy bottom. My knees were bent in front of me, the top of my pants caught on my thighs from when he’d tugged them down. The water wasn’t overly deep, it didn’t even reach my shoulders, but I was wet and furious.

“You need to cool off, little wildcat.” He looked down at me, arms crossed over his chest once again.

I pushed my braid over my shoulder, felt the long tail wet the back of my shirt and tried to catch my breath.

“I should have let them shoot you,” I said, my breathing ragged, my hands in fists as I looked up at them. Smug. And dry.

“And I should have kissed you better,” he countered. “Maybe that would have tamed you a bit.”

4

C HARLIE

“TAMED ME?” she repeated. “As if that is fucking possible.”

I had no doubt she added the swear word out of spite alone, and I tried not to grin. “That mouth would be too busy for talk like that,” I added, staring down at the sodden, fuming woman.

Fuck, she was gorgeous. Feisty, confident, prickly. She was the most unladylike female I’d ever met, but also the most stunning. The most appealing. Perhaps because she had no idea how utterly feminine she was beneath the bravado and men’s clothing. Her lack of guile, her… innocence was so fucking alluring.

Me, Charlie Pine, of the Meadowlark School for Wayward Boys of London, England, found a woman who wore pants and who chose to—it seemed—live in a dilapidated shack to be the One. I’d grown up in a fucking orphanage, not a kind place to be a child. Always hungry, always cold in the winter, threadbare clothing, no love, I’d longed for a family of my own, but never had. I still did. But with a woman who wore pants? Hell, I’d always imagined a mild maiden in pink frocks with fair hair and perfect manners. A sweet thing.

Fuck, look what my heart—and cock—wanted. A pants-wearing, sassy miss who could shoot the wings off a fly and peel paint off a house with her swearing.

My cock was telling me mine and my balls were full, heavy and aching to empty into her. I wanted

to watch her writhe on my cock and put all that wildness into fucking instead of fuming.

I wanted to claim her forever. Insane, yes. Ridiculous, even. We didn’t even know her name. My cock didn’t care and neither did my heart.

I’d been in town with Hank when word came the bank had been robbed. The bank with my money in it. The money I’d earned breaking my back in the depths of a copper mine in Butte, then eventually becoming part owner. I knew hard, miserable work. I’d grown up with nothing, fought to get to where I was today. I had wealth, but I didn’t want it for fancy clothes or fine furniture. I didn’t give a shit about any of that. I just wanted the peace of mind knowing that I would never go to bed hungry. I’d never be without a coat or shoes.

Yes, it was the sheriff’s job to bring the fuckers to justice, but I’d had to help. Six years with the British army in the tiny middle eastern country of Mohamir had trained me to root out the enemy. No fucking way would those bastards get away with it this time. And since they had robbed within Hank’s jurisdiction and were the ones who’d killed his father, he’d been thrilled—and focused—to exact revenge. I was surprised then, when he’d left them on the ground and gone after her. Retribution had been at the heart of his every action since his dad died. Hell, if anything, he’d have gone after the third member of their dangerous group. Two down… literally, and one was left standing. Somewhere.

It hadn’t been their first hold up. They’d struck Bozeman, then Travis Point, Millerton, Riverdale and now Simms. They’d robbed across the southwest portion of the territory, stealing money from more people than just me. Killing more loved ones than just Hank’s father.

I was sure Hank would be the first to admit we’d been stupid riding into that turn below the bluff, practically getting caught with our pants around our ankles and our hands on our cocks. I’d never expected the Groves to linger that close to town, to turn back and sit in wait to finish off those hunting them like coyotes in a hen house. All the other times, they’d made away with the money then fled to whatever rock they lived under to hide out. But cutting us off with the ambush, it took their evil to a new level. They hadn’t just wanted money, they’d wanted to kill, too.

They had no conscience. No morals of any kind. They needed to be brought down like the rabid dogs they were.

And yet we hadn’t been the ones to do it. She’d done it.