View author's other titles

LENGTH: Long Novella
SENSUALITY: Carnal

Cover art (c) Kat Richards 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-137-2
Download $3.50
(s&h not included in price)

Sloan Harper spent five long, dehumanizing years in a federal penitentiary for a crime he did not commit. During that time, all he had to help him make it through the torturous days and the watchful nights was the thoughts of revenge he aimed to take on the man responsible for his predicament. That revenge would come in the form of his enemy's beloved daughter, Peyton. Kidnapping the virginal spinster, taking her far away from her doting father, and ruining her with his bastard child was all Harper could think about.

Peyton Dalton has spent her entire life wishing for her own home and a husband with whom to share it: neither of which her father ever intends she have. When the handsome outlaw waylays the stage upon which she's traveling and takes her hostage, she begins to realize she should have been more careful for what she wished.

Under a blazing Texan sun, unexpected love will find Harper and Peyton but her father, Jacob Dalton, has only hatred awaiting them at the end of the trail and a bullet with Harper's name on it.

Rating: Carnal. Contains graphic sexual content and adult language.

THE WAYWARD WIND

By

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

© copyright March 2008, Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cover art by Kat Richards, March 2008

ISBN 978-1-60394-137-2

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Prologue

Arming sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his striped shirt, the prisoner looked about him as his fellow inmates toiled in the hot sun. A few of them had passed out and had been dragged to the relative shade of the high stone walls that surrounded the territorial penitentiary. He laid his pick ax down and raised his hand.

"Harper!" came the begrudging acknowledgment.

The shackles around his ankles chaffed in the blistering heat, weighing him down, keeping him from moving freely, but he needed a drink of water from the bucket. His head was aching unmercifully as he shambled over under the watchful eye of the armed guard.

"Hurry it up, Harper!" the guard snarled, caressing his rifle as though it were a willing woman.

The water was hot, but it was wet and as he lifted the dipper to his parched lips he saw buzzards flying above his head. He deliberately let some of the water fall down his chin to help cool him.

"That's enough. Get your sorry ass back to work!" the guard shouted and took a menacing step toward the prisoner.

Falling back into line, he stooped over to pick up the pick ax, the pain in his back like sharp talons dragging down his lacerated flesh. The heavy cotton of his striped prison garb had stuck to his back in just the length of time it took him to bend over and straightening up was hell. He grit his teeth and wearily raised the pick ax, stabbing it into the rocky soil, wishing he was driving it into the face of the bastard who put him in this ninth circle of damnation.

A Negro down the line started chanting a work song and others around him joined in. He's too tired, too angry to add his voice to the others though he'd been told the singing helped to blot out the tedious, backbreaking work.

He would never know who started the fight or why the bull guarding his section of workers turned away, hurrying toward the melee, leaving him and four other men unguarded. All he heard was one of the others hissing at him, waving an arm at him, telling him to run.

"Make tracks, boy!" someone said and hobbled though he was, he lit out along with two others, scrambling toward the river and the marshes beyond, the chain between the leg bands of his shackles biting into his ankles.

Shots were fired, but the bullets hadn't come their way. The three of them were hightailing it as fast as they could, ducking in among the tall rushes at the river's edge, wading into the murky waters of the river. It was tough walking in the silt and tougher still striving to swim with ankle shackles weighing down your feet, but the men were determined and were soon halfway across the water before the first rifle shot came from the guard tower, taking one of them down beneath the churning waves.

Swimming faster than he ever had before, ignoring the burning pain ripping across his back as his movement tore open lashes that had partially healed, the prisoner didn't have time to see if the other man plowing through the water was going to make it to the opposite bank. He was kicking furiously with his bound legs--flailing them in tandem with one another like the tail of a fish cutting through a stream. Dimly, he heard shouting, bullets streaking into the water near his head, heard the dogs barking, and knew the bulls would be after him as soon as they took to their horses. His only thought was to reach the other side, to run, to hide, to get away.

Freedom was a few strokes away and though his back was on fire and his strength was flagging, he made one last desperate heave toward the banks of the river.

If they caught him, he'd be sent to Leavenworth. There was no doubt in his mind about that. As bad as the prison was in Missouri, it might be worse in Kansas though he'd heard they didn't use the cat-'o-nine in there. After having spent more than his share of torturous nights in the frigidly cold dark cells in the winter and then baking in those same cells in the furnace of summer for infractions he could no longer remember having committed, he didn't want to think of what they might do to him in Kansas.

He would rather die than be taken back to the penitentiary.

Once on the other side, he collapsed for only a minute or two on the shore to gain his breath then he was stumbling to his feet, shuffling along as fast as his shackles would allow, making for the roadway and beyond to either freedom or an early grave.

Uppermost in his mind was the face of the man who had condemned him to the last five years of living death and he made a vow to himself—he would either die before he allowed them to drag him back to prison or he'd find Jonas Dalton and exact the revenge that had been building in his gut for those five, horrible years.

Chapter One

Sloan Harper watched the rolling cloud of dust thrown up by the stagecoach as it rumbled over the open plains. His gloved hands were crossed over the saddle horn as he flexed his thighs to hold in check the high-spirited roan stallion upon which he sat. He moved his right hand to the deadly six-shooter strapped to his thigh and caressed the pearl handle. A brutal smile tugged at his lightly whiskered cheeks then he pulled on the reins, turning his mount to maneuver it down the small rise and to the place he'd picked to waylay the stage.

He'd been waiting years for this, he thought. Endless nights of lying on a dirty, thin mattress filled with cornhusks tossed over a bed-rack of iron with his back torn apart and bleeding, his wrists shackle-bruised and oozing pus had given him plenty of time to plan his revenge on the man responsible for the hell into which Harper had been thrown. Nothing less than an exacting vengeance would do even if he forfeited his life in the process.

With his black Stetson shielding his steely eyes from the blistering sun, he gently kicked the horse into a slow gallop to gain the ambush point before the stagecoach. His black duster flapped in the wind behind his legs and his silver spurs flashed as he kept the heels of his dusty boots down. He rode easily, his mind on his objective, a muscle jumping in his sun-darkened jaw as he contemplated the terrible thing he planned to do. When he reached his destination, he reined in the stallion and threw a long leg over the horse's head and slid to the ground, his spurs jingling as he landed. Tying the horse to a piece of deadwood, he pulled his rifle from its leather scabbard, worked the lever and stepped out onto the roadway over which the coach would soon be traveling, knowing the vehicle would have to slow significantly to take the sharp turn that skirted the boulders of the rocky canyon. With the rifle up and pointed, legs spread wide in a deadly stance, he waited for the rumbling, jangling, squeaking stage to approach. As soon as the two men appeared sitting high on the wooden seats, he fired a warning shot and cocked the rifle again.

"Whoa!" he heard the driver shout as he began sawing on the reins to stop the coach's horse, saw the man riding shotgun start to lift his weapon. Harper fired again and the shotgun went flying out of the other man's hands which then immediately went up in the air in surrender.

"Don't shoot!" the man beside the driver yelled. "We ain't carrying no gold!"

"It isn't gold I'm after. Throw down your side arms!" Harper ordered, his rifle trained on the driver and the two men promptly obeyed. "Now, climb down."

Getting to the ground, the two men held their hands above their head as they stepped away from the coach at Harper's command. "On the ground," he told them and with alacrity the driver and his companion dropped to the dirt.

Keeping an eye on the driver and the other man, Harper walked to the stage's door and flung the door open. "Out!" he barked, stepping back, rifle pointed at the door.

The first one out of the stage was a peddler in a loud plaid suit topped off by a ridiculous bow tie, his jowls wobbling as he hurried off to one side, his hands up. "I'm not armed," the peddler assured him with a slippery smile.

Harper ignored the man. His eyes were thin slits of malice beneath the brim of his Stetson. "Don't make me have to come in there after you," he told the other person in the coach. "Get the hell out. Now!"

The other occupant was an older woman who came down the dusty steps, her reticule clutched tightly in her trembling hand. Her face was deathly pale, her lips quivering. "I'm not carrying any valuables, sir," she told him. "I've no jewelry, but I do have a few dollars. If ...."

"Shut the hell up. I've no need of your fucking money," Harper snarled at her and had the satisfaction of seeing her blush furiously at his vulgar words. He swung the rifle toward the peddler a couple of times, letting her know he wanted her to move away from the coach.

The woman gave Harper a worried look then joined the peddler, her knuckles white on the reticule.

"Are you Jacob Dalton's daughter?" Harper demanded, sweeping an insulting glance down her portly frame.

The woman flinched. "Y--yes. Why? Did my father send you to ...?"

"You," Harper snapped, switching his gaze to the peddler. “Come here.”

The peddler looked as though he was about to piss on himself, but he hurried over, his lips trembling.

Harper snaked a hand into the inside pocket of his duster and withdrew an envelope. “Give this to the driver.”

“Y…yes, sir!” the peddler said and caught the envelope flicked his way.

"Now back inside," Harper ordered.

The overweight man hesitated with the envelope clutched against his chest. "What of the lady?" he asked.

"You didn't help her out," Harper replied. "You aren't helping her back in." The rifle lifted a bit. "Now, get your fat ass back in the stage!"

Scrambling back to the coach, the peddler spared his traveling companion an apologetic look before handing the driver the envelope and climbing back into the stage. Settling down on the seat, he looked out the window, staring hopelessly at the woman. "I'm sorry, Miss Dalton," he said.

"You two," Harper called out to the driver and his assistant. "Back on the stage and see that letter gets to the man it’s addressed to."

The two men pushed up from the ground. The driver cast the woman a worried look. "What about the lady? We can't just leave her here."

"You can and you will," Harper told them.

"W--what are you gonna do with her?" the driver asked.

Harper didn't answer. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his finger tensed on the rifle's trigger, and the driver made haste to climb back up to his seat, his companion scurrying up the other side. He stood where he was until the stage was set into motion and the horses were picking up speed before he shifted his stony glower to the woman.

"Come here," he ordered. When she remained where she was, his lip and nose crinkled with annoyance. "I know you're not hard of hearing. You'd best do as I tell you."

She lifted her chin, finding a bit of backbone as she stood there shaking from head to toe. "What are your intentions, sir?" she asked, her voice trembling almost as violently as her body.

A cold, hateful smile pulled Harper's taut lips. He was staring at her with such hatred, such venom the air around them was snapping with tension.

"Don't make me tell you twice, woman," he said in that lethally low voice that bore just a trace of an accent. "I can be a real mean son of a bitch when I'm pissed."

Her ample bosom heaving with fright, she shuffled toward him, the hem of her expensive gown dragging in the sand. Knuckles whiter still as she gripped her reticule, she couldn't take her eyes from his shadowed face beneath the brim of the Stetson for she'd seen the ravage of a wavering scar that bisected his lean right jaw. When she was within striking range, he shot out a hand and gripped her pudgy arm, yanking her with him as he started behind the boulder from which he'd appeared.

"You're hurting me," she protested as he tugged her along.

"Good," he snapped.

She spied his horse, but saw no other means of travel. She knew she'd be riding with him and horses frightened her. Her stomach did a funny little plummet and she dug in her heels, making him stagger.

Harper twisted around, his lips skinned back from his teeth. "Woman, I told you that you don't want to piss me off." He jerked her arm and she nearly lost her balance as she stumbled behind him.

"I don't ride," she said. "I ...."

He didn't give her a chance to finish for he spun her around, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her into the saddle, half-laughing when she fumbled to grip the saddle horn for dear life, striving not to tumble off the other side of the saddle.

"Oh, Lord!" she whispered. "Oh, Lord!"

She was perched there with her skirt hiked up to her knees, her prim little white stockings looking odd against the darkness of the saddle's fender. She was a good foot shorter than him and her feet didn't reach the stirrups and when he swung up behind her, lacing her into the fortress of his arms, he had to nudge her legs out of the way to thrust his boots into the stirrups.

"How the hell much do you weigh, woman?" he snorted as he leaned forward to take the reins.

He felt her stiffen in his arms and sit forward so her back wasn't touching his chest, but when he kicked his mount into motion, she was thrown against him, and when he tightened his hold, she had no choice but to rest against him. The rocking motion of the horse brought her rump into contact with the spread V of his legs and he wasn't expecting the reaction his body gave to the situation. Getting an erection irritated the hell out of him and made his upper lip curl with disgust. The bitch in his arms was Dalton's old maid daughter, the rancher's most treasured possession, the apple of her father's eye, and just knowing she had the bastard's blood running through her veins was enough to make Harper want to slit her throat and leave her to bleed out.

But he had other plans for this woman and those plans would take them across the border and into the Mexican hills where a posse would never find them. She would be entirely at his mercy, under his control he thought as he let the stallion run full-out back the way the stage had come, backtracking, leading anyone who might try to track him far off course.

Her hair was flying free of the ridiculous little bonnet that she was trying desperately to keep atop her head. He got tired of the loose ribbons slashing at his chin and pushed her hand aside to snatch off the stupid thing, letting it flutter behind them.

"Oh!" he heard her gasp and she actually had the nerve to punch him on the forearm in protest. He chuckled, not in the least perturbed by her little show of bravery. When she did it again, he made up his mind to show her who was in charge and bent his left arm so it snaked around her midriff, just under her breasts, and he jerked her against him, fingers digging into her ribcage, and lowered his head so his lips were at her ear.

"Hit me again and I'll strip you naked and you'll ride that way all the way to Mexico," he warned, his warm breath harsh in her ear but gaining the satisfaction of having her go as still as death in his arms. He didn't know if it was his threat or her finding out where he was taking her that made her turn motionless.

They rode for over an hour--cutting back and forth across the Rio Grande several times before he finally took the trail he had planned. It was hot as hell with the wind having died down to a heavy press of air against them, but in the distance lightning forked and dark clouds were building.

He stopped at a little village for food and water, warning her if she spoke, if she called attention to herself, he'd make her pay for it in ways she might find humiliating.

"I'm not adverse to hiking your skirts over your head and laying a hand to your wide-load ass," he threatened. "There won't be anyone here who'd dare to stop me, either."

Since the villagers did not appear to speak English and her captor spoke to them in Spanish, she had no way of knowing what it was he was saying, but now and again they would look at her and shrug. A few snickered at her.

"What did you tell them?" she got up the nerve to ask.

"That your father hogtied me into marrying you and that I'm stuck with you until I can get you farther south and sell you to whoever will pay me to take you off my hands," he said and when her eyes flared and she looked like she would faint, he laughed hatefully. "I told them you paid me to spirit you away from your old man. Annoy me, though, and I just might be tempted to sell you."

She took him at his word and stood meekly by the horse, waiting for him to finish his business. She eyed his mount but even if she had been an expert horsewoman, she doubted she could control the brute. The horse--like its owner--looked dangerous. With her gaze repeatedly straying to her captor, she knew she'd not get far even if she managed to find a docile horse. The outlaw would come after her and she didn't think the punishment he'd mete out for her daring to defy him would be pleasant.

"Let's go," he told her, striding--no, she thought as she got up from the keg upon which she'd been sitting--the man was strutting toward his horse. She noticed several Mexican girls who were batting their dark lashes at him and he was grinning, obviously enjoying the attention. He said something to them and they all giggled, putting hands over their mouths as though whatever it was he'd said had been risqué.

He stuffed their food into his saddlebags and adjusted the cinch on the saddle. As she joined him, he gave her a disgruntled look then swept his arms under her knees and behind her back and tossed her casually upon his horse once more.

She winced and cried out, scrabbling for the saddle horn. "You are certainly no gentleman," she complained.

"Never said I was," he quipped.

She squirmed in the saddle trying to get comfortable and moaned.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he growled as he untied the horse.

"If you must know, my posterior is bruised from the riding. My corset is cutting into my waist so I have a stitch in my right side that makes it hard for me to draw a decent breath," she said, surprising him. "And I have a brutal headache."

"We'll be at the cabin in an hour or so," he mumbled and swung up behind her once more. He shifted in the saddle, his taut thighs bumping hers out of the way.

"An hour?" she said and groaned. "I don't think I can take another hour of riding."

"You can and you bloody well will. Or would you prefer I sling your fat ass over the saddle like a sack of salt and let you ride like that?" he countered.

"I wish you would cease speaking to me in that vulgar manner," she told him, trying once again not to come into contact with his broad chest. "I'd rather you drop dead of a heart attack and the horse stomp you to a bloody mush."

"Won't happen," he told her. He moved so his cock pressed into her backside.

"Stop that, you oaf!" she said, leaning forward.

"If you don't sit back, I swear to you, wench, I will sling you over the saddle on your bulging belly."

"You go to hell," she replied as they left the sanctuary of the poor little village, but she leaned back against him though her body was ramrod straight. "And please refrain from poking that thing at me!"

Harper grinned down at her for he planned to do far more than just poke his clothed rod against her. He intended to send her back to her father a little worse for wear and if luck was allowed, with a reminder of the man who had disgraced his precious offspring.

The rain overtook them about ten miles from the cabin he'd provisioned for them. Lightning spewed forth dangerously and he had no choice but to find shelter in a large cave, hoping there weren't already denizens lurking inside it even more dangerous than he knew himself to be. Dismounting, he led his horse into the semi-darkness and found a place to tether him as thunder rumbled, spooking the beast.

Soaked to the skin, her gown plastered to her chubby body, her hair a sodden mess streaking down her back and into her face, the woman had stumbled along in Harper's wake as rain pelted the entrance to the cave, coming down in solid sheets with the wind blowing the rain sideways. She looked a sorry sight and one that shouldn't have aroused anything in him other than disgust, but as she stood there trembling with her arms wrapped around her while he gathered sticks and brush to make a fire to warm them, he found his gaze straying to her more than it should have.

He tossed his saddlebags down.

"Sit down," he said, nudging his chin toward a flat rock that had obviously been used for just that purpose at some point in time. The cave was dry with a good draft coming through the opening which told him there was a crevice somewhere farther back in the rocky expanse that allowed for drawing in fresh air. There were also the remnants of older fires that bespoke humans had used the cave for shelter in the past.

She perched on the edge of the rock and looked around her, arming a wet strand of her fine hair back from her damp face. "Who are you anyway?" she asked.

"What difference does it make?"

"My name is Peytonlía," she said.

"I know who the hell you are, wench," he grated.

"My father will pay a good price for you to return me to him," she said. "You undoubtedly know he's a very wealthy man with a large ranch in Texas."

He was hunkered down in profile to her and didn't reply as flames leapt in the center of the brush he had managed to fire to life. He fanned it with his hat until it was going good and a low light lit the dark walls.

"Did you hear me, Mister ...?"

"I heard you," he muttered then got to his feet to fetch the saddlebags. "And I told you I don't need your damned money."

He saw her looking longingly at the fire and told her to move closer to dry her clothing. He didn't have to make the offer twice for she came to squat down with her hands out to the heat, her skirts tucked securely over her knees.

"That isn't why you abducted me, then?" she asked, turning her head to watch him as he doled out the food he'd purchased at the little cantina into the two tin plates he'd fished out of his saddlebags. When he didn't answer her, she looked back at the fire, staring into the flames. She flinched when he stuck the plate of beans and rice and tamales in front of her.

"It's cold but it'll have to do," he said as he sat down across from her, his legs crossed tailor style as he began scooping the food into his mouth, chewing methodically, his eyes never leaving her face.

She acted as though she'd never had such plain, peasant fare before, but seemed to enjoy it as she ate gracefully, chewing delicately, and occasionally taking a sip of the canteen he had placed between them.

"You are from Scotland, aren't you?" she surprised him by asking.

His eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"

"You try to hide the brogue but it slips out now and then," she said. "How old were you when you came to America?"

"That's none of your damned business," he grumbled. "You don't need to know nothing about me except I'm a bad man to make an enemy of."

"Is that what my father is to you? An enemy? Is that why you kidnapped me?"

He didn't answer, just finished his food, and went over to set the plate out in the rain. He stood at the cave entrance for a moment then came back to the fire with a look of anger. "Damned rain might keep up all night," he mumbled.

She shrugged and delicately swiped a tortilla through the gravy from the beans. "It'll end when it ends, I guess," she said.

"It'll end when it ends," he mimicked her then unfolded his bedroll and laid it on the ground. He took off his hat and stretched out, crossing his long legs at the ankle as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the stone wall.

"Well, it will," she stated.

Harper wanted to say something else so she wouldn't have the last word, but he was tired of hearing her talk for her thick southern drawl annoyed him.

When she was finished eating, she did as he'd done and took her plate to set it out in the rain to be rinsed clean and like him, she stared out at the rain.

"Get your ass back over here before a lightning bolt zaps down to fry you," he ordered.

"I don't think that's likely," she said.

He craned his head around to pierce her with a glower. "You ever see a man hit by lightning, wench?" he asked. "It isn't a pretty sight although anything might be an improvement on your looks."

He heard her sigh, but she came back to perch on her rock, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"You are such a lout, do you know that?" she asked.

"You want me to show you how big a lout I can be?" he replied with a warning growl.

She tossed her head, looking away from him to stare out the cave entrance. At least she was quiet and he found himself nodding off until he realized she might get up enough courage to beam him with a rock if he let his guard down. Instead, he sat up straighter, uncrossed his legs, and drew one knee up to rest his wrist upon it.

At one point, he caught her staring intently at him and realized her attention was on the vicious scar that ran down his right cheek from temple to chin. His mouth twitched. "Compliments of your father," he informed her.

She flinched, but didn't deny the charge, didn't accuse him of lying. No doubt she knew her father well enough to know he was a brutal man not above marking another man's face in such a cruel way.

"Stop looking at me!" he snapped and when her eyes lowered as though he'd struck her, he felt like a real bastard and that irritated the hell out of him.

In a voice he barely heard, she asked him point blank if he was going to kill her. When he did not answer, she timidly raised her gaze and looked him in the eye. "Are you?" she whispered.

He leaned toward her, his face hateful, his eyes narrowed. "No, bitch," he replied. "I'm going to fuck you."

The moment his words registered, he saw her eyes flare and she sprang to her feet, and ran for the entrance to the cave as fast as her pudgy legs could carry her. She was just barely out in the pouring rain when he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Though she lashed out at him with her fists--hitting him harder than he would have thought possible for a woman her size, getting in one solid slap to his face--and kicking him with her hard little shoes, he bent down, planted his hard shoulder in her midsection and hoisted her from the ground with his arm restraining her legs, ignoring her screams and flailing fists as she pounded at his back, scratching him with her nails as she dug at the small of his back.

He carried her to his blanket and dropped to his knee, letting her fall backward onto the hard ground. Before she could kick out at him, he was shoving the hem of her gown up, wedging himself between her thighs, pinning her wrists above her head with one strong hand as he used his other hand to rip her bodice and chemise downward, exposing her breasts. He reached down to tear her drawers from her lower body, his palm brushing across her wiry curls.

"No!" she shrieked and fought him like a wildcat though her strength was nothing compared to his. He easily restrained her, grunting at her struggling, but his intent clear in the hard glint of his green eyes. The drawers ripped open at the crotch, exposing her sex to him and she hissed.

“Don’t fight me and you won’t get hurt,” he snarled.

He fumbled at the closure of his pants, striving to free his cock, intending to take her with as much savage force as he could, but the erection that throbbed, that pushed with need to be free, that ached to thrust inside her was doing something to her he had not expected. She was panting, but her eyes were glazed and she kept sweeping her tongue over her lips, her body quivering as he pressed his weight atop her, holding her down, his hand trapped between his crotch and hers.

He looked down into her face and as one brutal roll of thunder shook the cave walls around them and lightning flared beyond the entrance, he saw hunger and need building in her. Her lush breasts heaved upward with each harsh breath, but it seemed to him they pressed toward him, offered themselves for his tasting and he lowered his head, drawing the hard little bud deep into his mouth.

"No," she whispered, but it seemed to him not so much a protest of what he was doing to her as what her own body was doing to her.

Suckling her, sweeping his hot tongue over her straining nipple, nibbling gently, he realized he was drawing from her a response neither could have imagined and his hold on her wrists eased.

They stared deeply into one another's eyes and when the hand between their bodies moved, he saw her gaze waver, her eyelids flicker. He knew in that moment she was surrendering to him.

"I'm a virgin," she told him.

He nodded for he had suspected as much. It was part of the reason he'd chosen to exact his revenge on Dalton in this way. "Then its well past the time you weren't," he said in a throaty voice.

She made no comment to his brazen words. Instead she swept her tongue across her lips once more and Harper felt his shaft harden painfully. Freeing his cock finally, he swept it down the folds of her sex, allowing her to feel the moistness that clung to the aching tip. She drew in a shuddering breath but no longer fought him. He could see the hollow at the base of her throat throbbing wildly and could not stop himself from placing a kiss there.

"Oh," she whispered.

He released her wrists and she lay there for a moment with her arms still crossed over her head, but then she hesitantly lifted her hand toward him. Though he shied away slightly from the contact, she ran her fingers through his hair.

"Please don't hurt me," she asked, holding his gaze.

His attention went to her lips and before he knew what he was doing, he had lowered his head to claim her mouth. He nibbled on her lower lip until she opened for him then he thrust his tongue gently inside as she tightened her grip on his hair. He felt the hesitant flick of her tongue against his--testing, experimenting--and then he pressed deeper into her mouth. He tasted her and lost himself in the sweet honey of her mouth.

Her arms curled around his shoulders as her fingers slid through his hair. It was a sensuous feeling that had him staring down into her soft green eyes. When she tentatively smiled at him, he answered that smile with a gentle one of his own.

"You're not such an ogre after all," she said and swept her gaze over his handsome face.

"Aye, but I am," he said and though he tried not to, he brought pain to her when he eased his cock inside her tight sheath. He filled her, stretched her slowly, but when he broke through the fragile membrane, she gasped and tears filled her eyes.

Peyton tensed against him, her fingers tugging at his hair. "You hurt me," she accused.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say and it was the first time in years he had apologized to anyone. "It couldn't be helped, wench, but it won't ever hurt again."

She wasn't so sure for his member was so large inside her it felt as though he were ripping her apart. It was uncomfortable, but just beneath that layer of discomfort was something that made her wanted to squirm beneath him, to push against the invading hardness that filled her. Her womb clenched as he slid his hands beneath her rump and lifted her up for a deeper penetration and there was burgeoning pleasure beginning to build. Her eyes grew round as her body grew accustomed to his shaft, seemingly drawing it deeper yet into her.

Slowly and as gently as he could he began to move inside her until he felt her body reacting to the depth and rhythm of his thrusts. He was pushing them firmly toward that wondrous place where bliss and lust and desire dwelt. The aching in his groin was intensifying and her juices were flowing as he pumped faster into her sleek warmth.

"Put your legs around me," he said.

Peyton obeyed him, bringing her legs over his.

"Damn it, no, wench," he said, his shaft working like a piston inside her. "Around my hips! Drape your legs around my fucking hips!"

She lifted her legs and wrapped them around him, hooking her ankles together to keep her feet from sliding off his hard rump. The action brought him farther into her and began to elicit a sensation that was so pleasurable, so exciting, her fingers dropped from his hair to his shoulders as her fingernails dug into the muscles there.

"Oh--" she gasped. "Oh--oh, what is your name?"

"Sloan," he hissed as he felt the walls of her vagina suddenly grip him with such force he lost his breath. The staccato pulses rippled along his shaft to cause him to pump faster, harder, his knees being ravaged by rocks beneath the coarse blanket.

"Oh!" Peyton suddenly cried out. She had not been prepared for what happened to her in that moment. The tremors inside her, the tight little squeezes that clutched at his member stunned her and as the intensity of the release shot through her, her fingernails drew blood from his flesh.

He heard her scream his name, felt her muscles strongly milking him and he spilled into her as thickly as a randy teenager. Though he'd had a couple of women after his escape from prison, neither of them had given him the pleasure this one had and when the last of his cum pulsed from his cock, he collapsed atop her, panting, sweat running down his flushed face, his heart thudding dangerously fast and hard in his chest.

"My Lord," she said and as he lay there with his cheek against her shoulder, he could feel her heart thundering. She had yet to unhook her legs from around him and her arms still cradled him tightly.

He grunted and pushed up from her, wriggling his hips to get her to release her hold on him. When she did, he rolled off her to lie beside her, still dragging harsh breaths into his lungs. Flinging an arm over his eyes he lay there listening to the rumbling thunder and pouring rain, the shrieks of lightning and tried hard to get his racing heart under control.

"Is it always like that?" she asked him and he could feel her looking at him.

"I don't know about how it is with a woman's first time but my first--and my last--one wasn't even close to being like that," he said.

"It was as enjoyable for you as it was for me, then?" she asked.

He lowered his arm and turned his face toward her, his brow furrowed. "What do you think, wench? I'm lying here dying and you ask if I enjoyed it?"

She flounced her skirts down and sat up, wincing a bit. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.

Harper just stared at her. "Hurt me?" he echoed then snorted with disdain. "Woman, you didn't hurt me!"

She was squirming on the blanket. "No, but you hurt me. Am I bleeding?" she asked. "Something is all gushy between my legs."

He sighed. "That would be my cum, wench," he said. "Aye, you'll be bleeding a bit but nothing of any significance. I broke your maidenhead not your cunt."

She looked up. "My what?"

"Your pussy." At her confused look, he drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. "Your vagina."

"Oh," she said then blushed hotly. "What is cum?"

Some hateful part of him made him sit up, thrust his hand under her skirt and between her legs. Though she gasped with outrage and batted his hand away, trying to evacuate him from under her clothing. When he brought his hand out from under the skirt, he held it out to her, his fingers slick, a slight tinge of pink mixed in with his juices.

"That is cum," he growled. "It's what comes out of my cock when I squirt inside your cunt. It's semen, wench."

Peyton looked down at his hand. "That's what makes babies. Sort of like bull semen makes calves."

"Aye, it's what makes babies but it's man semen," he said and realized her gaze had fallen to his pants where his limp cock lay crooked in exhaustion outside his fly. He cursed then reached down to stuff himself back into his jeans, tugging the zipper up with more force than necessary to hide himself from her avid view. "Will you stop looking at me?"

Her breasts were bare because he had ripped her bodice and chemise open. She thought it only fair that she see him if he was going to ogle her--which he was doing as she tugged at her torn clothing.

"Oh, hell," he said and began unbuttoning his shirt. He stripped it off and threw it at her. "Put it on."

Thrusting her arms through the sleeves that hung a good two inches past her fingertips, she was buttoning the front of the shirt when he got up from the blanket and stomped over to his saddlebags. She gave him a cursory look, glanced down, then her head shot back up as she stared at his bare back.

"Whatever in the world happened to your back?" she gasped.

He was rummaging for his only other shirt—soiled and wrinkled and smelling to high heaven—so he didn't look around at her. "Numerous run-ins with a cat," he answered dryly.

"A cat did that to your back?" she asked, tracing the wicked marks crisscrossing his flesh. "What kind of cat? Was it a tiger or a ...?"

"A cat-'o-nine tails, wench," he said with exasperation as he pulled on the dirty shirt, grimacing at the feel of it against his skin as he rolled up the sleeves. "A whip."

Her face took on a strained expression. "Someone whipped you, Sloan?"

"Aye," he barked. "They do that to convicts who don't tow their fucking line."

"Convict," she repeated. "You were in prison?"

"Five really terrific years," he answered. "Something else I have your father to thank for."

"What did you do?"

"Not a damned thing," he replied through grinding teeth.

"They don't put innocent men in prison," she said and when he lifted his head and gave her a hateful glare, she lifted her chin. "Well, they don't."

"And I suppose you still believe in fairies and trolls, eh, wench?" he questioned with a sneer. "Must be nice to be so damned sure the world is just the way you view it. Your father teach you that?"

His anger made her blink and she didn't know how to answer. She watched him snatch up the canteen and take a long drink of water, spilling some down his chin as he drank. He hadn't buttoned the shirt and the water dripped down his broad chest, spiking in the dark hairs nestled there. She couldn't seem to take her eyes from that particular sight until his voice made her jump.

"Stop looking at me!" he yelled.

For the life of her she couldn't imagine why he didn't like her looking at him. Where else was she to look?

Almost as though his anger had caused it, the rain increased in volume and sound. The fire sputtered as wind came howling through the entrance. In the distant was a low, rumbling sound like that of a freight train.

"I don't like the sound of that," he said and went to the entrance, trying to see out past the sheer curtain of rain.

The sky was black from horizon to horizon although it couldn't be much past four in the afternoon. With the increase in lightning forking through the heavens and the sudden onslaught of hail dropping to the ground, he was fairly sure a tornado was in the vicinity. As rain blew against him, he moved back into the cave, listening to the low roar coming toward them.

"That's not good," Peyton said.

"Get up and move farther back into the cave," he told her, bending down to pick up his blanket. He took up his horse's reins and followed Peyton, putting distance between them and the entrance. He barely noticed her stepping out of her torn drawers and kicking them aside.

Beneath them, the earth shook and a few scrabbles of rocks tumbled down the cave walls. The fire was blown out by an abrupt gust of wind barreling from the entrance, plunging them into near darkness. The roaring sound was right over them now and the horse began to whinny and sidestep in an effort to break free. It was all Harper could do to hold on to it as he crowded Peyton against the wall, shielding her with his body as debris came swirling through the entrance.

Something hard hit him on his right thigh and he cried out, but he continued to block Peyton while sand swirled around them. He used his free hand to cup the back of her neck, pulling her face against his shirt to protect her as he turned his head away in order to breathe. The pressure inside the cave was fierce and when it suddenly dissipated, his ears popped uncomfortably.

"Is it over?" he heard her mutter.

"I think so, wench." He had her tight against the cave wall, his body pressed into hers, his hand still on her neck so that when she lifted her head and looked up at him in the darkness he could feel her gaze on him. "You're looking at me, again," he complained.

"I can't see you," she said, "but I can sure smell you."

He could smell himself and it bothered him. After all the years he'd spent not being allowed but one bath a week--and sometimes not even that often--he had sworn he'd never be or feel or smell dirty again.

"I can smell you, too," he said in a husky voice, but it was a scent that was doing unbelievable things to his lower body that he shouldn't allow at that moment. He released her and stepped back, putting distance between them.

Peyton shrugged as he moved toward the entrance where light was once more glowing. "If you smell me, it's just your stink on me," she said with a sniff and followed him to where the rain was now a gentle cascade.

Harper smiled at her remark and was very aware of her there behind him. He almost wished she'd put a hand on his back.

"Are we going to ride out, do you think?" she asked.

"If it stops raining," he said. "I've no desire to ride around in a wet, smelly shirt."

"Makes sense to me," she said and went to the fire to see if it could be fanned into life again.

"Glad you approve," he mumbled as he joined at the fire pit and set about re-lighting the fire.

"You know that wasn't nice what you did," she said and when he looked over at her, she cocked a shoulder. "Raping me. That wasn't nice."

"Nice?" he repeated. "No, I guess it damned sure wasn't."

"I said no but you didn't listen," she reminded him. "Gentlemen are supposed to ...."

"I'm not a gentleman," he snapped. "I thought we covered that before."

"Yes, but rape ...."

Harper frowned. "Well, it wasn't exactly rape, wench. After a bit, you weren't putting up much of a struggle."

She thought about that for a moment, her eyebrows drawn together. "No, I suppose technically speaking it wasn't." She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "I was curious and as you said, it was time I ceased being untried. I am, after all, a grown woman." She gave him a steady look. "And I found I enjoyed what you did there at the last."

He snorted at that comment, moving back as the flames finally took a good hold on the kindling. He sat down with his ankles crossed, knees drawn up and spread apart within the scope of his arms.

"Why aren't you married?" he asked.

She lowered her attention to the bottom button of her borrowed shirt and plucked at it. "Daddy has always discouraged suitors," she said. "I don't think he wants me to ever marry."

"Doesn't that seem unnatural to you?" he inquired.

"The Double D has been in our family for generations," she said. "A husband might demand rights Daddy isn't willing to give. He wants to keep it in the Dalton family."

A strange light entered Harper's eyes. "But if you die without issue, where does that leave the ranch?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm sure he's made arrangements, but hasn't seen fit to share them with me."

"Will you be able to run the ranch once he kicks the bucket?"

"I've been trained to do just that," she replied crisply.

One dark brown arched upward. "Aye, how is that?"

"I do the bookkeeping for the spread already and I know the workings of the ranch inside and out. I can tell you down to the last calf how many we have on the range, what the market value is and how to dicker with a potential buyer or breeder," she answered. "If need be, I can help with the branding and inoculations as well as the dipping." She glanced down at his gun. "I also learned to shoot when I was little girl."

"You learned to shoot," he echoed in a disbelieving tone.

She nodded. "My father desperately wanted a boy but had to settle for me. I went everywhere with him until I was fourteen and my mother decided I needed to go to boarding school." She smiled. "Mama didn't think being able to fire a rifle and hit a moving target was a very ladylike thing to do."

"Yet you don't ride," he said. "Why is that?"

"I've never felt comfortable around horses," she admitted. "I got thrown when I was about five or so and broke my arm in several places." She rubbed her arm. "It hurt like the dickens so after that I was terrified of the beasts and Mama refused to allow Daddy to make me take lessons because of my fear." She sighed. "One day, though, I'm going to have to get over that fear and learn to ride. I can't have my foreman driving me all over the ranch in a buckboard."

"With fancy lace parasol extended above your perfectly coiffed hair," he said with a smirk.

She smiled at his remark. "Don't forget the picnic basket with wine and cheese and a good loaf of crusty bread alongside a plump apple or two."

Harper turned his head toward the cave entrance. "It's stopped raining."

She glanced that way. "So it has," she agreed and got to her feet, shaking out her wet skirt. "Are we to leave now?"

"I don't know about you but I'd like some clean, dry clothes and a decent meal. I've provisions at the cabin," he said as he stood. "We'll have a good supper."

"Provided banditos haven't made off with your supplies."

"I have someone watching the place," he told her. "Not many people around here will mess with Snake."

She shook her head. "I imagine not with a name like that."

He went to his horse and led it back toward the entrance as she kicked sand into the campfire and folded his blanket, then handed to him. As he rolled the blanket and secured it to his saddle and strapped on his saddlebags, she retrieved the two plates from outside, dumped the water from them, and then used her damp skirt to dry them off as best she could.

"You're taking this pretty well all of a sudden, wench," he commented.

"What?" she asked.

"Your abduction."

"You've already done your worst, haven't you, Sloan?" she asked, her head cocked to one side. "I mean you—you ...." Her face turned red.

"I fucked you," he said as he led his horse outside.

"Yes, you did," she muttered, but didn't seem particularly upset about it to his way of thinking. If anything, she was looking at him as though she expected it to happen again--which he had no doubt it would if he kept to his plan.

"There are worse things than fucking a woman, Peyton," he said as he climbed into the saddle then held out a hand to her to help her up.

"Such as?" she asked, putting her foot in the stirrup to lever herself behind him this time.

"I really could sell you to a brothel or loan you out," he said as she put her arms around his waist. "Share you with my friends."

"You could but you won't," she said as she settled against his back.

He twisted his head to the side to look at her. "What makes you think that?"

"You're doing this to get back at my father so the chances are good you intend to send me back to him eventually," she said as he kicked the horse into motion.

"Aye," he said, "with a little Harper growing in your belly. That should piss him off royally."