The Inn At Little Bend

By Bobbi Groover

A DAZZLING BEAUTY...
In antebellum America, life for an abandoned woman was difficult at best. But when young Grayson escapes her sadistic guardian, she finds freedom just as hostile. The lonesome, starving wanderer flees straight into the path of vicious marauders. Only one thing keeps the rustlers from violating the curvaceous, dark-haired beauty but the punishment they intend to mete out for her crimes borders on insanity.

A SURLY COWBOY...
Not far away a lone rover hears the screams, yet continues down the road. He wants nothing more of life than to be left alone. He has his own debts to account for. Once a headstrong irresistible rakehell, the drifter had bolted, shuttered his heart and retreated deep within himself. But now the wafting agony tears at him--his own and the wails of another. Swearing under his breath, he whirls the horse around.

A SIMPLE INN...
Grayson Ridge struggles to survive her fated trials and conceal the secrets that plague her. Her exploits collide with the life of Drake Somerset, a scraggly yet oddly dashing drifter besieged by dark shadows. Neither realizes their chance encounter could free them both. Their wrangling ignites a turbulent journey and sets their worlds on fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Jan 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781612353043

Book preview

Special Smashwords Edition

The Inn At Little Bend

by

Bobbi Groover

Special Smashwords Edition

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Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

The Inn At Little Bend, Copyright 2013, Bobbi Groover

ISBN 978-1-61235-304-3

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my loves, my guys ... Ken, Pierce & Logan

… and the girls

Jen, Joanne, Dee, Deb & Dodie

who shared a glass of wine with Drake, Gray &

me!

In antebellum America, young Grayson Ridge flees from her sadistic guardian but finds freedom just as hostile. The lonesome wanderer rushes headlong into the path of vicious marauders. Trying to escape them provokes a penalty that borders on insanity.

Drake Somerset, a scraggly yet oddly dashing drifter besieged by dark shadows, has his own debts to settle. Once a headstrong lothario, the drifter has bolted from life, shuttered his heart and retreated deep within himself.

Grayson struggles to survive her fated trials and conceal the secrets that plague her. Her impetuous exploits barrel into Drake’s solitude with maddening consequences but neither realizes their chance encounters could free them both. Their wrangling ignites a turbulent journey and sets their worlds on fire.

The Inn At Little Bend

by

Bobbi Groover

Prologue

Everyone yearned for spring to blossom early that year but Virginians rooted deep in the mountains knew winter would never succumb without a fight and feared a powerful assault. It came. An onslaught of storms battered the area with blizzards heaving drifts four to six feet high. The deep snow left the roads impassable, and a weary man cursed the force of that assault as the wind clawed at him and his tiny, fragile bundle. The horse under him plodded endlessly while he kept his head lowered and tugged at his collar. Nevertheless the cold wet flakes were persistent.

The night was pitch-black, as black as the dark thoughts which filled the man's heart and mind. The day's last hours unfolded in his head like the rehearsals of a macabre play. Even now it seemed to him a performance, a drama one watched and pitied and then went home.

Swirling winds ripped through the night, stealing the man's hat and carrying it into the darkness. The man muttered a virulent oath when the cold penetrated his graying hair. The gusts came in waves in the same cruel manner the pains, just hours before, had savaged his daughter's unyielding body while she tried to deliver her bastard child. A widower and deprived of the aid of a doctor or midwife, the distraught man had tried his best but it hadn't been enough to save his daughter's life. Even now his daughter's screams rifled his brain.

The product of a brutal rape, the newborn was sorrow and pain incarnate. The man had kept the pregnancy hidden in order to spare his daughter further humiliation but now she was gone forever, and the child he had pulled from her body was huddled against him. He had expected the baby to be born dead but when it uttered a cry, a strange resentment suffused him and he suddenly hated this intruder who had stolen his daughter from him, the only remaining part of his beloved wife. In a moment of crazed madness, he had imagined smothering the tiny creature but instead he had left the babe in the messy bedclothes and gone to saddle his horse. He had no family left, few friends and no hope and he didn't want to remain in that place with its painful reminders. Returning to the small white house, he had splashed lamp oil over everything and rolled a burning log from the fireplace into the center of the room. The fire had spread quickly as he hauled the tiny, bloody burden to his shoulder and ran out the door. The horse shied when the inferno suddenly engulfed the structure but calmed when they turned and slowly walked away. With his shoulders hunched against the howling winds, the man had taken up his burden and ridden into the darkness.

The distraught man wanted the child gone from him but wondered if he possessed the cruelty to carry out the deed. Mile after mile he journeyed, fraught with indecision. The babe lay silently in his giant grasp as if somehow knowing its fate hung in the balance.

A faint speck of light appeared in the distance and the man turned his horse to veer away from the light. He had no need of the others now, he had to finish what he started, or did he? He pulled the horse to a halt. Opening his bundle he somehow hoped the child had died for want of mothering. A flailing arm nudged his palm, and he realized the determined creature still lived. His conscience nagged at him. Despite his hatred, he conceded that the child had not asked to be conceived and forced into the world. The man wheeled his horse around and headed toward the light. He spurred the animal, driving it onward through the whipping wind before he changed his mind. When he reached the house, he placed the wrapped child on the doorstep and galloped away, never once looking back.

Deprived of the man's warmth, the babe uttered a piteous wail and, in time, awoke the matrons of the house.

* * * *

Lord, have mercy; Hazel wake up and see what’s making that racket.

Hazel belted her wrap and shuffled to the door. It’s a baby! she uttered as she squatted next to the bundle. She unfolded the blanket. Flora, she’s a newborn; the whole cord’s still attached.

Best put her by the fire because she’s probably cold as ice.

Who is she? asked Hazel. She removed the bloody swaddling blanket and wrapped the baby in a towel she grabbed from the table. Where did she come from? She clipped the cord and bound it. What'll we call her?

Flora grunted while she blew at the cup of milk she’d poured from a pot near the fire. Will you stop your jabbering? It’s obvious she’s a nobody; that's why she was left here. It doesn’t much matter what we call her. Call her Grayson.

Hazel put her hands on her hips. You can't put that name on a child.

Why not? She probably won't last more than a few days at best. Flora sipped her milk.

Then she’ll need a decent name to put on her headstone.

Flora threw up her hands. What for? If she came from decent folks she wouldn’t have ended up on our doorstep. Mark my words; she’s the doing of sinners. She opened wide one of the baby’s eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Look at her eyes—they're black like sin.

The baby wailed at the intrusion, and Hazel snatched the child away. Flora, you keep your superstitious ways to yourself. This is an innocent child and whether she lives or dies is up to the Almighty, not you or me. Now get her something to eat while I clean her.

Flora dragged her feet into the next room, muttering to herself.

Hazel picked up the wailing child. Have to admit, child, with those eyes the name Grayson does seem to fit you. She sighed as she hurried with her chore.

Sometime later—loosely wrapped and poorly fed—the baby girl fell asleep. An entry of her arrival was scrawled as no more than a footnote on a smudged page of their record book. A ragged strip of newspaper from months before noting Old Kinderhook’s lost fight marked the page. Ignored as a scrap of life and left in a crate by the side of the hearth Grayson Ridge strove to live, named after the orphanage on whose doorstep she was found.

Chapter One

Cora Wagner’s voice rent the air. Ridgeback, get that pail in here.

Grayson shoved the bucket under the cow and pulled on the teat. The cow grunted in response and kicked the pail across the barn floor. The milk made a gurgling sound as it leaked from the wooden container.

Grayson Ridge despised milking. She had felt the same way for five long years. The morning of her tenth birthday, her stepmother had pulled her from her slumbers and told her she had been lazy long enough. She’d been dragged to the barn and given new chores to add to the mountain already expected of her. Grayson started in the barn before first light that birthday morning, milking, haying, mucking. Seemed like she had been there ever since. Angrily she gathered her thick, black hair from her face, tied it in a knot and secured it at the nape of her neck.

How she deplored the wretched beast that chewed so contentedly for she, herself, was hardly content. She despised the various names the Wagners called her: Ridgeback, when they viewed her as lazy, Blackie, when she had sinned, and Gray Ghost when she disappeared for hours only to return to a thrashing in the smoke house. In fact, it seemed to her that no one called her Grayson except at church meetings and only when the minister was present. It was a pattern which had emerged ever since the day six years ago when the Wagners had taken a precocious nine year old from the Grayson Ridge orphanage, traveled two thousand miles and brought her into their town and into their house. However, they never took her into their lives. They never formally adopted her, never formally gave her their name. The Wagners gave her a roof and meals, but Cora and Alfred Wagner never gave her a home.

Grayson had been the outsider six years ago. Even as a youngster she knew she was different. The people she lived with were not her parents, not in thought, words, or deeds. The attitudes she encountered had not changed over time.

Ridgeback, get in here or so help me, you’ll feel the switch on your shoulders. Cora Wagner's voice had climbed two octaves, leading Grayson to realize the older woman was more agitated than usual.

Better git, Blackie.

The deep voice startled Grayson and she turned to face Alfred. Quickly she snatched the pail, backed against the wall and stammered, Bessie kicked over the bucket and won’t let me near her.

I know Bessie can get ornery, he responded softly, too softly. But you know your mama; she's an impatient woman. He placed his clammy hand on Grayson’s shoulder and slid it down her arm until he encountered the bare skin of her forearm. I’ll help you by holding Bessie, if you ask nice enough. Might save you a whooping.

Grayson slithered from his grasp and approached the disgruntled cow. Thank you, but I can handle Bessie alone.

Alfred Wagner followed and grasped her shoulders from behind. I can be persuaded to be a bumper between you and your mama’s wrath.

I said, no thank you, Grayson hissed as she wrenched from his claw-like hold.

This scene had been enacted many times during the previous years. She felt cornered again, caught by her inability to act. She could placate him and suffer his advances or anger him and suffer his wrath in addition to his advances. Either choice was repulsive because God knew Cora would not come to her aid. Grayson was certain the shrieking woman would brand her an adulteress and burn her at the nearest stake while clapping with glee.

Bessie bellowed and afforded Grayson a momentary distraction. She ducked behind the hulky bovine. I don't need or want your help, and I don't want you touching me.

You’re my daughter. There’s no harm in hugging and kissing you.

Legally I ain't your daughter and you know it. Even if you was to be my father, something tells me fathers don’t touch their daughters like that.

Like what? he asked. His tongue slid over his lips as tiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow.

You know what I mean. You look at me the same way that Koombie fellow looks at Jake’s bar girls. There ain't nothing fatherly about his intentions.

Wagner started toward her menacingly. As you say, you ain’t my daughter legally. Therefore you’re just another female and there ain’t nothing wrong with my intentions.

Just leave me alone, she shot at him.

You’ll do as I say, Blackie, or I’ll beat you until you do. He lunged for her but missed entirely as the animal kicked out at the intrusion. The hoof found its mark in the man’s knee, and he went down.

Within a second Grayson climbed the side of the stall and was out of harm’s way. Below she watched without emotion as the spooked enormous animal danced around the area, crashing hoof after hoof into the writhing man. In time the thrashing stopped and quiet descended over the barn.

The quiescent moment was broken when Bessie reached for a wisp of hay from the bin and again chewed contentedly, unaware of the blood-soaked havoc she had just caused. Grayson knew instinctively Alfred was dead. She noted with a dreary calm how his blood ran in rivulets along the cracks in the barn floor where moments before the spilled milk had followed the same path. The shovel lay in a pool of the scarlet liquid, which was already coagulating. In other places the blood mingled with the milk, forming a sickly shade of dark pink.

Grayson's mind ceased to function. She kept her eyes glued to the grisly scene while she slowly inched her way to the back of the barn. Without thinking further, she stepped outside. She turned, and taking one final look, closed the barn door.

Then she ran.

Grayson Ridge didn't know where she was going or what she would do when she got there. She only knew she had to stop the screams which echoed inside her head. Her lungs burned as she struggled to drag in enough air to support her hare footed pace. The muscles in her legs rebelled at her abuse, and still she ran. Nothing could erase the final image of Alfred Wagner—his eyes wide and bulging, his mouth forever open in silent protest, his neck and body twisted at odd angles. But most of all she saw the blood, splattered and pooled everywhere. If not for the protection of the wooden slats she, herself, would have been covered with it.

A protruding root caught Grayson’s toe, and she tripped. The fall was sudden and she fell hard, her face colliding with the ground in a savage blow. She lay in the dirt, panting deeply, staring at the weeds that poked into her.

Cora Wagner would undoubtedly have found her husband by now. Grayson could envision the scenario. The stern-faced woman would have come into the barn raving, switch in hand, ready to beat the lard out of her charge. Instead she would find the carnage left by Bessie’s dance of death. She would be screaming by now, would most likely have found the shovel Grayson had left from her mucking and surmised that the ungrateful wretch of a child had killed her husband and used the bovine to cover her crime. Grayson surmised that Cora Wagner would tell the authorities she had known from the beginning that the black-eyed child was a crafty, vile sinner who played innocent but used her womanly wiles to prey upon her weak husband. Cora would tell the townspeople it was that very reason she’d had to be so hard on the girl. She had hoped the constant hard work would bring the girl to see the error of her ways and turn into a good Christian woman.

The town would never believe the truth, Grayson reasoned. They would string her up and hang her from the nearest tree. Her throat constricted with the thought of it: the noose tightening around her neck, the jolting fall, the strangulation into darkness...

Grayson Ridge dragged herself to her feet, hiked up her skirt and ran.

* * * *

The days dragged by, one melding into the next and still Grayson ran. Her skirt was dirty and torn, her feet blistered, her stomach growling but her mind was numb. She avoided the roads and hid in the shelter of the bushes for protection whenever there was noise from an approaching rider or carriage. She ate whatever the wild earth provided by trying different plants that the matrons of the orphanage had once told her were edible. Certain plants were good for burns, some fight infections, others helped clear lung ailments. However, memories can play tricks on the mind, especially when fatigue and fear are thrown into the recipe. The first greens made her dizzy. The second batch she tried came back up faster than they went down. She heaved so suddenly, she soiled herself and had to wash her clothes and her body in the icy stream. Struggling with her small fire, she sat naked and shivering while she waited for her meager wraps to dry.

No, life to this point had been nothing worth noting in a journal. Sobbing quietly, Grayson ruminated on her short fifteen years of existence. Her nine years at the orphanage whose name she carried consisted of cramped conditions, meager food, and hoped-for kindnesses. On those few occasions when she complained, the matrons sternly reminded her that she should expect nothing more than she received and be thankful for it. After all, she was obviously the product of a degrading act, for why else would she have been unceremoniously dumped on their doorstep in the middle of the night so soon after birth. They had been good enough to feed and shelter her those many years in return for the odd jobs she was asked to perform. Uppity and ungrateful, they had called her.

The only bright spot in her life during those long years was her friend, Kipp. Kipp was four years older than she and the closest thing to a sister Grayson had ever known. The girl’s parents had been killed, and having no relatives come forward to claim her, she was placed at Grayson Ridge Orphanage. After their chores and during the odd hours of free time, Kipp taught Grayson her numbers and how to read and write. She taught her to dance and sing and sway to the sound of the music. These are the little things a young lady should know. On quiet afternoons she would delight Grayson by reading from the works of the Brontë sisters whose novels were scandalous but so romantic. In a wistful voice the older girl told Grayson fantastic stories of far away places and romantic heroes. She also explained about boys—how they were different from girls—how the degrading act that produced Grayson was performed, and how some men tricked young innocent girls. But when Kipp described the ‘degrading act’ it didn’t seem degrading at all. When Grayson asked Kipp how she knew about such things she answered that her mother had taught her. Kipp usually cried when speaking of her dead parents. She said her mother had told her being with one’s husband in that way was beautiful and sweet, and she hoped Kipp would find a man who would be gentle and understanding and make their union as wonderful. She confided to Grayson the feelings she had about a boy she frequently saw while in town. But as she related those urges, Grayson doubted she would ever have those feelings, would ever want a boy to put himself there. You will, sweet baby. When you meet the right man, you will, Kipp had said. Kipp was mother, sister and friend rolled into one, and Grayson hung on her every word.

At night when Grayson had nightmares, it was Kipp, not the matrons, who held and soothed her. They talked of running away together, of finding wealthy husbands who would adore them and whisk them off to exotic places in Europe or beyond, of living in castles with neighboring borders so that they could see one another and be close always.

The dream came true for one of them, and Grayson’s whole world suddenly shattered. A childless couple came to the orphanage one day and visited with the children one by one. They came back every day for a week. The blow fell when Kipp excitedly informed Grayson the couple wanted to adopt her.

They’re from England, Kipp related with glee. They want to make me their daughter and take me home with them. Oh, Grayson, it’s happening for me just the way we planned. I know it will happen for you, too. Kipp hugged her tightly. My sweet Grayson, sweet baby sister, I’ll miss you terribly. I’ll write to you as soon as I'm settled. Promise me you'll write, too. I need to know that you are all right. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. But of course you’ll be fine. Wonderful things are in store for you; I can feel it.

Within an hour, Kipp was gone.

Grayson had just passed her eighth birthday, yet she felt utterly ancient and completely alone. A few letters came from across the seas with vivid descriptions of people and places but it wasn’t the same. Kipp had a new family, and a new life as she had wished but the wonderful things she had predicted for Grayson had not materialized. Apparently the Fates had felt one miracle was enough for the pair, the recipient certainly not being the product of a degrading act. She kept Kipp’s letters in a small satchel, had it close to her always, hung by a thin leather thong or pinned to her undergarments, as they were the only things that truly belonged to her.

She moved closer to the fire and felt her clothes. They were still damp; she would have to suffer a little while longer. She snorted. Suffer—it’s all she had done since she had been able to remember. Why should one have to suffer for the crime of being born? Grayson wondered. Being an orphan of questionable parentage seemed easier on boys; they were adopted quite readily. Besides, if she were a boy, she could run away. She would be able to travel unnoticed and unprotected, could find work doing odd jobs. A young woman traveling alone was suspect and vulnerable.

No, she thought, as she sat shivering in the cool breeze, the Fates had not been kind to her. Abandoned, abused and a fugitive, she was now also shoeless, penniless, starving and hopelessly lost. Had she passed a border of any sort? Had she traveled in circles? Always keeping the road in sight, she had followed where it led, hopefully to safety and freedom.

Heaving a long resigned sigh, Grayson slipped into her clothes. There was no use whining about the past. As she stamped out the fire, she realized there were but two choices open to her: sit where she was and wait for misfortune to befall her, or move forward and meet misfortune head on. Who knows? she whispered wryly, I might even outrun it.

Hours later Grayson sought the river upstream searching for water to assuage her bristly thirst. Winding her way through the dense brush, her legs and arms were pinched and jabbed by thorns and branches. Her skirt caught on a stick and when she yanked to free it, the stitching ripped apart at the waist.

Just fine, she wailed. No food, no money, no shoes and now no clothes. Grayson opened her mouth to give tongue to a frustrated screech when voices flooded the air. She dropped to the ground and cowered as a black fright swept down her spine. Her heart thundered in her ears.

The voices were laughing and definitely male. Listening closely, she discerned four, maybe five different pitches. Since they seemed preoccupied, Grayson crawled on her hands and knees for a closer look. At edge of the hill she peered down at them.

How did they stand the cold? She wandered closer. Oh, to be a boy right then and be laughing and carefree. The youngest looking one stood waist high in the water. Grayson judged that aside from the obvious difference hidden below the waterline, their bodies were not all that dissimilar. Her breasts were practically nonexistent; Kipp had told her she was a late bloomer. What she wouldn’t have given to be a boy at that moment with all the freedom it could afford her in her flight.

With the boys in the water, she couldn’t ease her thirst until further upstream. Grayson mumbled a rancorous oath, half expecting a matron to pour pepper on her tongue for the infraction. She edged back from the bank and trudged onward.

Within ten feet a movement caught her eye. She startled at first but closer inspection proved it to be a shirt hanging from a branch and flapping in the breeze. An idea scurried across her brain. Inching closer, Grayson found the collection of pants, shirts and boots from the frolicking boys. Even though she couldn’t actually be a boy, could she fool everyone by looking and acting like one? Kipp had always told her she had the talent for the stage. Grayson had been able to imitate voices and mannerism with uncanny accuracy.

Her main problem would be her hair. Searching through the pockets, Grayson found her hoped-for quarry. Thank Heaven boys are seldom without their knives.

She mixed and matched until she had a close fit in clothes. All the boots were too big; she put on three pairs of socks to fill the gaps. With trembling hands she ripped her skirt into strips and bound her chest. Wouldn’t do to have anyone catch a glimpse of a chilled feminine breast.

Hurry, hurry, she told herself. The boys could return at any moment. She made a bundle of the remnants of her clothes and slipped the knife inside. Glancing around to make certain no trace of her remained, she raced through the woods.

A few miles down the road, Grayson dug a hole in the soft earth and dumped her pile. With slashing strokes, she roughly hacked off chunks of her coal black hair and dropped them into a tiny grave with her clothes. When her hair was closely cropped, she shoved the knife in its case and hung it from her belt. She then covered the hole, hiding it under the heaviest rocks she could lift. With no luxuriant flowing mane, no breasts and, as yet, no monthly she was—on the outside at least—as much a boy as the former owners of the clothes she now wore.

A smile stretched across her face for the first time since Kipp had left her standing on the steps of the orphanage and begged for a cheery face to send her off. After smudging a bit of dirt on her cheeks to complete the picture of a scruffy ruffian, Grayson squared her shoulders and started on her way.

She was still starving, still homeless and still without a penny to her name, yet she was oddly jubilant. She had put clothes on her back and boots on her feet. She made herself into an entirely different person. Best of all, she given herself hope—hope that the food, shelter and money would somehow take care of themselves.

Chapter Two

The food presented itself by late afternoon. The small crate was on its side, lying just off the side of the road. It seemed to be waiting for her, as if placed there by a kindly god. Drawing near she could read the name on the side, Madison General Store. Through the slats her eager eyes could identify what looked to be sacks of beans, possibly some dried beef. Her mouth watered, so did her eyes. Glancing around she saw no reason not to snatch the crate and run; there was no one in sight. Still Grayson hesitated touching the small treasure. She backed away to the edge of the woods and sat down, keeping the crate clearly in sight. She settled in and waited.

Grayson's stomach growled and her back ached as she followed the sun’s last hold on the day. No one had returned to claim the crate and as dusk added cover to her stealth, she wound her way down the hill.

The top of the crate offered little resistance when Grayson tore into her booty. Her teeth hastily ripped a piece of dried beef, and her tongue greedily savored the saltiness. She hiked the box to her hip, shoved another piece of jerky into her mouth and continued on her way. Later, if she dared, she would cook the beans and discover what other goodies the Fates had provided. What a feast it promised to be; she could hardly wait.

* * * *

Grayson had finally finished the preparation for her small fire. Would there ever be a meal as delicious? A feast served to a king could not be as anticipated or appreciated.

You thievin’ little gutter snipe.

Grayson ducked and swiveled toward the voice, a scream jammed in her throat. You’re a boy. Remember, you’re a boy, her brain shrieked when she viewed the grisly group approaching her camp. Although her heart hammered against the wall of her chest, she found her voice and straightened her back. What the devil are you talking about? And what the hell are you doing sneaking up on a person like that?

My crate is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Fell off my wagon a piece back. I followed the trail and it led me here to you. You stole it, growled the broadest brute.

I did no such thing. I found it lying along side of the road. Grayson kept her eye on the other three brutes who had begun circling her. Heaven help her if they ever suspected she was a girl. The thought of it almost shattered her fragile control. Anyone could have found it.

But you took it, thief, even knowin’ it weren’t yours. What do ya say, Jake? Should we show this kid what we do to thieves?

I ain’t no thief, Grayson protested. You lost it and I found it. Fair’s fair.

Kid et most of the beef, Les, said the one called Jake.

Then the kid’ll have to pay fer it. Les’s smile bore a malevolent twist. Maybe we should string him up and cut it outta him.

Grayson’s eyes threatened tears. No! No! But what did it matter? She could never overpower her captors. These barbarians meant to kill her in any case. You’d kill for a spot of beef? What kind of savages are you? The blood drained from her head.

Did ya hear that, Les? The sniveling whelp called us savages.

Surely did, Jake. An’ I’m downright hurt to the quick. Now just to prove the kid wrong, we won’t kill him. He grinned again and smacked his lips. We’ll just make him wish we did.

I think we oughta geld the puny little bastard.

Jake whistled. Someone’s in a vengeful mood today. Nah, Cal, let’s not spoil ‘im for later. The four brutes laughed loudly and grunted crudely. Grab him and hold out his hand. We’ll have to teach him what happens to hands that steal what don’t belong to ‘em.

Two brutes advanced from the shadows and grabbed her from behind. Grayson struggled but was held firm by their iron grips. Jake ripped open her sleeve and forced her right hand forward.

God Almighty, you can’t mean to go through with this, she pleaded in the lowest voice she could muster in her terror. I was hungry and the crate was lying there. How could I possibly have known it was yours?

But you knew it weren’t yours, kid. He held his face close to hers; his rotten teeth and putrid breath almost made her heave in his face. You knew it weren’t yours yet you took it anyways. That’s why you have to be taught a lesson.

Grayson struggled with all the strength of a mad woman but her captors were too strong. Jake slapped her hard while they held her, and her head snapped back as if he had decapitated her with the force of it. Her brain reeled from the pain and terror. Nooo! she screamed but a hand slapped her hard again and her knees buckled. Hands on every side roughly hauled her up and stretched her arm over a tree stump while the brute yanked his knife from his belt.

You – don’t – take – what – ain’t – yours. Jake slammed her wrist against the stump with each word. His arm lifted to strike when a shot rang out.

Suddenly a commanding voice rent the air. You’d best practice what you preach, mister.

Grayson’s knees buckled again and she was left hanging by her arm. Her pounding head hung forward and bile rose in her throat. She felt it drooling from the corner of her mouth.

Jake dug his nails into Grayson’s arm and barked at the intruder. This here is none of your affair, stranger. Just forget what you seen and keep ridin’.

On the contrary, it’s very much my affair. I distinctly heard you say a person doesn’t take what is not theirs. You did say that, didn't you?

The would-be executioner spewed out a wad of tobacco spittle. The dark gob splattered on the ground. Droplets of the vile slime stained Grayson’s pants. Yeah, what’s it to you?

Using your reasoning, if one might call it that, I should accuse you of stealing. The kid there, whose hand you are about to amputate is my property.

Huh? the four ruffians said in unison. Grayson almost joined them but she was too dizzy, too sick and too imprisoned to move.

Yes, my good gentlemen. The lad there is a runaway servant from my household. I’ve been searching for him for days. I do thank you for holding the boy until I arrived. I assure you he’ll answer for this when I get him home.

Jake sneered and grumbled, Like I believe that pile of bull. He jerked Grayson’s arm again, sending shooting bolts of pain through her shoulder.

Believe it or not as you choose but the boy goes with me.

Go to hell. He ain’t going nowhere until he pays for the rations he stole. That crate was supposed to be taken to the work camp a couple miles from here. It fell off my wagon, and I come back fer it but the kid here stole it afore I found it. Any food missing gonna come outta our pay. So he ain't goin' nowhere except to the camp. I'm lettin’ the paymaster take it outta him instead of me.

That didn’t appear to be what you had in mind when I rode up. In fact, I think you had quite the opposite in mind.

Jake spit again in clear defiance. I don’t give a plug nickel what you think. The kid stays and that’s that. Now you git.

The boy belongs to me. The command was low but resounded through the trees.

With the strength of a grizzly, Jake whipped Grayson up and around and had the knife to her throat. I told you to git, mister. Grayson felt the knife slice the skin along her jaw. The kid’s mine. You make a move, and I’ll slit his thievin’ throat.

Before Grayson had her first chance to view her would-be rescuer, lightning struck from every direction. With a yelp, Jake’s knife fell from his hand. His sudden release threw her to the ground. Despite the dizziness and pain, survival pressed her to action. She curled into a ball, rolled away and shielded her head. Shots rang out and ricocheted for what seemed an eternity.

When the resounding barrage of bullets stopped there was only moaning. Grayson slowly opened her eyes. She was rooted to the spot, paralyzed with fear. She put her hand to her throat and came away with blood. Fear swamped her and she gasped. Oh God, am I dying? Jake was nursing a hand, Les, an arm. The other two appeared unharmed but cowered.

No man takes what is mine, the stranger uttered in a slow, menacing growl. You’d best remember that. He dropped his left stirrup and extended his hand to Grayson. Get up here, boy. He nudged the horse toward her.

She was dazed and woozy but tried to control her trembling as she stared at the proffered hand and the man who extended it. He sat astride a dark bay horse, an animal as frightening as its rider. Her rescuer appeared to be a wild forest creature whose cobra-stare terrified her as much as her captors. His face, gaunt and menacing, was still handsome by anyone’s standard. A cropped beard only added to his grizzly appearance. A wide-brimmed hat trapped his thick, wavy coal-black hair that hung to his shoulders—the waves of it, bunched along his neck.

For an instant, she almost laughed at the irony that the man

Reviews for The Inn At Little Bend

[mum26 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved it. Really sad at times, and a long read but really nice book.

[rtb_3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Reviewed by Deserebook provided by Bobbi Groover for reviewEver had the feeling that you don’t belong, that your not meant to be? For Grayson life has been a battle of not belonging straight from the start. First she was left abandoned at the steps of a orphanage where she never fit in, then adopted by a cruel family where having to suffer the hated unwanted advantages of her stepfather led her to push him away causing his death ,and this leads to her having to run for her life ! To not be recognised she dresses as a boy even yanks off her hair with a sharp blade ! The things woman have to endure is so vividly outlined in this book it lets you remember that we are indeed the ones who usually suffer the most ! On her runaway trail she comes face to face with four of the meanest outlaws any woman could ever have to face. She very nearly avoids having her hand cut off when saved by loner cowboy Drake Somerset. Drake mistakenly judging by Grayson’s attire recons her to be a young boy alone and out in the wild, feels pity towards “River” and strikes “him “ a deal , “Work off your debt for me saving your hide then I’ll let you go”. Simple sounding enough, but then suddenly Grayson aka River becomes very ill and Drake needs to get him/her to a Dr. and fast. Once he has” River” at a Dr. and “he “ is all better he can let the little runt go and be on his way. But things as in life do not always go according to plan. In the end Drake and Grayson develop a sort of best friend come I hate you relationship with some very interesting consequences. But Drake harbours his own secret shame and whilst trying to avoid the strange connection he feels toward “River” he fights demons only know to a few. Grayson in the meantime along with her new best friend Aggie but a plan into action to win Drake’s heart and help banish the demons from his mind. Got your attention I sure hope so for this is not your average romance western. Bobbi Groover creates a wild western romance with a wild twist that you will not see coming, she has a creative and unique writing style that is surely solely only linked to her for I have not yet read anything like this before ! Bobbi keeps you captivated and describes every scene in details making sure you don’t miss anything.