by Lee Savino
Rose felt air on her bare skin and stilled in shock.
“No drawers? Bad Rose,” he said and applied the palm of his hand to her skin.
The room filled with a loud smacking noise; Lyle didn’t hold back as he spanked her bare bottom. For a moment, Rose was still, feeling shock along with the stinging slaps.
Then she came to her senses and fought harder.
“Scoundrel! Blackguard!”
“Insults will not save you, Rose.” Lyle’s hand punished her harder, laying strokes on top of already smarting skin.
“Stop,” she shrieked. “It hurts.”
“It should hurt. Maybe next time you’ll think before you fight the man who’s trying to help you.”
Help her? Rose kicked a little as Lyle’s hand peppered her bottom, spanking up one cheek and down the other and covering her buttocks until they burned. He smacked a sensitive spot, and she whimpered, fighting her own tears.
“Ouch,” she cried into the bed cover and let her head fall. All her energy went to keeping her tears in check. She would not show weakness. She would not cry. Squeezing her eyes shut, she let her head drop to the quilt.
Lyle seemed to take this as defeat. His hand stalled, and he drew her up to face him.
“Now. Will you listen to me?”
For a moment she glared at him, knowing he could see her red rimmed eyes, her face grimacing against the burning pain in her bottom.
Lyle stared back, blue eyes searching her face. He didn’t seem angry, just determined.
Damn him.
Hate surged through her, and she spat in his face.
“Right,” Lyle said in a quiet, controlled voice, as her spittle tracked down his cheek. He sat down on the bed, pulled her over his lap and let his hand fly. For a while she struggled but couldn’t move.
“You will not throw things, or spit at me. You will treat me with respect,” Lyle lectured in a quiet, stern voice. The muscles in his thighs flexed under her belly. She kicked, and he threw a leg over hers, trapping her under its heavy weight. So secured, Rose was helpless under the onslaught of his iron hand. Her bottom was on fire.
But that wasn’t the only part of her that was burning. As the slaps continued to paint her bottom, Rose felt a strange pressure between her legs, quiet, but growing in intensity.
Lyle’s hand spanked a little lower, under her cheeks, and to her horror, Rose realized her body was quickening, her lady parts tightening and throbbing in time to the blows.
The spanking was exciting her.
Unable to fight both Lyle and her growing arousal, Rose put her head down and moaned. She felt herself melting into his legs underneath her, while her temper, her usual champion, slipped away.
“You will accept my help and not make things difficult. I am on your side, Rose.” The steady blows weren’t too hard, but laid down on her heated skin, they hurt.
The angry bundle inside Rose started to unravel. Grasping for her outrage, she protested, “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Because you’re family.” Lyle emphasized this with one great, resounding smack. “And I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
The words hit her like a blow, and she started gasping for air. Lyle felt her heaving and pulled her up, his hand fisting lightly in her hair to hold her to face him as she panted with dry sobs.
His blue eyes were so gentle, they almost broke all her control.
She jerked her head to the side, and he let her, using his hands to smooth down her shoulders, soothing her. Again, Rose squeezed her eyes shut.
She would not cry. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“You’re all right, Rose. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
With one final wheeze, Rose got her feelings under control. Crying was a sign of weakness and would get her nowhere. Her life had taught her that.
But she could feel his fingers stroking her back, comforting her after her harsh spanking. If she wasn’t so practiced at presenting a face of stone, this tenderness would push her over the edge.
Swallowing hard, she got her emotions in hand. What was it about this man that, after years of keeping her emotions locked in a fortress, threatened to tear down every one of her walls?
Hope was more dangerous than fear, than hate, than anything. Hope almost destroyed her once.
She vowed it would never have a chance to do it again.
Realizing her punishment was over, she pushed to her feet and backed away. Lyle’s gaze followed her. She rubbed her face, knowing it was red and blotchy from exertion. But her eyes were dry. It was her one triumph.
Still she couldn’t stop her lower lip from trembling as she asked, “You looked for me?”
“From California to Texas. As soon as we found you gone, I rode out.”
“He took me north,” she said, regaining some of her composure. “Made me drink whiskey and lie down in a wagon. I woke up in Denver.”
“I know. I was there long after you were gone. For a red-headed child, you were hard to find.” He smiled, but there was no mirth in it.
She nodded, feeling her attitude steal back over her, gathering it around her like a cloak. “I knew Mary would want to come looking for me.”
Pain flashed across Lyle’s face, as if she’d struck a blow. “Rose...” he began.
“I know she’s dead,” Rose said quickly.
Lyle fell silent, but his eyes were filled with pain.
“One of Pa’s partners told me. He had kin in Florence that knew of Mary Wilder.”
“I wanted to tell you,” Lyle said after a long while. If Rose wasn’t mistaken, his eyes were shining with tears. “I wanted you to be there. For us to be a family.”
“She wanted that too,” Rose whispered. Her hand went to her throat as if it could smooth away the lump that had formed there. “How…how was she?”
“In the end?” Lyle sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. Rose felt a sympathetic pang; it was obvious he was reliving old pain, but she had to know. Her whole body leaned forward, waiting to hear of her beloved sister’s final moments.
“She was happy,” he said softly. “She was always singing, or humming, even in the end, when her lungs gave out. She spoke of you every day. I knew she thought of you, because even in sleep she whispered your name.”
Rose blinked hard. There were no tears in her eyes; she hadn’t cried in years, but pain burned behind her lashes and spread through her body. A sound started low in her throat, a haunted cry that started soft and grew louder until her ears were ringing with it. She took a few, stumbling steps away from Lyle, then her legs weakened and she started to fold up in pain.
“Rose!” Lyle was at her side, catching her before she fell and lifting her in his arms. As he moved to the bed, she turned into him, closing her eyes and pressing against his shirt. He smelled of rain and leather, wood, smoke, and wild, and she felt herself snuggling deeper into his strong chest. Under her ear, she could hear his beating heart. It called to her, rising over the broken keening that rang in her ears, until she realized her cry was all in her head, but his heartbeat was real.
Lyle sat on the bed with her in his arms, tucking his chin over her head.
“I knew I would find you,” he whispered. “Mary made me promise. The thought of you alone out there…I would’ve looked for you until the day I died.”
She nodded against his chest, unable to speak, but wanting him to know that she heard.
He lifted her, laid her on something soft. She felt the blankets go over her and then a gentle hand on her hair.
“Sleep now, my wild rose.”
A few hours before dawn, she started awake. A dark shape moved in her room, and she sat up, shrinking back into the shadows. Her fingers reached for her Nell, but the gun wasn’t near her. She was still clothed in her corset and petticoats. As her eyes took in the room, she remembered.
“Rose?”
Lyle stepped into the light of the window.
“What’s going on?” she croaked.
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Moving to the sidebar, Lyle poured her some water and brought it to her. “Doyle has men out looking for you. He knows you’re still here, and you’re going to run. It’s not safe for us to leave right now.”
She stared up at him, groggily trying to understand.
“It’s all right, Rose. Get some sleep.”
Too tired to argue, she nodded and handed back the cup. She watched his long, dark form stalk to the door, where he took his seat and leaned back, pistol at ready.
Lying back down, she tried to doze off, but the thought of a man—Lyle Wilder, no less—guarding her door at night was strange enough to keep her awake, mulling over it.
He said he would help her. But what did that really mean? Would she travel with him, like she had with her father, dancing and helping him win at cards, turning over every coin she made and hoping her earnings were enough to keep him from whoring her?
Rose felt the cold stealing over her, and she shook under the covers, forcing her eyes shut. She’d only slept a few fitful moments when she felt Lyle’s hand on her shoulder.
“Rose? You were crying out.”
In response, she shivered.
“Damn, you’re cold.”
A pause, and then she heard his coat drop to the floor before his weight hit the bed. She curled into herself, eyes closing tight as she felt his warmth seep into her. He rested his hand on her hip, his breath tickling the back of her neck. A part of her insisted she protest, but the rest of her was warm and comfortable, and soon she fell fast asleep.
When Rose woke again, Lyle was gone. Her body ached, her blood moving thick and sluggish as it always did in the morning. She blinked in the bright morning light, trying to dislodge the grit behind her eyelids, the evidence of a long night. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened. All she knew was that, before Lyle returned, she wanted to be long gone.
Her vow of amnesia worked until she padded across the floor and picked up her white stage dress. The spots of blood stood stark against the pure cloth, and she knew it did happen. Sam really was dead.
Casting about, she found her trunk and dressed quickly, then reloaded Nellie. Her money was sewn into the stitches of her skirts; she took the time to gather it all and tucked it safe in her bodice. It would be enough to get out of town. Pulling a few items into a bag, she snuck out of the hotel, finding the back stairs Lyle had carried her up last night. He was a strong man, to climb them without pause.
She remembered how he held her, how the gentleness in her blue eyes made her heart ache. What would it be like to have a man in her life who would look at her that way? Who would hold her every night and wake her with a kiss? If she closed her eyes, she could still feel Lyle Wilder’s arms around her, see his beautiful profile watching over her in the darkness.
No. She would not think of him.
Tugging her bag up onto her shoulder, she pushed her hair out of her face savagely and stomped away from the building. The smell of fried onions and potatoes wafted through the alley, but Rose kept hurrying on. There was no time for breakfast if she was to find a horse, or a wagon ride before noon.
When she stepped onto the main street, she realized her first mistake. Men stood on the street, pulling horses and talking. One by one, their heads whipped around as one as she walked by. Women weren’t a common sight in Colorado Territory, much less pretty redheads.
Cursing her telltale hair, she hurried down the boarded sidewalk. One man stepped out to accost her, and she met his gaze boldly. She’d learned early; never show fear. Most men would take cues from her and pounce only if she showed weakness.
She reached the end of the sidewalk and her luck ran out. Two men, muscled and ugly, stepped onto the porch and blocked her way.
“You’re Rosie May,” one said.
She tried to push past them, but they caught her in a grip, dragging her back. One ripped her sash, and her Nelly fell out with a clatter, only to be kicked away. Helpless, Rose’s first thought was to shout for Lyle, but when she started to cry out, one attacker slapped her. Together the thugs manhandled her down an alley and into a building she hadn’t seen since she was with Mary.
At this hour of the morning, the bar was empty, though it still smelled of beer and unwashed bodies.
Rose’s cheek throbbed where the man hit her, but she struggled a little as they dragged her up the steps. She would’ve gotten another blow, but one of the thugs stopped his partner.
“Don’t mark her,” he said. “She’s Doyle’s now.”
A chill went through Rose’s body as she recognized the name of the man who had peddled her sister’s flesh.
They pushed her into a small, dark room, and all of a sudden, Rose was a little girl again, hiding under her sister’s bed while their drunken father raged, and then, later, listening to the sounds of the men Mary entertained so they’d have food to eat the next day.
Sinking down onto the floor, Rose put her head into her arms and rocked back and forth.
After a while, the image of Lyle rose unbidden behind her closed eyes. Tall and dark, handsome as an angel and wicked as a devil, he was the prince Mary had believed would save them. It had been years since Rose had allowed herself to think on it, but there, in the dark, she prayed for her hero to come.
Doyle’s men left her in there for hours, no doubt to wear her down. Noises started to seep through the doors as night fell and the saloon filled up. Rose took to pacing, checking every crack and corner for a way out, and finally forcing herself to stand in the middle of the room and do breathing exercises for her voice.
Finally, the door burst open, and the men dragged her, cringing, into the light. At the end of a hall, one thug held Rose while the other knocked on a door.
“Enter,” a voice intoned. Rose recognized the familiar timbre as if it belonged to the devil himself. Five years, and there were two men she hadn’t forgotten. One was Lyle, the fallen angel. The other waited for her behind the door.
Her captors pushed her into the center of a room, and she straightened her clothes, schooling her face into a haughty expression.
A man with a black mustache waited for her at a desk, writing by candlelight. His slick hair and fine suit didn’t fool her; this was Beelzebub in human form, known in this town as James Silas Doyle.
Time had been kind to him. Doyle looked lean and strong, with healthy dark hair on his head and face. Almost handsome, if it weren’t for the evil in him. Rose barely suppressed a shiver, and forced her spine straight, as if she’d spent an afternoon in leisure, rather than as a captive in the dark.
Doyle smiled. “Miss May? Or should I call you Rosie?” He didn’t bother to rise, but waved a hand for her to come forward. When she didn’t move, one of the henchmen grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to his boss, before stepping back to guard the door.
The man behind the desk smiled at her as if she’d come to visit. “Drink?” he offered, lifting a decanter on his desk and starting to pour two glasses.
She shook her head.
Doyle shrugged and toasted her. “To the lovely Rosie May. Quite a show you had last night.”
It was her turn to shrug.
Toying with his glass, Doyle cocked his head, studying her. “I hear it went quite well, up until it turned rowdy. One of my men—my right hand man actually—lost his brother in a brawl.”
“It’s a dangerous world,” Rose said, lifting her chin. “I lost a friend, too.”
Doyle glanced at one of his men. “Is that so? Someone else died?”
The henchman shrugged. “Just the molly at the piano.”
“A Miss Nancy,” Doyle chuckled. “And Rosie May. Must have been one hell of an act.”
“Are we done here?” Rose asked, letting their mocking comments about Sam slide even as her eyes shot daggers.
His eyes narrowed at her over his glass. “I must say, my man was intent on seeking you out for revenge. You may have heard of him: Otis Boone, deadliest shot in the Territory. I managed to
talk him into sparing your life until I spoke to you. Out of the kindness of my heart.”
Rose’s lip curled.
“I could pay him off for you,” Doyle continued. “But I’d need some sort of return on my investment.”
“I’m not a whore, Mr. Doyle.”
His eyebrows went up. “Who said anything about whoring? I have a saloon; you know how to dance...” He spread his hands as if offering her a pile of treasure. “Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down in one town and make some real cash? The men who pour in here from the silver mines, they’d pay anything to see a fine woman’s ankles.”
“I don’t think so.”
Doyle’s expression hardened. “This isn’t an offer I make lightly. A man out there wants you dead, and I’m the only one standing in his way.”
“No,” boomed a voice at the door. “I am.”
The two henchmen moved, one grabbing Rose, and the other whirling, reaching for his gun. Both stopped when Lyle stepped in, a pistol in each hand aimed at the thugs. “Doyle, let her go.”
The man behind the desk didn’t even flinch. Rose couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the two dark haired men. Both were tall, powerful, with their gaze locked in combat, two predators sizing each other up before they fought to the death.
“Now, you look familiar.” Recognition lit Doyle’s eyes. “Wait.” The man looked from Lyle to Rose and back again. “I know who you are. You stole away my redhead...what was her name?”
“Mary,” Rose blurted. “She was never yours.”
“And you’re the sister,” Doyle went on as Lyle shot Rose a look, warning her to keep silent. “What a lovely reunion.” Doyle chuckled. “You’re taller than your sister. Blossomed into a beautiful Colorado rose.”
“I’m not going to say it again,” Lyle spoke. “Let her go.”
Doyle leaned forward, losing his joking manner. “Who is she to you?”
“She belongs to me.”
Rose felt a pang go through her, not of pain but some other strong, aching emotion she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Hope.
Then the thug’s grip dug in, and she whimpered.
