The Wicked West

“Mrs. Anders,” Sheriff Hale murmured, touching the brim of his hat. The young widow lowered her eyes when she inclined her head, more modest than any other woman he’d ever met. She was English, and that probably explained it. It certainly explained her pale skin.

“I understand you have some misgivings about our local bank. Mr. Johnson asked me to stop by and give my reassurance. It’s secure and legitimate and a much safer place to keep your money than in your mattress.”

“I apologize,” she said. Her soft voice touched him like a physical sensation, like fur against his skin.

Hale frowned at the strange thought.

“It’s not that I suspect Mr. Johnson of being a criminal. It’s just that I was warned not to be naive, so the idea of turning my money over to a stranger…And I’ve never seen a bank constructed of raw timber before.” When her green eyes rose, they didn’t look the least bit timid despite her soft voice. In fact, they flashed with strength before she lowered them again.

Hale took a step back, because what he really wanted to do was step forward, closer to her. Her shiny brown hair glinted gold in the sun and those jade eyes burned through him. He felt the edge of the rough porch with his heel, and set his foot down on the packed dirt of the street. “You were smart to hesitate,” he assured her. A faint flush washed over her cheeks as she licked her lips.

Hale cleared his throat. “I’m always right next door if you have any more questions.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” she whispered.

Well, hell,
he thought as he turned toward the setting sun and made his way toward the saloon. He couldn’t tell if she was delicate, weak-willed or just quiet. If she was delicate, Mrs. Anders wasn’t going to last long in Wyoming. He wasn’t really sure why she’d come in the first place. Just because her brother had left her the house didn’t mean she had to live in it.

“I give her a month,” he muttered as he drew closer to the grating music spilling out the open windows of the saloon. One month at most, and then his new neighbor would head back to England where she clearly belonged. “Fool woman.”

He had no idea why her being here bothered him. He just knew that it wasn’t right. Life here in Wyoming was short and rough. Even the toughest men could end up broken, and everyone, regardless of age, sex or strength…everyone turned hard after a few years in the face of the harsh sun and brutal winters.

He didn’t like that he’d have to worry about this fragile woman. Didn’t like that she was his responsibility. And he definitely didn’t like the way her downcast eyes roused shifting shadows on his soul.

When Mrs. Anders left this place, he’d be able to breathe easy again. But right now, he needed a goddamn drink, and that was one thing he wouldn’t deny himself.

Hale didn’t bother lighting a lamp before he moved through the entry of his home and trudged up the stairs. The moon wasn’t bright enough to light his way, but he’d lived in this house for four years now. There was nothing here to trip him up.

Head heavy from one shot of whiskey too many, he shrugged wearily out of his coat and unfastened his gun belt. The pistols clanked hard when he laid them on the low dresser, and Hale winced.

He unbuttoned his shirt and laid it neatly over a chair. He didn’t have a wife to take care of these things anymore. Marie had left three years before, run off with some rich miner headed for Sacramento. Now anything that needed pressing had to go to the laundry. Any food he needed, he had to cook himself. And anything else that required a woman’s touch…Hale went without. His head grew even heavier at the thought.

Though he wanted to drop straight into bed, his face felt coated with grit, so Hale washed up quickly with some cold water and soap, then scrubbed his skin with a piece of rough toweling. As he lowered the rag, his eye caught on movement in the window, and he froze.

It was just the widow, he realized almost immediately. Before she’d moved in two weeks before, the place next door had been empty for months, and he’d gotten used to looking out at darkness. But now a soft glow lit the small table where she sat in her bedroom. Her hand rose toward the lamp and set the flame a bit higher. The light touched her body now, and the sight stole Hale’s breath away.

She wore some sort of delicate wisp of a gown, something he guessed wealthy ladies wore as they tended to their toilette. The women here in Wyoming, on the other hand, didn’t truck with such luxuries. They wore a shift when a dress wasn’t needed. Even the whores didn’t waste money on these kinds of unmentionables. But this woman did.

As he watched, she slipped off the fluttery sleeves of the robe, and it collapsed into a puddle on her chair.

Hale’s breath hitched. Now her shoulders were bare but for the thin straps of her chemise. Fine, white shoulders led down to pale arms and, finally, to delicate wrists. Her hands, unblemished by even the barest hint of labor, rose to her hair and began to work the long pins free. Hale followed the line of her arms back down. Her corset, another wonder of delicate fabrics, cinched her waist into an impossibly small span.

Mrs. Anders was a portrait of sophistication and impracticality. She was a pampered flower, and she’d wilt soon enough. Hale shook his head in scorn. But the motion was stopped by the abrupt fall of her hair.

The heavy darkness fell across her shoulders and stopped his previous thoughts. How did she fit that much hair up into such a tight coil? Her arms flexed, and she began to brush.

For some reason, Hale’s cock tightened at the sight.

Actually, there wasn’t much mystery about it. He hadn’t been with a woman in months. And each stroke of the brush pushed her breasts higher above the lines of her corset. Her hair curved around her, as if it wanted to touch her skin. As if it wanted to wrap her tight and never set her free.

By the time she’d finished brushing, Hale was rock hard and throbbing. When the widow reached back to tug at the ribbon of her corset, Hale reached for the buttons of his trousers.

Marie had called him cruel. She’d cried and said he was too rough when he made love to her, too demanding. He still couldn’t quite understand that. He’d been painfully gentle with her, doing his best to keep his real needs hidden, suppressing every urge to slate his true lust. But she’d known somehow. She’d claimed to be frightened by the fever in his eyes.

And Marie hadn’t known the half of it.

The things he’d wanted to do…The things he fantasized about doing…Hale had to go to Cheyenne to buy those kinds of services, even the watered-down versions of his fantasies he tried to appease himself with. But a man couldn’t live for six months without
some
kind of release.

Still, that didn’t make this right.

He’d just convinced himself to turn away when her corset loosened. Mrs. Anders pushed the front hooks together, and suddenly the whole contraption broke open and fell to the ground.

Hale held his breath while the widow filled her lungs. The gossamer fabric of her shift clung to her skin. Her breasts rose, her back stretched, and her hands curved into her waist, as if the sensation of freedom was almost too much.

She dug her fingers briefly into the flesh above her hips, then she dragged her palms up, up, touching every rib along the way before her hands curled over her full breasts and squeezed.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

When her head fell back, there was no longer any doubt that her caresses weren’t about rubbing away the day’s pain. Her fingers closed over her nipples and squeezed, and her lips parted on a gasp. The sound floated through his open window to seize his throbbing cock.

Hale’s mind swam with whiskey and lust, and despite his stubborn nature, he couldn’t find the will to resist. He slipped his hand into his trousers and freed himself.

Mrs. Anders hands were just as busy. She squeezed and caressed and pinched. Then she cupped one hand beneath the neckline of her shift and pushed the edge beneath the heavy curve of one breast. Her nipple was dark and red from the attention she’d shown it, and Hale’s mouth watered. He wanted it in his mouth. He wanted to bite it.

He stroked harder, faster, thinking of putting his teeth to her until she cried out in pain. Her thumb pressed against the red bud, then suddenly she pinched it and twisted hard.

As she whimpered aloud, Hale’s balls tightened to stones and he exploded, his seed arcing away from his body onto the bare wood floor while he imagined it splashing across her white breasts.

“Ah, God,” he panted, shame filling the space lust had so recently occupied. Averting his eyes from the sight of Mrs. Anders’s half-nude body, Hale stumbled toward his bed and let his knees give way.

Damn it all to hell.

There was a difference between a man knowing he was an animal and actually behaving like one. He was supposed to protect the people of this town, not degrade them.

He threw an arm over his eyes and spun down into the dark knowledge that his wife had been right about him. He was an unnatural beast, and she’d been right to leave.

Lily’s arm shook from the heavy pull of the pail of milk she carried as she moved down the wooden walkway. She tried to maintain a pleasant expression despite the ache taking over her shoulder. She wasn’t strong enough for this place. She understood that. The people were pleasant, but she saw every doubtful glance they sent her way when they thought she wasn’t looking.

Her trembling arm didn’t inspire confidence, even in her own mind. When milk began to spill out, Lily set the pail down and switched to the other hand. That arm began to shake almost immediately.

No, she wasn’t strong enough for this place. But somehow, it suited her.

When she’d received word that her brother Hamilton had died, Lily had been filled with guilt. She was the reason he’d left England in the first place. Her childish, foolish outburst had caused a rift in their family that had never healed. Hamilton had fled to America, and Lily had married a man old enough to be her father, just to escape the memories of her missing brother.

But Hamilton had written to her several years later, and she’d sent a letter back, filled with her regrets and apologies. Over time, they’d become closer as correspondents than they had been as siblings. So although Lily had been shocked and distraught at the news that he’d died of a fever, she hadn’t been surprised at being named his sole heir. The little he’d had belonged to her now and it had given her the opportunity to start a new life free of her late husband’s world.

Twenty feet from her front door, Lily set the pail down and stretched her shoulders back. Almost there. She wanted to do this. Women here did not depend upon servants for everything. Lily had hired a girl to cook and clean and help her dress, but the girl couldn’t do everything. And it felt good to have purpose.

Lily rolled her neck and bent down to carry the pail for the last little stretch.

When she straightened, she saw that her path was blocked by a man. A very large man. Heat pumped through her veins at the sight of him.

“Sheriff Hale,” she breathed as he stuttered to a halt before her. She let her eyes fall to the ground as she always did when he was near. Something about him made her want to curl up at his feet and purr. He was so powerful. So in control.

He stepped back. “Mrs. Anders.” His deep drawl stroked her nerves. “You need help with that?”

“No, thank you.” Her nipples tightened, and she dared a look up at his face, wondering if he were picturing her as she’d been last night. His eyes were hard and unforgiving. Lily shivered, sending a few drops of milk splashing against her skirt.

Sheriff Hale frowned as a flush darkened his already tanned face. “Here.” He reached for the pail, and there was no mistaking the roughness of his skin when his fingers brushed hers. This man was no gentleman despite his offer of help.

“Thank you,” she sighed, relieved that her trembling lust sounded like gratitude.

He moved swiftly to her door and Lily had to hurry to catch up. “Where do you want it?”

Right here,
she longed to say, but pointed the way toward the kitchen at the back of the house. She’d heard him come home the night before, had heard the faint clomp of his boots as he moved to the second floor. She’d noticed that her bedroom window faced his and she’d fantasized about undressing for him, about lighting a lamp and letting him watch. Last night the opportunity had presented itself, and Lily hadn’t bothered to resist.

Neither had he.

Her sex grew wet at the memory, and she reveled in the way his big body filled the small kitchen. He was only inches away. Would he touch her? Would he push her against the wall and wrap his rough fingers around her wrists? Would he lay her over his knee as her husband had done?

Lily held her breath.

But no…He didn’t touch her. Of course he didn’t. The sheriff simply set the pail on the table and edged past her to the short hallway. Her heart twisted at the sight of him walking away. Even after last night, did he have no interest in her?

Just as she gave up hope, his back tensed beneath the worn cream cotton of his shirt and Sheriff Hale stopped.

Lily waited, knees trembling in anticipation. Did he mean to do something? Did he mean to speak? But the mystery refused to solve itself. The sheriff rolled his shoulders back and walked on without even a glance in her direction.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t disappointment that swelled through her body, leaving heat in its wake. It was power.

She
had
affected him. He was not indifferent. And Lily was more convinced than ever that he was exactly the kind of man her husband had taught her to crave.