Satin and Spurs

By Reeyce Smythe Wilder

In a time when a woman’s survival depends on the love of a man, Leah Cummings was running out of hope and options. The death of her father years ago left her in the hands of a cruel guardian whose eyes were on her beauty as a prize and her inheritance as a means to an end. Hunted by hired-guns, she is aided by a humble hero who not only protects her, but risks his life to secure her love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reeyce Smythe Wilder
• Release date: Jan 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370554164

Reeyce Smythe Wilder

Writer, Sales Executive, mother of three and wife.

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Satin and Spurs

By Reeyce Smythe Wilder

Copyright 2018 by Mellissa Lopez St. Louis

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Satin and Spurs

Chapter One

Christ, he found her!

She was dead now. There was no more escaping the inevitable. Voices echoed from down the hall and the floorboards creaked as several footsteps approached. Leah cracked open the door. The barest light escaped into the room. Her eyes, large pools of terror and moisture, studied the duo’s advance. One was the owner of the saloon beneath, a wisp of a man who had jumped at her offer to rent whatever accommodations he could provide. The familiar form that followed him made the blood run thin in her veins. She exhaled through her mouth before she latched the half-rotted door and fled to the window. It was fortunate for her that the small storeroom was located upon the first floor and was just a foot or so away from the ledge that led to the balcony and the back stairs. She was halfway through the window, unable to avoid all the jagged edges of the broken pane of glass when a faint knock echoed. Sweat dotted her brows even as she found time to mutter curses and quickly assess the lengthy, bloody scrape her leg now boasted.

Miss Carson?

Hearing the alias she used made her voice crack. One moment Mr. Hicks!

With fire in her steps, she darted across the balcony and bounded down the termite ridden stairs. It took moments to retrieve her horse from the front of the building, and saddleless, she mounted and sank her fingers into the chestnuts mane before riding as if the devil and all his legions were after her.

In the vacant street, she heard the thundering roar of curses and knew her escape had been a close call. His bellow slammed into her. She cut a glance over a shoulder and kicked the horse harder, pushing the mare into a hard gallop. Terror made the distance between them seem too close.

It was the beginning of autumn. The night’s temperature had dropped impossibly low, and with the wind lashing her violently head-on as she demanded nothing less than ultimate speed from the mount, she had a hard time feeling her nose and thinly compressed lips half an hour later. Still, she rode. Beneath the folds of her dress and petticoat, she felt the powerful stretching and contracting of exertions the horse maintained. Each thunder of hooves reverberated through its body and impacted into hers. Before long, exhaustion set in, for as of one week ago she had never ridden bareback. Now the muscles of her inner thighs were tight and cramping, and her fingers were locked, almost frozen stiff buried deep in the horses’ mane. She allowed only the mildest modicum of fear to show in a single drop of tear.

How far could she possibly get at this hour of the night without any form of protection against the cold? If Spencer could have found her so far west and in so short a space of time, where wouldn’t he find her? She started covering her tracks when she accidentally saw him lingering close to a boarding house she rented a room at several days ago in the second town she stopped at. She had not expected him to follow, but once she realized he had no intention of returning without her, Leah began to be more careful. She changed horses at every town, kept to herself and used many different aliases. She had even travelled by coach in the hope that she would be lost in the daily throng of faces. It had only been two weeks since she escaped, but already she had begun to map out a life for herself, even if it was all just in her head – dreams with no way of being realized. They were a source of distraction, a means of getting her fears of being found focused on pleasant things that calmed and gave her a small sense of hope.

Hope that quickly disappeared like all the sensation in her toes.

By the time she spotted the faint lights flickering like a beacon in the darkness up ahead, Leah found the icy air difficult to breathe. She counted the seconds that rolled by, anticipated with more dread than relief the warmth of some small dark corner she could inhabit for the night. It never occurred to her that she would have to also find a place for the horse until she halted to a stop at the entrance of the large barn. Ahead, a sprawling homestead stood, making a mockery of the modest homes she had come to associate with cattle country. Only one light beamed from a front window, and her sigh was broken and unsure when she gently nudged her mount forward and pushed open the door to the barn. Moonlight preceded her, and it took only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness therein. Saddles polished to a high gleam hung on the wall facing the door. Straw was stacked neatly in heaps in a row. There were barrels of what could have been grain or run, she did not know. The only thing that caught her eyes was the empty stall to her left and the clean, fresh hay. Still, she dared not dismount. The effort proved too much, and she needed to be ready to flee if Spencer found her.

Shivering, she led the horse to the darkest corner she could find and was startled to hear the snorts and snickers of the other mounts. Heart thundering wildly, she leaned herself against the wall and stroked the wet shoulder of the mare. A soft snort between its heavy breaths was her reward.

Mere minutes slipped by before the sound of thundering horses raced passed the barn. The noise of her own heart almost drowned out the sound. Cold-sweating despite the chill, Leah clung to the mount and dared to breathe. And strained to hear when Spencer’s voice carry in the still night.

***

Bishop Sheridan had never been a man of many words. Most of the time he found them difficult to express and not much worth the effort. That was why when he spotted the dark shadow of a rider disappearing into the barn from his place near the bedroom window, he did not bellow for his brothers or make a ruckus. That could be done after he loaded his shotgun on his way out. He took his time about the act, ensuring that each shell was nestled in the barrel. When he pulled on his trousers and boots, he did so with unhurried confidence that bespoke of an un-anxious character. He slipped his arms through the sleeves of the well-worn jacket and settled the hat on his head. He had more than one suspicion of who the intruder might be.

In the many years he lived on the ranch, he encountered from lawmen to outlaws, even runaways. Experience taught him it was always better to be safe than sorry. The sixteen gauge double-barrel shotgun that sat snugly in his palm assured him of that safety. He tested the weight and swung it upon a shoulder before reaching for the door.

Down the hall and to the left and right respectively, Pete and Jake slept. A single knock on each door roused both men quickly enough. Jake was the first one to poke his head in the hall. Bleary-eyed and sleep tousled, he reeked of stale beer and day-old tobacco.

What time is it?

Bishop didn’t respond but issued a command instead. Get your gun arm ready.

No further questions were asked. He continued down the hall in the easy saunter that was his. By the time he opened the front door and paused on the porch to inhale the cold air, he was not surprised to see a trio riding hard toward the house. With deceptive calm, he leaned against the bannister and waited. Behind him, Jake ventured and joined him in the chilled night.

Expectin’ company? he asked coolly.

Bishop grunted a non-committed reply and descended the four steps that led to the yard when the men reigned in. In a sweeping glance, he assessed them. Dressed in suits that reeked of sophistication and expense, they all bore the same wind-tossed, antsy appearance – especially the man who nudged his mount farther forward. In the darkness, there was nothing more to distinguish on his face but harsh angles. Maybe it was the rigid way he held his shoulders or the too-tight grip he applied upon the reigns to bring his slightly skittish mount under control, but Bishop instinctively disliked him.

What can I do for you? he greeted softly.

We’re looking for a woman. She might have passed through here minutes ago. If you’ve seen her, maybe you could tell us which direction she went.

Bishop shifted from one foot to the next and offered nothing but a confused frown. Jake left his perch upon the porch to step into the faint glow of the first quarter moon. A woman? he repeated, his tone reflecting his disbelief. At this time of night? In rustling country?

The visitors’ horse danced beneath his tightened grip. Bishop studied him the way one would study a poisonous snake. There was a hard edge to him, something that didn’t sit right. And if the shadow that concealed itself in the barn was indeed a woman, who was she? And more importantly why was she on the run? What had she done?

Afraid so, was all the stranger offered. His dark eyes clashed with Bishops’.

Is she wanted by the law? Jake delved.

It’s a personal matter – my wife, you see. Nothing you boys should be concerned about.

Ah. So that explained the haste and the hunt. He might have pointed him to the barn as he was tempted to do at the moment. He had no right, no desire to get in between the domestic disputes of a married couple. If the man wanted his wife back, who was he to get in the way? Still, his gut tightened and he kept his mouth sealed. It was no business of his, but when a woman ran, she usually had a good reason.

Ain’t nothing out there for miles, he finally offered after a contemplative silence.

You could check the Hastings, Jake volunteered. They own a homestead five miles east of here.

The stranger’s jaw ticked uncontrollably. The anger he exuded felt damn near tangible. When he finally managed to drag himself away from thinking, he nodded his thanks.

My name is Spencer Grant. I’m staying at the hotel in town in case you see or hear anything.

Bishop returned the nod of departure and watched as they rode east. It was Jake who snorted and turned to go inside. Must be one dumb ass woman, riding alone in the country like this, he muttered. The door slammed at his back.

Bishop stood for a long time alone in the yard. Each breath he took was measured, deep and slow. Only when the men had completely disappeared into the darkness did he turn to once again consider the barn. Large and spacious, it housed several horses and, if he was correct, one hunted lady.

Slowly he approached, the gun held upon a shoulder, breaths vaporizing as he went. There was much caution when he pushed open the door. Just inside the threshold, he paused to allow a few vital seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness within. Nothing stood out differently. The horses were quiet and accounted for, the saddles were present and there was no noise save those that were familiar to him. He stepped inside and stopped, only to realize that ensconced in the dark to his right, a horse snickered. Advancing, his footsteps silent, he pushed open the stall door – and grunted a curse when the horse reared, front hooves threatening to kick the life out of him. In a sweeping glance, he caught sight of the yards of fabric of a dress covering its rear. He reacted swiftly, snagging the reigns and forcing the mount under control. A very cold foot, bare of any shoes or boots, connected with his upper shoulder in a crazed attempt to pry his grip from the mount.

Bishop let go of the horse long enough to snag her foot and turn the shotgun toward her in an attempt to take the fight out or her. She froze and whimpered helplessly. In the darkness, he could not distinguish a thing about her.

Please let me go.

The huskiness of her voice touched his agitated nerves and smooth them over. He felt stroked, petted, even as her voice trembled with fear. Something incredibly hot tightened in his stomach.

For a dull moment, everything within him protested. This was bad. The idea of having a woman, the wife of a husband who wanted her back hide in his barn, and with him knowing about it was a recipe for a gunfight.

And Bishop hated gunfights.

True, he carried a gun. But most men did not need to pull the trigger unless they had to. He had to only once. It was enough to make him swear that he never would again.

I can’t do that. Of course, he couldn’t. No matter what the fire in his lower regions said. It might be too late to go to town now and take her back, but in the morning he would have all of this sorted out. Get down.

She did so quietly, the fabric of her dress rustling in the stillness. From the moment her feet touched the ground, she fell into a dead faint.

Cursing silently, he approached. In all appearance, she looked to be asleep. He could see nothing but the length of hair that covered most of her face, all of which was concealed in the dark. He might have found a moment for sympathy when he realized that she must have been in quite a hurry to have ridden a saddleless horse, but sympathy was quickly replaced by confusion when he realized that her feet were exposed. That, if nothing else spurred him into moving. One firm hand took her foot and squeezed gently, horrified to find it tight and as cold as ice. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that she was bereft of coat and gloves.

The horse side-stepped as he continued his prodding. Reason dictated that he should at least attempt to wake her. In the back of his mind, he registered the cool feel of her skin against his fingers and the damp dress that seeped cold into her bones. The mass of curls adorning her head was thick and long and concealed most of her upper half. Awkwardly, he lifted her in his arms, a mighty feat considering he still held his gun and took purposeful strides that made short work of the yard. Before he climbed the steps, he bellowed for Jake once more. When the door opened and Jake spotted them, his eyes widened considerably.

What the hell?!

Bishop hustled inside and deposited her upon the sofa as gently as he knew how then took a step back.

He considered her from afar, took his time about turning up the flame of the lamp. Jake whistled softly. Bishop understood his awe. Although dressed in modest clothes, with no shoes and no coat, the woman before them was made by God for a man’s loving. No amount of cold or exhaustion could conceal the full swell of her breasts that nearly spilt out at the top of her bodice, and he would not have been male had he not noticed how wide the rise of her hips as compared to her tiny waist. It took him a moment to focus his gaze upon her hair. Long, thick and a torrent of curls, it lay lashed across her face, shoulders and back in a mess that was all magnetic flame. When they moved, it was to exchange confused, albeit appreciative glances.

It was Bishop who lifted the rifle he held. Slowly, he pushed the curls aside with the barrel of the gun. The steel kept her at a distance, helped him forget how softly her body had meshed to his warmth moments before. The tendrils fell away to reveal what he supposed was the reason for her fleeing.

Jake’s gasp was strangled but loud enough to hear. Bishop allowed the gun to fall. The full impact of what he saw hit him square in the chest like a bucking bull. Memories returned, vague screams that had haunted him almost every day of his life, muted voices that held faces he had long ago tried to forget, and failed.

Anger built and stopped in his chest as he surveyed the damage done. One eye was discoloured. Above it, a scabbed wound that would leave a scar mocked him in the flickering light. Her nose did not appear to be broken, but the slight swelling there suggested that it had been hit hard enough to produce blood. He was not aware when Jake left to summon Pete. When the second eldest was ushered in, he adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose and dared not move any closer.

What happened to her face? he blurted absently.

Jake pushed him forward and folded his arms across his chest. That’s what we’d like to know.

Pete advanced to kneel on the floor and leaned forward an inch before rising once again. Doesn’t take a scientist to see she was beaten – and choked.

The hell you say? This from Bishop. His eyes had taken on the look of a haunted man.

Pete nodded and scratched his short-cropped hair quickly. The bruises around her neck. Faded, but there. Who is she anyway? Why is she here?

Jake filled him in on the events of the night and turned once more to the woman on the chair. So far, Bishop had done nothing but seethe and remember. A heavy hand on the shoulder brought him once more to the issue at hand. What were they to do with her?

Set her up in my room, he heard himself say coarsely. Let her rest. Tomorrow we’ll find out everything we need to know.

Chapter Two

A heavy weight settled upon her as her mouth was covered. Panicked, she tried to scream but her throat was closed and she could not suck in air into her lungs. He was stifling her! She battled against his form, bucking violently but to no avail. He was too heavy, his hips pressed hard and harsh against her soft centre, grinding obtusely as he spoke obscenities in her ear. Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes as she thrashed, and when he finally managed to remove his hand to molest her tender breasts, she sank her teeth into his lips that lowered to capture hers. Alcohol, strong and overwhelming stung her nose, but no matter how much she fought, she could not dislodge his heavy frame, could not overpower him to regain control. Her inner thighs burned with the strain, her eyes refusing to open even as she shouted and begged and wept for mercy. And still, he fondled her, ripped the chemise from her body as his hands groped each limb hungrily. Her wrists felt broken where they were pinned against the bed above her head.

Please! Please don’t do this! Her voice was hoarse and feeble. She hiccupped and sank into despair as his touch branded her like a searing poker. Please let me go!

Shut up! he snarled, wrenching her