The Drifter: Old West Heroes Romance, #1

By Morgan Synatra

Eliza Montgomery is a good Christian woman living in Providence, Utah in the 1870s. She is under the thumb of her religious zealot father, who constantly belittles her and admonishes her to be a woman of virtue and chastity. Coming out of church one day, she sees a drifter riding into town. Something in her stirs when he tips his hat to her, but she refuses to admit the attraction. After several chance encounters with him, he is hired by her father to work on the family farm. Things soon begin to heat up when her father falls ill, and she falls under the drifter's thrall. A rancher's son whom she has been betrothed to by her father has other thoughts about this relationship, and determines to rid the world of the drifter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Synatra
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223230502

Morgan Synatra

Morgan Synatra writes erotic short stories in the genres of dystopian sci fi, Master/slave, hucow (human cow), and sissy transformation. These stories are intended for adults over the age of 18. Morgan also loves a steamy erotic romance story with powerful, handsome heroes, evil barons, and women who like their men hard and deep. You can contact Morgan at [e-mail] Or visit Morgan's web site at https://morgansynatra.wixsite.com/morgansynatra-com

Book preview

The Drifter

An Old West Heroes Romance: Book 1

Chapter 1

Eliza Montgomery sat beside her father Joshua in their buckboard wagon as they bumped along the dirt road that led north from the farm into town. She was silent and frowning as she bounced on the bench seat, having been admonished by her zealous father yet again on the Christian virtues of young womanhood. She had heard it over and over her entire life, as he prepared her for a lifetime of service to a man, bearing him many children, and maintaining proper, decent decorum when in the company of others. A woman should be chaste, shun lust and worldly desire, and remain humble and silent.

Well, three out of five isn’t too bad, I suppose, she thought.

She stared at the rumps of the two horses pulling the buckboard; one a chestnut and the other a roan. The chestnut was a little bigger than the roan, and doubled as her father’s work horse. Their tails switched at flies, and their hooves raised a cloud of dust, encircling the wagon and causing Eliza to cough and sneeze. They, like Eliza, had no choice in the course of their lives. They would be groomed and fed, held in stalls with their halters tied to posts, and saddled and ridden, heading in whatever direction the rider steered them. Eliza felt like just another livestock locked in a stall, and her overbearing father the rider, steering her along a path of his own choosing. He had saddled and bridled her since birth, and was leading her right toward some other man who would do the same until the day she passed from this Earth.

Eliza was annoyed, but dared not argue with her father or she’d get an earful. She untied her bonnet and took it off, shaking out her long, blonde hair.

Put that back on, said her father.

I will not, papa. The tie is pinching under my chin. Look, she said, lifting her head and showing him a red spot under her jaw.

A woman needs to dress proper, girl. No man’s gonna marry a farmer’s daughter with a face as dark as an Injun.

I won’t marry. Men are nothing but brutes and pigs.

They are when you dress like that, girl. I’m ashamed to see you like that in public. You’re a disgrace. Your mama, God rest her soul, would be turning over in her grave if she saw what you were wearing.

What’s wrong with my dress? It’s all the rage among women now.

Sluts and whores of Babylon, all of them. I won’t have my daughter looking like a saloon girl.

Papa!

He looked at her bustline and shook his head.

Eliza huffed impatiently at him. I can’t help it if I’m big on top, she thought, straightening her bodice. She had made the outfit with her own hands, and thought it pretty and feminine. So what if the collar was open and a bit low? It didn’t show anything but her neck and the very top of her chest. Granted, the upper swell of her ample bustline was quite evident above the top of the lacy blue collar.

He looked at her breasts again and snorted. He quoted: ’ But I say unto thee, walk thee by the Spirit, and thou wilt not gratify the desires of the flesh.’ You look like a whore, Lize. Satan’s spawn come to tempt men and raise their lust.

Papa! How could you?

Put this on. We’re getting close to town. I don’t want the men folk starin at you.

He picked up a white, lacy shawl from the seat and handed it to her.

Cover yourself, girl, for the love of God, or you’ll get a willow switch across your bottom when we get home.

Fine!

She draped the shawl over her shoulders and pulled it closed over her bodice with an exaggerated motion. She was, after all, only nineteen and filled with adolescent hyperbole.

And the bonnet.

She picked up the matching blue bonnet, violently knocked the dust off it against her legs, and tied it on.

There! Satisfied?

You’re a willful girl, Eliza Montgomery. I pray your husband will beat that out of you. I’ve tried, and failed, God knows.

He pulled up in front of the church and got down from the wagon. He was wearing his old Sunday-best black wool broadcloth trousers and waistcoat, with a white shirt buttoned up to the top. He only had one hat, a battered old gray cowboy hat with sweat stains at the headband.

The main street of Providence, Utah Territory stretched north toward Logan in Cache Valley. The sun, peeking over the mountains to the east, threw shadows of the buildings into the dusty street. Providence was a small town, lined with a few shops on either side of the thoroughfare. The buildings were all false-front unpainted clapboard, no more than rickety shacks. The Presbyterian church, standing at the south edge of town, was the one building which was painted white and stood out from the others. Walking down the street, one encountered the doctor’s office, the sheriff’s office and jail, the feed store, the general store, and, of course, the saloon. Langston’s livery stable stood apart at the far end of town, adjacent to the blacksmith’s shop, and across the street was the new pony express post and telegraph office. Banking, if done at all, was done in Logan, just a few miles north. Most farmers didn’t trust the bank with their meager earnings. The undertaker, a Mr. Mortimer Greene, had a small office where it was best served, next to the sheriff’s office.

A few people walked about on the wood plank sidewalks, but most of the townsfolk in the area were headed to the small Mormon church just outside of town. This was Mormon country.

Her father tied the horses off to a railing, went to the other side of the carriage, and held up his hand for Eliza. She took his hand and stepped down onto the dusty street of Providence.

Providence, she muttered to herself, looking up at the cloudless azure sky. The benevolent guidance of God on us poor mortal souls. If only He’d provide a little providence to get me out of this forsaken town of religious zealots and drunken cowboys.

She placed her arm through his and walked to the church, smiling demurely and nodding at the ladies in attendance. Two-faced biddies, all of them, she thought. I know for a fact that Mrs. Clarendon sees the pastor a little too often than is comfortable for my tastes. Who knows what they