Blurb:
Harker’s Hell. Early settlers thought
they’d found a western re-creationist’s heaven there. Instead this new world
became a hellish version of the Old West. Now the seeds of long-ago conflict
are stirring to life…
BETRAYED—FORCED INTO
OBEDIENCE
Dissonance Walker is in a
world of trouble. Sold to a secret organization by her parents, her ability to
disobey is ripped away by a brutal experiment. When she escapes, Dissonance
believes the worst is over. She’s dead wrong. She’s captured and sold as a
pleasure slave.
The key to reversing the
experiment lies hidden in the stretch of arid waste called the Badlands.
Problem is, the too-sexy bounty hunter who bought her stands in her way.
HE LOOKED LIKE HE PICKED
HIS TEETH WITH THE BONES OF HIS ENEMIES
Bram Spencer is sure the
heat has baked his brains. With his friend murdered and his ranch under attack,
he needs to attend to a little unfinished business.… It sure didn’t include
buying some fool woman because she pokes at scabs he thought long healed. Then
he discovers the only way to set her free is to marry her.
Secrets have a long life. Sometimes decades. Now the past is about to slam into the present. Only trust can save Dissonance and Bram from a shocking evil … but trust is a hard commodity to come by on the frontier.
Excerpt:
Judge.
Jury.
Executioner.
I created bounty
hunters—and gave them absolute power.
Chapter 1
Demonstrate
your skill, slave. I order you, take him in your mouth.”
Bram Spencer
ignored the vulgar command coming from the front of the packed saloon, ignored
the fact a pleasure auction was taking place, something that under normal
circumstances would have had him turning right back around. He let the batwing
doors swing closed behind him.
Six mares. Six very
fine mares that had been core to the Flying A’s breeding program, slaughtered, and
left like so much offal for the vultures to pick clean. Ned Hansom was going to
pay. This time, Bram refused to let lack of evidence get in the way of justice.
The distinctive
crack of whip against flesh sounded. A woman’s cry pierced the hot, heavy air.
Something inside
Bram stilled, became a cold, deep well of darkness. His reaction instinctive,
he turned left, toward the island of light at the front, instead of toward
Hansom’s closed office door at the back.
In the low,
flickering glow from the kerosene lamps that lined the walls, Bram saw men, ten
deep, crowded around the stage, shirts plastered to their backs in the stifling
heat. The smell of rancid tobacco, sweat, and lust hovered in the air in an
almost visible miasma.
But what captured his
attention was the young woman standing at the edge of the wooden dais. Light
limned her figure, made a halo out of her blonde hair. Bram couldn’t take his
gaze off her. It wasn’t that he could see her nipples beneath the muslin
camisole. Or the dark shadow that hinted at the vee of her thighs. No, it was
the small fists balled next to her sides as she stared out over the audience as
if daring them to buy her.
The hard tension
holding his muscles battle-ready released. Damn, would he never learn? He studied
the woman with a cynical eye, wondering what she’d done to end up a pleasure
slave. Probably skipped out on some debt and got caught. On Harker’s Hell, not
honoring an obligation was the surest way into the clutches of a trainer. No
debtor prisons here. Didn’t matter in any case, wasn’t his business.
Across the sea of
men, her gaze locked onto his. He lifted one brow in mocking inquiry.
Help me.
It wasn’t a plea.
It was a demand. Bram shook his head.
Fury flashed in her
eyes.
Contrary cuss that
he was, Bram shook his head again. If Goldie there was looking for a hero,
she’d latched onto the wrong man. He’d tried it once and it hadn’t agreed with
him. His hand went to a spot just center right of his chest, and rubbed.
Please.
Sorry, honey. That
dog don’t hunt. He gave one short, final shake of his head even as he moved
over to the bar. Something squished under his boot. Bram’s lip curled. Figured,
the way his luck ran lately. No tellin’ what he’d catch if he actually plunked
his ass down in a chair. One beer and he was outta there.
Back against the
age-polished wood, he signaled for the drink and let his gaze drift around the
saloon before returning it to the raised platform. When the bartender slid the
glass beside him, Bram tipped his hat away from his forehead and took a sip.
“What’s going on?” He kept his eyes on the run-down stage that back in its
heyday had sported velvet drapes.
“Silas Trainer of
Deadwood Territory is auctioning off a couple of slaves.” The bartender jerked
a disinterested thumb in the direction of the platform. “That one’s the last.
Supposed to be special.” He shrugged. “Claims she’s trained to obey any order.”
Trainers held a
unique position on Harker’s Hell. Once a person joined the profession, they
gave up their surnames in favor of Trainer. They weren’t a particularly
respectable lot, but what they offered was in demand.
Elbows on the
scarred wood, Bram studied the slave as she took one small step, then another,
toward the fat man sitting in the middle of the stage, his legs splayed apart.
Somehow, he couldn’t see obedience and those flashing eyes going together.
Another small step
gave him a glimpse of a shapely ankle. Bram’s groin stirred, catching him by
surprise. He growled, a low, nearly silent sound. Stupid thing had less common
sense than the fool dog that had started following him around a couple weeks
ago, a battered tin plate in its massive maw.
Bram considered his
reaction to a woman who looked as if he’d have to fish around in the bedsheets
to find her before he could make love to her. He didn’t like small women and
doubted this one would reach much above the center of his chest. Besides, she
was too damn skinny. Nothing there for a man to hang onto.
His gaze locked on
the stage and the woman there, he shifted to a more comfortable position.
Despite her shortcomings, the wild halo of sunshine blonde hair and the creamy
skin revealed by the camisole was fetching. He let out a slow breath before
taking a long swallow of the bitter liquid. Showed what going too long without
could do to a man. He’d fix that first chance he got, and it damn sure wouldn’t
be in here.
Her hands were
still clenched into small fists, and Bram gained the distinct impression she
wanted to hit someone. When she turned her head and unerringly met his gaze,
hers hot with challenge, a small grin tugged at his mouth. No doubt who she had
in mind.
“Hey, Silas. I
think you’re lying outta your ass. This here gal ain’t trained.” The drunken
bellow sounded over the hoots and catcalls.
An expansive smile
did little to mute the hard glitter in the slave trainer’s muddy brown eyes.
The man spread his arms. “Just a little shy. This one, gentlemen, is different.
She is, as you so astutely noted, still in need of some refining, yet she will
obey any direct order. Hold, gal.” As if on an invisible leash, the woman
jolted to a halt. “Watch.”
Fear flashed across
her face.
Bram straightened.
Without looking, he set the beer on the bar.
Auctions were
considered one of the tamer forms of entertainment in the Territories, and one
he made a point of avoiding, but there was something about this auction that
rasped across Bram’s nerves like a dull knife. Wasn’t the fear on the woman’s
face. No, out here on the fringes of what passed for civilization, fear was a
fact of life. Same as breathing. Wasn’t that, but something else. Something he
didn’t like seeing on any woman’s face.
Pain.
Coating the fear
was an agony so strong he could taste it.
“Gal, kneel.”
Once again, her
gaze sought his.
Goddammit, why did
she keep looking at him like she expected him to help? Couldn’t she tell he was
the last man she should turn to? Feeling cornered and mean, he gave a sharp,
negative shake of his head to her unspoken question.
Bram closed his
eyes on the sudden tightness in his chest. But he couldn’t close out the stark
whiteness of her face, or what he could swear was bone-deep disappointment in
her eyes. When he opened his, she knelt on the stage, her bottom facing the
audience.
“Untie your
petticoats.”
Long, elegant
fingers, a visible tremble in them, worked on the side fastenings. A shudder
went through the too-slender form.
Sickness swept
through Bram’s stomach. Didn’t have to read the book to know what was coming
next. Calling himself every kind of fool for caring, Bram moved. He used his
height and bulk to clear a path. Three more steps. Just three more steps and
he’d be close enough to leap onto the stage. Already he could feel the slimy
trainer’s throat beneath his fingers.
“Push ʼem down.”
Silence rushed over
the crowd as the frothy material slid down inch by inch to reveal a perfect
heart-shaped behind clad only in bloomers so paper-tissue thin they might as
well not be there.
Bram froze mid
step. A low curse escaped him. Visible through the material, a single bright
red lash mark marred the perfection of the pale buttocks.
Catcalls and
obscene suggestions shook the rafters. The sound uprooted Bram’s boots. He
reached the edge of the stage just as the trainer ordered, “Position four.”
Long, rounded,
not-at-all-skinny thighs parted. Slow, as if she fought the command all the
way. Down, down, she went until her forehead touched the scuffed wood of the
floor.
“I guarantee she’s
a genuine virgin, gentlemen. Imagine. You can bind her with your word alone. No
matter how rough you take her or how much you hurt her, she will not fight.” An
oily smile smeared across Silas Trainer’s face. “Unless, of course, you like ʼem to fight.” He winked. “In that case, just
give the order.” He stroked
a finger down the crease separating the surprisingly plump globes.
Another shudder
went through her.
Instant fury roared
through Bram.
Each finger. He was
going to break each fucking finger.
“She never sucked
Cal,” the same drunk called out. “You’re lyin’ to us to get the bids higher.”
“Never, gentlemen,
and I shall prove it. Cal, being the last high bidder and desirous of a
demonstration, shall have it. Up Dissonance. Go to Cal. These gentlemen want to
see what they’ll get for their money.”
The slave staggered
to her feet. She turned her head, scanned over the panting, leering mob to the
back of the bar.
Bram knew with sure
instinct she looked for him.
Her shoulders
slumped. Without protest, she stepped out of the mass of petticoats and
stumbled toward the sitting man.
Guilt sucker-punched
Bram in the gut.
“Stop.” The word
was out of his mouth before his brain even got into gear.
The woman swayed to
a standstill. Unmistakable relief eased the lines of strain around her mouth
and eyes. The belief in that gaze, when it met his, staggered Bram.
Damn it all to
hell.
Putting one large
hand on the stage, Bram leapt up in a smooth, graceful motion. The trainer took
a quick step back, a wary flicker in his mud-colored eyes.
“How much?”
Awareness and an inexplicable heat prickled down Bram’s spine, and he knew
without looking that she watched him. He’d never had such an intense reaction
to a woman in his life. Bram wasn’t sure he liked it. Not sure one little bit.
Life was much less complicated when a man could walk away without looking back.
“W-what do you
mean?”
Bram leaned a
little closer. “I said how much. How much do you want for her?”
The smaller man
gripped the lapels of his poorly cut jacket, and puffed out his chest like a
banty rooster. Two fingers of his left hand lifted. Bram didn’t miss the small
movement. Nor the fact that at the signal several rough, powerful men moved in
from the sidelines.
Bram ignored them
for the moment and focused on the man in front of him. Goddamn, it chapped his
ass that he’d sunk to the level of buying a woman.
Some things, once
done, couldn’t be undone. He knew. Knew the cost and knew the consequences of
taking just one step past what your conscience would allow.
He also knew, right
at this moment, the slave had forgotten he’d stayed to watch them auction her
off like so much cattle on the hoof. What would she think if she found out he’d
done worse things in his life? Much worse. Would the miner, or even Trainer,
not look so bad then?
Evidently, just the
knowledge the bouncers were closing in stiffened the smaller man’s backbone.
“Get back in the audience and bid like everyone else. These men are waiting for
a demonstration.” He swept his arm out. “Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
“Damn straight. Get
your ass down, cowboy,” came the shout.
“I said, how much?”
His low words carried despite the noise. It was the idiot’s own fault if he
didn’t recognize the threat underlying the soft question. From the corner of
his eye, he saw Cal start to rise.
Bram drew and fired
his gun in one seamless move. The bullet hit right between the man’s legs.
Splinters from the wooden chair imbedded themselves in the miner’s thighs. Face
pasty and slack with shock, he sat.
Silas Trainer wiped
a hand over his forehead. He no longer looked so confident. “He bid fifty
dollars.”
Damn liar. More
like twenty. Bram didn’t call the trainer on the exaggeration as his ears
picked up renewed rumbling from the crowd. His back teeth ground together. If
he wanted to get out of there without a full-fledged brawl, he needed to seal
the deal.
“Put your
petticoats on, lady,” he said without turning his head. Not that it’d made a
lick of difference. The image of her in the threadbare garments was already
seared into his memory. He scowled. As it was for every cowboy, miner, and man
jack in the place.
Always ready to
take offense, and not yet ready to have their fun ended, several dirty, unkempt
cowboys climbed onto the stage as the woman obeyed his terse command. Before
Bram could react, a shotgun sounded behind the crowd.
Everyone froze as
if one of the rare ice storms had sleeted down from the sky.
“Back in your
seats, gentlemen.” Irony laced the stranger’s last word.
Bram didn’t
recognize the voice. Didn’t really care who it was as long as he was on his
side. “Get me a table,” he called out.
A lean, blond man
stepped out of the shadows. In one hand he held a small, round table. A shotgun
rested in the crook of the other arm. He pushed through the motley collection
of cowboys, miners, gamblers and townsfolk, and tossed the table onto the dais
before jumping up after it. Though he didn’t smile, his hazel eyes were amused.
“Somebody piss in your beer?”
“Lookin’ to find
out?” Bram growled.
“Nope.”
“Then shut up and
witness this bill of sale.”
“I will have you
arrested.” Silas’s hand, the left one, crept inside his jacket.
“Unless you’re
looking to wind up planted six foot deep, I suggest you take your hand off that
derringer.” Never failed. No good deed went unpunished. Getting involved was a
fucking pain in the ass.
“She belongs to me.
The law says so.”
“The law won’t do
squat,” Bram broke in, his finger itching on the trigger. As God was his
witness, he just knew he was going to regret not plugging the little weasel.
Bram pulled three platinum coins from his left shirt pocket and slapped them
down on the table.
You could have
heard an ant crawl, it was that silent. And Bram knew exactly why; the unique
pieces, each worth more than a year’s wages for the average cowboy, branded him
a federal bounty hunter.
When Harker’s Hell
was settled, old Harker discovered that people will be people. And that meant
there wasn’t a law made that wouldn’t get broken. He’d discovered something
else, too. This new world was a damn big place. Too damn big to issue a warrant
and then haul their asses back to Lil’ Washington, the new territorial capital,
to stand trial.
But Bram had to
give those earlier bounty hunters credit, they’d tried. Thirty-five lost their
lives before those early settlers gave into the inevitable.
Once an arrest
warrant was issued, the bounty hunter could hold trial wherever he found the
wanted man. No jurors need apply. If found guilty, the person was taken to the
nearest town to carry out the punishment, usually a hanging, or executed on the
spot.
Most were executed
on the spot.
In some cases, the trial
had already taken place and all that was left was the killing.
There was a reason
people like him were paid so well.
Bram swept a glance
over the crowd. Not one man met his eyes. Cowards. Wanted his services to keep
them safe but would spit behind his back.
His shoulder blades
itched. She was staring. His back tightened. Now she knew. He waited for her
gasp of shock but refused to turn. The thought of witnessing the usual disgust
and fear that filled most women’s eyes once they learned his profession unsettled
him.
Silence. Nothing
but silence.
Something in Bram
relaxed, not much, but enough for him to breathe.
Silas Trainer
licked his lips and reached for the heavy discs.
Bram thumbed the
hammer.
At the loud click,
Silas’s hand froze, mid-air.
“Not so fast.”
Still using his left hand, Bram dug into the saddlebag thrown over his shoulder
and pulled out a tally book. He tore out a sheet of paper and shoved it, and a
whittled-down nub of a pencil, across the table. “First, the bill of sale.” He
showed his teeth. “Just so it’s all legal like. Wouldn’t want the new marshal
to get the wrong idea,” he drawled.
“You don’t need a
bill of sale.” The other man couldn’t take his eyes off the huge sum sitting in
the middle of the table. He snapped his fingers. “Come here, gal.”
She shuffled over
to them.
Bram found himself
watching her. A frown tugged at his brows. She moved as if each step hurt. He
noted the moment she noticed his attention. Her chin lifted, the gesture as
haughty as the Territorial governor’s wife. He grinned and crooked his finger,
motioning her closer.
There. There was
the fire he’d first seen in her eyes. This one didn’t like orders. Not one
little bit.
All amusement fled
as she drew closer and a faint evergreen fragrance sent blood rushing to his
groin. He silently cursed his unruly prick, the woman who’d gotten him into
this mess, and the too-knowing gleam in the blond cowboy’s eyes.
Silas yanked down a
strap of the slave’s camisole, baring most of a tender upper slope of breast.
He held out one hand and a short, cadaverously lean man rushed from behind the
curtain. Giving Bram a fearful glance, he shoved a small object into Silas’s
hand and rushed back off the stage.
Silas held up a
small branding iron. It was like nothing Bram had ever before seen. The trainer
manipulated one end, changing the shape of the brand. “Just tell me how to make
it.” Trainer snapped his fingers again, and the skeleton man rushed out with a
small brazier filled with glowing coals. The branding iron glowed red-hot in the
blink of an eye. Hot enough to scorch a deep groove in a hunk of wood.
Hot enough to scar
tender skin for life.
Her small gasp
ricocheted through Bram with the impact of a splintered bullet. She seemed to
shrink in on herself. He couldn’t blame her. The brand wasn’t intended for him
and his skin
shrank instinctively. “Unless you want that branding iron shoved up your ass,
you will write me out a bill of sale and sign it.”
“Friend, you don’t
understand. I’ll just brand her and amend her record at the Registry to reflect
her change in ownership.”
“I want a bill of
sale with your signature, my signature,” he aimed a thumb to his left, “and his
signature as witness. Do you understand, friend?”
Ice coated each word.
“Uh, yes. Not a
problem.” Silas bent over the paper, scribbling rapidly.
Not trusting the
trainer as far as he could piss, Bram studied the scrawl carefully. Once he’d
read every word, he signed it. He slid the paper over to the cowboy. The blond
read the bill of sale before he, too, signed it. Bram folded the document with
his left hand before tucking it inside his shirt. The gun in his right never
once wavered.
“Time to move,” the
blond cowboy said out of the corner of his mouth. He gave a sideways nod at
three of the bouncers positioning themselves in front of the batwing doors
nearest the stage. A shaft of sunlight glinted off the set of brass knuckles on
one man’s hand. From the increased muttering, it was easy to see that the mood
of the drunken spectators and bidders was again leaning toward a fight.
“Shit.”
“Descriptive, but
not very helpful. Any suggestions?” The blond shifted, keeping an eye on the
last two bouncers.
Next time he got
the bright idea to interfere, he’d get someone to shoot his ass. It’d be less
trouble. Across from him, Silas Trainer scooped the coins into a cupped palm.
Bram grinned.
Faster than a striking snake, he snatched one from Silas’s sweaty hand.
“Hey, boys. Drinks
are on me.” He flipped the heavy platinum over their heads, the coin flashing
as it caught the meager light. The bartender lifted one meaty arm and snatched
it out of the air.
“Bounty hunter
trash,” Silas hissed, clutching the two remaining coins against his chest.
Bram ignored him.
Men surged towards
the bar, shouting and calling out their preferences, trapping the saloon’s
bouncers and making them useless. Off to one side, lit by the open door of the
office, Ned Hansom stood cursing, rage and frustration on his face. He motioned
sharply to a couple men loitering near the door. They started pushing their way
through the crowd, aiming directly for Bram.
Bram tipped the
brim of his hat at Hansom, an insolent smile curving his lips. On the scale of
things, it wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.
“That doesn’t look
like a man who’ll soon forget you outwitted him,” the cowboy warned, his palm
cradling the barrel of the shotgun so he could swing it up at a moment’s
notice.
“Counting on it,”
Bram said.
“Sounds personal.”
“It is.”
“Well, as
fascinating as this conversation is, he’ll have the last laugh if we don’t get
moving.”
Bram wrapped one
hand just above the woman’s elbow, conscious of the smooth skin and delicate
muscle beneath his callused palm. Her cheeks pinkened. Had she felt the same
tingle of energy that cascaded through him the moment his skin touched hers?
The cowboy cleared
his throat, making Bram aware he’d been standing there like an addlepated fool.
He hardened his expression, determined not to let her get under his skin again.
Once they were out of the saloon and away from Trainer, he’d get shut of her so
fast it’d set her bloomers afire. He opened his mouth to tell— what the hell
was her name again? Something stupid sounding. Ah, screw it. “Let’s go.”
She stood there.
Irritation flashed
through Bram. “Move it, lady, unless you plan on getting us all killed.”
Awareness flared in
her eyes, eyes he now saw were the color of aged whiskey.
Bram yanked,
pulling her in the direction of the curtain and the rear exit. He knew he was
leaving marks but, dammit, he’d really rather not kill someone today. Or have
his hide ventilated again.
His anger had
nothing at all to do with the fact his palm still tingled.
Once out on the
sidewalk, Bram slowed the pace. He kept his hand on—damn, what was her
name?—the slave’s arm.
Harsh afternoon
sunlight beat down on the weathered wood. Here and there, warped boards had
popped their nails, forming traps for the unwary. He guided her around an older
couple coming toward them, not surprised when the other woman drew her skirt to
the side as they neared.
Was it his
reputation or his appearance? Bram ran his hand over the three-day stubble on
his face. The rough whiskers rasped against his palm. He swore under his
breath. He hadn’t intended to come to town today so hadn’t bothered to shave.
He gave a slight
nod and watched the woman’s gaze skitter away. The man pulled her closer to his
side as they passed.
His reputation,
then.
“You do have a
knack for making friends wherever you go, don’t you?” The blond cowboy leaned
across the woman sandwiched between them and offered his hand. “Stone.”
That slow drawl,
filled with amusement, was beginning to get on Bram’s nerves. He wondered if it
was impolite to shoot the man who helped you. With a true sigh of regret, he
decided it probably was.
“It’s a gift.” He
eyed the hand a moment longer, then shook it. “Spencer.” The too-wide grin he
received in return made him instantly regret the gesture.
The feel of a warm
female body crowding up next to his side, as they entered the respectable part
of town, took his mind from the irritating cowboy and put it firmly back on the
problem of what to do with her. Before he could decide, Bram became aware of
the attention they were garnering; the sideways glances, the uneasy drawing
away, suddenly reminded him the woman was clad only in her unmentionables, and
those scandalous, at best.
He lengthened his
stride, intent on hustling her to the livery so he could stash her out of sight
while he found her some clothes. She couldn’t stay out on the street dressed as
she was. First drunk cowboy who came along would try to claim her and then he’d
have to shoot him. The marshal would never forgive him for causing a ruckus on
the main street.
Struggling to keep
up with him, she shot him a glare when she almost tripped. “Slow down.” Then
she clamped her lips together, fine lines forming beside her mouth.
With a sigh, Bram
slowed his pace to one she could manage comfortably. It suddenly struck Bram as
odd that she hadn’t spoken until now. He shrugged. At least she wasn’t chewing
his ass out.
“Hansom won’t be
the only one after you, you know.” Stone put a finger to the dusty brim of his
hat as an older woman and her young daughter passed. The girl giggled, only to
be hastily hushed. He flashed her a smile. The woman rushed her daughter inside
the closest establishment. The shop bell jangled furiously behind them.
“Silas? The man has
no cause to complain.”
“You stole one of
the coins back from him. You don’t think he’s a mite perturbed by that?”
“Hell, no.” Bram
lowered his voice as a passerby’s shocked gasp floated back on the hot, still
air. He peered around the slave squeezed between them, canting his head so he
could see under the brim of the cowboy’s hat. “Why should he? I made him rich.
He made more off this one sale than he could in two years. Hell, three years.”
“You made him look
the fool. Man doesn’t abide that. Not if he wants to keep his reputation.”
Heat brushed Bram’s
arm as the woman tried to burrow into his shadow. The wild profusion of
sunshine curls, partially caught back in a loose knot, hid most of her face,
but the little he could see was beet red. Couldn’t be helped. His duster was in
the wagon and he didn’t think shucking out of his worn, faded woolen shirt
would ease her embarrassment. If anything, it’d call more notice to her. Big as
he was, walking about shirtless would be like trying to hide a draft horse
among mice. He put his arm around her and hauled her up against his side,
offering her what concealment he could.
Despite her being a
bit of nothing, she fit against him as if she belonged there. And despite
knowing he shouldn’t, Bram pulled her closer. That faint scent of evergreen
grew stronger, almost pushing out the other, unpleasant odors of daily life.
Chimara, in the
heart of Dodge Territory, was a typical frontier town. Well, not exactly
typical. It was rougher, dirtier, and uglier than most any other town. It was
hell on women and children.
It suited him to a
tee.
With an effort,
Bram ignored the woman plastered up against his side and picked up his thread
of conversation with Stone. “Be more of a fool if he comes after me and he
knows it.”
“You forced him to
sign a bill of sale.”
“So?”
“Just speculating,
you understand. But what if there were rumors of slaves sold, new owners
murdered, and records never amended.”
They stepped off
the sidewalk briefly. As they passed an alley, the overpowering smell of
manure, heat, and garbage spilled out.
“Quit dancing
around. What are you trying to tell me?”
“That you humiliated
him. That the transaction isn’t worth the piece of paper it’s written on if
you’re dead. That there is only one way to protect your new property.”
“She’s not
property,” Bram growled.
“In the eyes of the
law, she is.” The blond whistled, a tuneless, one-note melody that Bram
instantly wanted to shove back down his throat.
His muscles
tightened and his gut burned. “How?”
“Marriage.”
Bram slammed to a
halt causing a small squawk of feminine protest. He shoved the cowboy up
against the false front of the mercantile. The old, rough-cut boards scraped
his palms and sent splinters into his flesh as he cornered him there. Bram
barely felt them. “What did you say?”
“Marriage. You
know, vows spoken before a minister, judge or Justice of the Peace. I do’s and
promises of love, honor, and obey. You are familiar with the concept, right?”
Stone taunted softly, not seeming to notice the imminent danger he was in.
“I am not getting
married,” Bram stated. No. He was not the marrying kind. If he wanted to dip
his wick, he’d go find a whore. “I’ll give her her freedom.”
“And Silas will
have her back before nightfall.”
“I’ll kill the
bastard first.” Maybe he should just shoot the son of a bitch anyway. Save some
other poor soul from Silas’s tender mercies.
“You can’t set her
free.”
“Why the hell not?”
While he was at it, he’d shoot Stone, too. Just because. The thought cheered
Bram immensely.
“I thought you knew
the law. You’re a bounty hunter, right?”
The damn cowboy
didn’t have to make it sound like he was an imbecile, Bram thought, getting
even more riled. And was that laughter he saw in his eyes? He stared at the
man, waiting. Stone stared back.
Hell, he was going
to have to ask.
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
the cowboy asked, the picture of innocence.
Right between the
eyes. No, that was too quick. The balls. He’d shoot the smug son of a bitch in
the balls. See how funny he found that.
The cowboy cocked
one eyebrow.
“Tell me why I
can’t give her freedom,” Bram gritted between set teeth. “I bought her. She’s
mine. I can set her free if I want.”
“Nope. ʼFraid not. Are you sure you’re a bounty hunter?”
Dumb cowboy just
didn’t know when to stop prodding. He’d been tolerant up ʼtil now. He hadn’t put a bullet in the cowboy,
knocked his teeth down his throat, or even scratched him with a knife. This is
what a man got for being so easy going. “Was a bounty hunter. And made damn
sure I never hunted bounty on slaves.” One more chance, and then his conscience
was clear.
“A slave cannot buy
freedom, be set free, or in any other fashion become a free person. Except…,”
he drawled.
Marriage.
The word hovered
between them.
Bram’s curse
blistered the hot, dry air as he accepted the inevitable.
“It’s the only way
to protect her.” The hazel eyes became serious. “Unless she is bound to you in
marriage, she’s free game to every slaver out there if you’re out of the
picture. Silas Trainer registers every slave he gets. The man doesn’t even have
to kill you to regain his property. All he needs to do is steal her. I guarantee
you he’ll have another bill of sale, this one selling her back to him.”
Bram straightened
and yanked his hat off his head. He speared his fingers through overly long
hair. He truly hated being backed into a corner. “Okay. Say you’re right.
What’s to stop Silas or some other trainer from shooting me and claiming her?”
Tightness cinched down on Bram’s chest. He didn’t harbor any illusions. He’d
make a lousy husband. Hell, anyone with a lick of sense could take one look at
him and see that.
Since shortly after
its founding, there’d been only one immutable law on Harker’s; once you were
married, you stayed married. He couldn’t just marry the slave and let her go
her own way, either. He’d be sentencing her to a half-life as neither wife nor
single woman. Here, family was everything.
Eyes curious, Stone
explained. “Because once married, a person is exempt from slavery for the rest
of his or her natural life. Every marriage record is sent to the Registry in
Lil’ Washington, along with a tintype and fingerprints, and matched against the
slave lists. If a match is found, their slave record is wiped clean. Same as
all new slave contracts are compared to the marriage registry; if someone is
found to be married or has been married, the contract is rendered null and void.
Everyone knows that.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
Damn, he now wish he’d bothered to learn how the Registry worked, but he’d
decided at fifteen to never get married. And he sure as hell had never thought
to own a slave.
“Why do you think
they wrote the law that way?” Stone continued. “With the stigma attached to
being a slave, how many folks do you think would marry one? How many men or
women of your acquaintance would take a spouse who’s spread their legs for half
the town?”
The steel jaws of
the trap snapped shut.
He wanted to slam
his fist into the side of the building. He turned to the silent woman. She
faced away from him, arms around her middle, and the beauty of that pale, next
to bare back tightened something low in his gut. So unlike his hide, which was
darkened and toughened by wind, rain and the brutal lash of the suns.
She turned slowly
to face him. Bram’s mouth went dry at the large nipples visible through the
thin cotton. They were deep pink. Blood rushed to his cock. The damn thing had
never fully deflated. At this rate, he’d be walking doubled over.
“Well?” Shit. He
hadn’t meant to growl the question.
Before she could
answer, boot heels rang out on the wooden sidewalk. The faint, musical jingle
of spurs accompanied each measured step.
Sonovabitch. Just
what he needed to make his day complete. Bram didn’t have to turn to know who
stood behind him. Micah Coulter, friend, fellow bounty hunter, and brand-new
federally appointed marshal of Chimara.
Fate was a bitch
and she had it in for him. That was the only explanation. He braced himself and
faced his friend.
“Bram.” The marshal
tipped his head first at Bram, and then Stone. “I see you caught up with him.”
Bram frowned, but
Micah was speaking again, diverting his attention.
“Mind telling me
what is going on? I have half a dozen good folks complaining about the
shenanigans going on right in the middle of town in broad daylight. Way I hear
it, you two are having congress with this lady”—he nodded at the woman beside
Bram—“right out on the sidewalk.”
Bram put his arm
around the still silent woman next to him as Micah gave her a slow, head-to-toe
perusal, lingering a moment too long on the mouth-watering nipples revealed by
the thin muslin. Micah might be his best friend, but both eyes were about to be
blackened if he didn’t quit staring.
“From the state of
her clothes, or lack thereof, looks like they might be right.” A gust of wind
blew Micah’s long, blue-black hair as he waited to hear Bram’s explanation.
Bram ground his
back teeth. Micah would laugh himself sick if he knew the truth.
Stone, the bastard,
opened his mouth before Bram could think of a lie Micah would buy.
“Couldn’t be
farther from the truth, Marshal.” He stuck both thumbs in the front pockets of
his jeans, and rocked back on his heels. “We were discussing marriage.”
A frown creased
Micah’s brow. “Marriage?” He looked from Bram to the woman now pressed up to
Bram’s side, amazement in the depths of his dark, almost black eyes.
Micah knew Bram’s
taste in women. Usually, it was busty brunettes with enough meat on their bones
a man wouldn’t get poked. Not puny little blondes with more hair than curves.
“Marriage,” Bram
confirmed.
Micah’s frown
deepened. He wouldn’t let it go. The man was like a dog with a bone. Only thing
to do was pony up and confess. Bram tightened his arm, pulling her even closer.
He didn’t like the way the woman was so quiet. In his experience, that meant
either she was up to something or about to cry. He cringed inwardly. Rather
have her try to slit his throat than weep all over him. Just in case, he rubbed
his fingers over her hip, trying to reassure her. “I bought her over at
Hansom’s. From a trainer named Silas.”
Micah’s gaze
sharpened. “You were at a slave auction?”
He made it sound as
if Bram had claimed Hell had opened and spewed forth the Sunday choir. “Stopped
in for a drink.”
“In Hansom’s?” One
dark brow arched.
“Yes,” he replied
shortly, not willing to get into it in the middle of town. Micah knew he
suspected Ned Hansom was behind the attacks on Bram’s ranch.
“But, marriage?”
Bram shot a glare
at the still grinning cowboy. “According to your friend here, the law says I
can’t let her go free.”
Micah nodded as if
that made sense. “So you’re going to keep her.”
“I’m going to keep
her.” Bram remembered the woman in question hadn’t answered. “If she wants to
be kept.”
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I couldn't resist. I bough it.
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