Wilda's Outlaw

by Velda Brotherton

  Leaning forward, he whispered, “This will hurt, but I’ll go easy. If you need me to stop, say so.” But dear God, if she tried to stop him now, he’d die from the need. Every muscle throbbed with desire, even his heart hammered with a relentless hunger.

  Eyes filled with tears, she shook her head. “No, don’t stop. That…what I feel…pain that needs you, needs…” She arched her back and pushed hard so that he plunged inside her. Her cry was drowned by his outburst, almost a howl. A fire blazed within him, he entered paradise and the world exploded like a star flaring through the sky.

  Her cries joined his as he came in a burst of wildness, at the same time pulling free. He rolled to the ground beside her, floated into another place until the pulsing quieted.

  “Why did you stop? Don’t stop.” She shook him. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  Arm over his eyes, he struggled to compose himself. Gasped. Then began to laugh. “It’s fine, I’m fine. It happened so fast. I’m sorry, but you mustn’t be with child.”

  “Ah.” She seemed to mull that over, then asked, “Am I no longer a virgin?”

  With a laugh, he wrapped her up in his arms. “I think I can guarantee that you are no longer a virgin.”

  She kissed his jaw, nibbled at his ear, tweaked his nipple. “Then I want to do it again.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “Yes, please?”

  “Well, let me see. Umm, I believe I can manage that.”

  Even as he bent to take her breast once more into his mouth and at the same time gently ease a roving hand between her legs to give her a taste of what he’d felt, a small warning voice echoed through his mind. This would not last. It couldn’t. He was who he was. Something would go wrong. Terribly wrong.

  But her skin felt like silk, a long forgotten sensation from when he was a child and his mother held him. The touch of her gown under his palm. How long had it been since he’d touched something so feminine, so fine? Oh, God, so fine. How could he stop, let this one go? Why should he? What was there left in this world for him?

  With a sigh, he snuggled closer, his mind reeling with delight. Wilda opened her legs to his touch, mewed like a kitten while he massaged her to a climax that brought a cry of joy.

  His sex rose, and she widened her legs across his thighs. It had hurt, what he did, but not as much as it had felt wonderful. Like she was a bird soaring high in the sky. Like everything went from blue to red to deep purple while her body twanged like a giant string struck by a velvet hammer. She wanted that feeling again, and more as well. When he once more slipped inside, she rode him until the heart of her sex throbbed and burst like a thousand suns.

  His hands clutched at her, held her so hard she couldn’t move. His heat poured through her, his cries filled the air.

  With one hand she smoothed his cheek, found he was crying. “Have I hurt you?” she whispered against his mouth.

  “No, my love. Anything but.” He waited a moment, eyes still closed. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The nuns were terribly wrong.”

  “Wrong? What about?”

  “About sex and men. Maybe I’ll write them a letter and tell them they don’t know what they’re missing.”

  He chuckled, tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “That might not be such a good idea.”

  “I guess you’re right. If they find out what I know, there’ll be no nuns left in this world.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “Then pray tell, what could it be?”

  “I didn’t mean to…if you are with child, what will we do?”

  “Do? What would anyone do? We will get us a house somewhere far away from here, where no one knows us.” Her fingers drifted through his hair. “You will go to work at the local mercantile selling soap and cans of peaches, and I will clean the house and nurse the baby at my breast.”

  She cupped that breast and moved it against him, the nipple once more growing rigid. She wanted him again. This was a strange thing to ponder. Why something should feel so good and be so bad. Surely God didn’t intend it to be a sin. Her mother and father, after all, had done this thing and had children.

  “Sounds good, but I think I’d rather work at the bank.” He shifted to trail kisses along the inside of her arm.

  “Oh, no you don’t. You could never resist all that money. And think of your wife and child at home. What would they do if you robbed the bank and rode off?”

  He stopped kissing her, remained still for a long while. He didn’t have a chance to reply, for from out of the trees burst men with guns. Shouting, all shouting so that she rolled up into a ball against him and screamed.

  He locked his arms around her protectively, whispered over and over in her ear, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Caught ’em naked as jaybirds,” one of the posse crowed and slapped his thigh.

  Calder wrapped her up as best he could after the sheriff ordered them from the water. Men hooted and hollered, pointed and laughed. She wanted to die, right there.

  “Shut the hell up,” Sheriff Calumet ordered. “Git them clothes off them there bushes, Neely. The rest of you turn your backs while these two get dressed.”

  Turning his back Calder shielded her and helped her put Rachel’s worn calico dress over her head. Then he worked at putting on his britches. She had to help him because his wounded arm wouldn’t cooperate too much. In all that time, neither spoke.

  By the time she had his shirt on and him hurting at every movement, tears wet her cheeks. Would this never end? She wanted to just take off running. Through the trees and out onto the road and out across the prairie.

  Calumet forced them apart and Calder grunted in pain. “Ain’t no use in crying, little lady. Way we see it, you made yourself a bed, crude as it is, and now no way out, you’re gonna have to lay in it.”

  “Neely, put her up on your mount. You’re the least, you can double with her. And you two, tie this ’un on his horse yonder.” He pointed at Gabe, who watched the proceedings quietly.

  Sheriff Calumet mounted up. “Take the woman to Lord Prescott at Fairhaven.” Then he gestured toward Calder. “This one is going to Hays City and jail. He’ll get a fair trial, then we’ll hang him.”

  “No!” Wilda struggled to break free of her bonds. She managed to butt her head into Neely’s chest with a thunk hard enough to make him whoosh. He smacked her with the flat of his hand.

  “Settle down, woman,” Calumet said. “I’m sick to death of these gangs, think they own my county, by God. Ride through tearing up Ned, shooting my men. Wild Bill might not have been able to tame them, but I sure as hell intend to.” He yanked the reins and spurred his horse. “Let’s git this ornery bum to Hays. Then drinks are on me.”

  Wrists bound to the pommel of his own saddle and escorted by a jubilant posse, Calder gazed at rows of unpainted buildings no bigger than twelve by twelve. Not a whit like Victoria, this untamed Hays City. The railroad track ran right down the middle of the street. Signs above the doors proclaimed such as Mrs. Gowdy’s sod hut, Paddy Walsh’s Saloon and Gambling House. Others sported names like Hound Kelly’s and Kate Coffee’s. He counted twelve such establishments along the north side alone. And the most famous, one heard of throughout the west was Tommy Drumm’s. It had the only bar mirror in Hays.

  Calder had always wished to lean elbows on that bar and order one of those fancy drinks Tommy was famous for, but hadn’t ever done so. Never would now. He watched the saloon out of sight. Rode on past a clothing store, grocery store, hotel. A conglomeration of soddies and shacks filled lots on either side of the street, most no better than the hideout he and the boys had on the Smoky River. And folks living in them, too. Hell of a place to pass his final days; hell of a place to be hung by the neck till dead.

  At last they arrived at the jail. A white-haired gentleman dressed like a gambler lolled out front on
a hand-hewn bench, legs crossed at the ankles and stuck out so that anyone who wanted past had to go around or step over. Accommodating sort of cuss. Through slitted eyes the man watched the riders nose their mounts up to the split rails that served for hitching, but didn’t stand.

  “Got the sumbitch, mayor!” one of the men whooped.

  Calder was damn sick and tired of the congratulating of these yahoos ever since they’d trussed him to his saddle, like they’d captured Jesse James or someone. He sure as hell no longer wanted to be like Deke’s cousin Jesse. This being famous was no fun at all.

  The mayor shifted a matchstick from one corner of his mouth to the other and rose. “See ya did. Where’s the girl?”

  “Sent her on home to the Duke or Lord or whatever in sin he is. Didn’t see no need to bring her in. She ain’t going nowhere, time comes to get her testimony. Looked a little the worse for wear, but I don’t think she were hurt none, ’cept we caught this scallywag having his way with her. She didn’t seem to mind, but don’t reckon that fancy Duke will take to it much. Knowing this turd poked her. Reckon we can leave that to him, though.”

  The mayor hung his boot toes over the edge of the crude boards laid down to keep folks from walking in the ankle deep mud, when there was any, which at the moment there wasn’t. It hadn’t rained since spring storms moved through a month earlier so a fine layer of dust was all the street offered.

  The man they addressed as Mayor glared at Calder. “What you got to say for yourself, boy?”

  Still trussed up astride Gabe, Calder stared back at the man and stuck out his chin. To hell with him and his ugly boots.

  “Ought to’ve stuck to robbing honest folks and kept away from the gals,” the mayor said. “Especially in that Englishman George Grant’s settlement. Them noblemen don’t take too well to such goings on. Blue bloods, they are.” He scoffed and spat, showing what he thought of that notion.

  From the back of his horse, Calumet chuckled, addressed his men. “Well, get him down off that animal and let’s lock him up. I got a mean hankering for a beer. I’ll treat you all to drinks at the Smoky Hill.” He dismounted and went inside the rough lumber building that served as a jail, leaving two of the men to pull Calder off his horse and drag him inside.

  They shoved him none-too-gently through the door. The jail was much like any hoosegow on the frontier. A desk for the lawman and a cramped barred cage set off for those on the opposite side of the law. An old man lay on one of the filthy straw bunks snoring loudly. Three similar beds were unoccupied. The place smelled worse than a stable, by a long shot.

  Forced into a cell, Calder cringed when the door banged shut behind him. The key grated in the lock. The old man on the cot snorted and turned over, but did not awake.

  “Might as well settle in, boy,” Calumet said through the bars. “Ain’t no judge due here anytime soon, and we’ll keep you till then. Might be you’ll end up going someplace else, since you’re wanted all over this damned territory for one thing or another. Don’t matter none to me, long as you’re out of my hair.” He laughed. “Lucky for you they run Wild Bill out of town for shooting up them soldiers. I expect he’d a gunned you down and been done with you.”

  “Yeah, real lucky for me,” Calder said.

  Calumet chuckled again. “Might interest you to know, the governor was a fixing to put out an amnesty offer on you and them like you, though to my notion you ought to all be strung up. All you’d had to do was leave the state and quit pesticating the be-Jesus out of us. Now lookit the fix you’re in, all ’cause of some purty gal.”

  Amnesty? That was a bald-faced lie. Calder didn’t believe it for a minute. The sheriff was only trying to rile him. Well, it was just about to work. This wasn’t the first jail he’d ever been in, but it would be the first time he’d sat behind bars waiting to be hung, and it made him a tad nervous. They had a permanent gallows here, in this wild-assed town that hadn’t even been a bump on the plains until after the Civil War. Wild Bill Hickok might have achieved some fame here, Boot Hill might have some fifty tombstones to mark the passing of the lawless who dared ride in, but it was still just another western stopover on the owl hoot trail. Not that much law ’less the sheriff got riled. He’d hate like hell to end up dangling from the end of a rope in such a nowhere place.

  And all because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. That English lass had led him around by the nose. Now that he thought of it, she’d worked him pretty well. Getting naked and all. He sure hoped she’d be happy at that fancy castle. There were probably worse things than dying over a pretty woman, but offhand he couldn’t think of any. He was clearly a blamed fool. Still, he couldn’t help but think of all that sweet loving, and her letting him in where no man had been before.

  He sank onto the stinky hard bed and closed his eyes. Damn, she was the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time, and her skin so fair and smooth as silk. Who could blame him for being a fool over her? Her and her talk about a little house and a baby. Be a joke on that fancy Earl to end up raising Calder Raines’ kid, wouldn’t it?

  Who was he kidding? He was only trying to make it easier to lose her and the life they could’ve had together, all at one time. He’d go to his death loving her, and that was the God’s honest truth.

  ****

  Lord Prescott did not appear at the midday meal, giving Wilda’s imagination more time to brood over what punishment he had in mind for her. Marguerite had trailed her around like a keeper ever since those two posse men delivered her to the front door of Fairhaven. Clearly she was assigned to prevent Wilda’s running away again. A servant carried a meal upstairs to the unfortunate Tyra, who had been imprisoned in her room since his Lordship had learned of her hand in the kidnapping of his wife-to-be. Wilda yearned to talk to her cousin, but everyone was being extra careful to keep them apart. No doubt following his Lordship’s orders. Even Rowena couldn’t be bribed into allowing the two to meet. No telling what punishment Prescott would dole out to Wilda.

  But of it all, losing Calder was the worst, the rest would be easy in comparison. She would grieve his loss forever.

  When Prescott did not put in an appearance at the table that night, she decided to wait no longer to learn what discipline he had in mind. The man was incorrigible, and she would not allow him to leave her hanging on tenterhooks while he sulked and brooded over God knew what.

  With Marguerite trotting along behind her, imploring her to reconsider, Wilda approached his chambers in the east wing of Fairhaven, far removed from everyone else.

  Marguerite plucked at her sleeve. “You must not do this, child. He will be very angry.”

  “I am sure he is already very angry. I will not be kept waiting while he devises all sorts of unimaginable treatments.”

  At the massive dark door, she raised a fist to knock. Foreboding clutched at her stomach and her heart thundered in her ears. The first rap was timid and she steeled herself, took a deep breath and hammered on the door. Hard.

  Answer it, you damned coward.

  Oh, how she had learned to talk.

  She dare not mention to Marguerite what she had in mind after she gained an audience with Lord Prescott. Somehow, he must help her get Calder free.

  “Yes, what is it?” A growl from inside.

  Marguerite let out a moan and skittered away down the dim hallway. Wilda’s head swam, but she would not faint, even though she had squeezed herself back into the uncomfortable Victorian clothing. Clearing her throat, squaring her shoulders, she tried to reply, only croaked down in her throat. Locked her fingers together over her trembling mid-section and tried again. “It is me, Wilda. I wish to speak with you.”

  “Not now. Go away.”

  Chin lifted, she declared. “I will not go away. I will remain here hammering on this blamed door until you grant me leave to enter.” She raised her voice and hit the door again, then kicked it for good measure. If he did not open it, she would continue to kick the blamed thing until he did. He would not treat
her this way.

  The doorknob rattled, a crack appeared along one side through which leaked candlelight. “I said go away, and stop making that infernal racket.” The words were slurred. The sot was drunk.

  “I will not. I. Will. Not. Sir. You must speak to me.”

  “Tomorrow. I will speak to you tomorrow. All the caterwauling in the world will not change my mind. Now, do go to bed and stop acting like the spoiled child you are.”

  The accusation broke what restraints she had placed on her temper. Before he could shut the door, she threw herself against it with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. He shouted ferociously but stumbled backward, allowing the door to open far enough for her to shove through and into his bedchamber.

  “You presumptuous little twit.” He staggered to his feet, arm raised as if to hit her.

  Jaw stuck out, she stared up at him. “Go ahead, hit me. But it will do you no good, sir, not unless you mean to knock me unconscious. Or kill me.”

  His flinty stare locked on hers, and she shuddered all the way to her toes. In the candlelight, she could scarcely make out his expression. Only the glint of those dark eyes, each reflecting a single candle flame. It was like staring into the bottomless pits of hell.

  His sour whiskey breath washed over her. His arm remained suspended for a moment longer, then he dropped it to his side and swept past her to slam the door. A glass of amber liquid sat on the table, reflecting the candlelight. He staggered toward it. A purple evening robe swished around his ankles when he walked in slippers of the same color. His long hair, usually caught in a ribbon at the nape of his neck, hung loose past his shoulders. In the darkened room, even drunk as he was, he was truly a formidable figure.

  How could she have been so foolish as to dare to face him in his lair? Alone. Vulnerable to his slightest wish. Now that she had his attention, she could not speak past the dryness that stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth. No doubt he could hear her heart thunder.