by Kaliana Cole
Liberty Springs, Wyoming 1
No Bag Limit
Emma Duncan is independent, reserved, and prickly as hell, a spitfire with enough secrets to keep her living behind fortified walls. Ty Whelan is convinced Emma is the wild, willing, and strong woman he and his brothers have waited half their lifetime for.
But the romance author’s past has chased her to the town of Liberty Springs, Wyoming.
Psychological scars hold her back from embracing the carnal bliss and emotional security the Whelans offer, while a twisted madman threatens her very existence.
Emma strives to overcome the grip of a man who has terrorized her for half a decade and admit that she has room in her heart for Zach and Colby as well as Ty.
With hard bodies and big hearts, they entice her to accept all they have to offer and revel in the affections of three very different men...
Because, girls, there’s "no bag limit" in Liberty Springs.
Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys
Length: 80,894 words
NO BAG LIMIT
Liberty Springs, Wyoming 1
Kaliana Cole
MENAGE AMOUR
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Amour
NO BAG LIMIT
Copyright © 2011 by Kaliana Cole
E-book ISBN: 1-61034-775-7
First E-book Publication: September 2011
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
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Regarding E-book Piracy
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.
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This is Kaliana Cole’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Cole’s right to earn a living from her work.
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DEDICATION
This one is for all the readers who embraced Good Horses, Fast Cars and Real Men. Thank you for giving a new author a go. Your words of appreciation mean more to me than I can say.
And for KJ, you’re still the best friend anyone could have. And B, ignorance is bliss. I love you.
NO BAG LIMIT
Liberty Springs, Wyoming 1
KALIANA COLE
Copyright © 2011
Prologue
“I’ve come to realise that the men in this world can be sorted into the same categories as the horses I grew up with. Some you’d keep in you stable—or your little black book—others you wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
The first question is, is it a horse or a cull?
CULLS—A cull is a specimen so poor in temperament, attitude, and/or conformation that it is of no use whatsoever. With men, this category usually includes child molesters, mass murderers, and used car salesmen as well as other assorted assholes and oxygen thieves.
Beware! While experience helps in the identification of borderline culls, they have been known to camouflage their true status and slip through the first line of a woman’s defense.
SCHOOLMASTERS—Those priceless gems of the horse world, they have been there, done everything, and been good at it. This horse knows to gauge its performance to its rider’s experience, neither frightening the novice nor boring the accomplished rider.
These mounts might be a little long in the tooth to keep for the long haul, but sure are a true pleasure to throw a leg over every now and again.
Securing one of these stalwarts requires sifting through assorted dirty old men, lechers, and forgetfully married morons.
These lovelies can spot a likely jockey at fifty paces. They pick up the slightest hint of an interested body. A knowing gleam in their eye, a lazy curl of a smile. When your eyes ask, “How good are ya?” their eloquent wink says there is only one way to find out.
Toby Keith summed it up pretty well. “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.” I may be slightly twisted, but that’s one fantasy ride I would love to throw a leg over.
I’ve always had a soft spot for the older ones. When the rest of the girls were lusting after Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora, I had my sights on Tico Torres. That’s the drummer for you philistines out there. Ten years older than the others, but what a wicked gleam in those black Cuban eyes!
Every horse woman should have a school master in her stable.
PUBLIC HACK OR RIDING SCHOOL NAG—Too many of us learned to ride on these easily acquired mounts. Lazy, undisciplined, and full of vices. They have had more riders than a government bus. If you find yourself burdened with one of these mounts, to get a half-decent ride you will need firm hands and a big stick. Take control, get what you want, and then walk away quickly before they work out a way to get even.
SHOW PONY—This specimen looks absolutely fabulous on your arm. Such presence, such poise, so totally useless to ride…
THE PERFORMANCE HORSE—This mount is just too much for the average rider. Highly specialized in its scope, a rider can find herself overwhelmed by her lack of knowledge in this mount’s area of expertise. While it may be fun to have a ride on a grand prix dressage mount, sit a cutter through a spin, or experience the thrill of a thoroughbred on the track, once is usually enough.
Think bondage, kink, anal, whatever is outside of your comfort z
one. That said, enjoy, you only live once.
PROBLEM HORSE—This one is trouble. You know it, but you just can’t resist the challenge. Has had a score of previous owners, a history as long as your arm. While there is a miniscule chance that this could become your keeper, just remember there is a reason so many have gotten rid of this bad boy. Sometimes it may be difficult to distinguish between those born to be bad and the harmless rebels without a clue. Keep your heart under lock and key and hang on for a wild ride.
THE WORKHORSE—Big, strong, and dependable, they’re there for the long haul. A bit monotonous at times, but with a bucket of oats or a set of sharp spurs can turn out a performance to rival the best now and then. With men, replace “oats” with “alcohol” and “spurs” with “toys.” Well, actually, the spurs could be interesting.
Just a word of warning, even the best keeper will revert to workhorse status in response to a gold band on the finger.
KEEPER—You know the moment you mount up this horse was made for you. It looks good and feels even better. Has enough strength and stamina to ride to hell and back and still look for more.
Throw your rope over this one, girls, and keep the stall locked. To prevent this one from straying, keep him well fed and well ridden. A few vibrating surprises in the cupboard will help to keep this specimen from devolving into a workhorse.
THE FANTASY RIDE—If you have ever been privileged to have the unadulterated pleasure of seeing a herd of wild horses in the flesh, you will understand exactly what I mean. Seen your ultimate male singer in concert? You’ll know, too.
Imagine a big old wild stallion, coal black, gloriously untamed mane and tail, scars of battle marring his glossy hide. You know he fought his way to the top, all that power, all that righteous pride, dominant, alpha, all male. You’re just itching to throw a loop over it, well, okay, a leg anyway.
But some things are better to dream about than the reality, or just so far out of reach it ain’t funny. Crash and burn, babe, crash and burn.
So when your keeper slips into workhorse mode, close your eyes and dream of that big old stallion, lay back, and enjoy the ride.
Mmm…Toby…”
Chapter 1
“Jesus Christ, girl, how much did you drink last night?”
Beth tossed the foolscap sheets onto a growing pile on Emma’s desk. A forlorn half inch of expensive scotch supplied her answer. The prone figure on the bed obviously had no intentions of doing so. The bottle had been more than half full yesterday.
She picked it up with a sigh. At least it wasn’t tequila. It had taken weeks to find where Em had lost her panties after that episode. How they got inside the light fitting on the balcony was anybody’s guess. The electrician had been a touch embarrassed to find a lace G-string was the cause of the lighting fault.
“Rise and shine, girl, it’s after eight. You’ve got the farrier coming at nine, clients at two, and that load of hay will be here around five. Get your ass in that shower or I’ll let Ty in here to wake you up.” The older woman sniffed her disdain. “Such a fine sight you look at the moment, too.”
That got a response. Beth chuckled as Em dragged herself out of the tennis court-sized bed and in the direction of the bathroom. She knew just what buttons to push to get her young employer out from under the covers.
Ty Whelan was a fine specimen of a man and an even better farrier. Letting him lay eyes on her in this sorry state was not something Em would countenance.
Beth went about tidying the room. When Em had writer’s block, she never quite knew what she was going to find. She chuckled as she returned a Toby Keith CD to its cover; some things never changed.
Beth had cleaned up loose paper for over a month now. When little ideas niggled, Em just scratched them down with little thought to content or propriety. Actually, with little thought to anything. While she wrote historical romance under a well-protected pseudonym, there was no telling what her “unblocking” pages would reveal.
Beth had read everything from grisly murder scenes to bizarre bondage. The discourse on men and horses last night’s scotch indulgence had produced was tame in comparison, but it did make a person wonder just what the hell was going through that little blonde head at times. She was glad Emma only resorted to liquor once in a while. All of her stranger efforts were helped by a bottle.
Beth would worry when a heroine turned up in one of Em’s books who was middle-aged, graying, and stout. She was used to being written in as an agony-aunt character, but Em had thankfully kept her drawers in place so far. For a woman who had a nonexistent sex life, Emma could sure scorch the ink off the pages.
* * * *
Beth had coffee and breakfast on the table when Emma returned from the shower feeling nearly ready to face the day. She headed straight for the coffee. “Thanks, Beth.”
She took a grateful sip, breathing in the rich aroma. “What time did you say Ty was coming?”
“Nine, so you have twenty minutes to get yourself together and catch some horses for him.”
“Shit.” Emma downed the coffee and managed to swallow one piece of French toast. After scrubbing her teeth for the second time, Em felt marginally better by the time she opened the door, but still reached for her darkest pair of shades as well as her jacket when she headed out.
She wished she had remembered last night that Ty was coming. Her wits suffered when that man was about at the best of times. To be hungover and have to deal with him was a recipe for disaster.
He was big, strong, and gorgeous, quintessentially male. He stroked her libido like no other. A walking wet dream. The problem wasn’t Ty, it was his brothers.
When she had first moved to Liberty Springs three years ago, Emma had been mildly shocked by the relationships that thrived there.
Hell, she had been more than shocked. It had taken months for her to pick her jaw up off the ground.
Beth had two husbands, Lacey at the coffee shop had three, and a lot of the women around abouts wore collars. Plus, there was always a lot of comings and goings at the Kinky Kat. Emma had given the club a wide berth since she had been told to go there and find out what “floats her boat.”
People from all walks of life had come to call this little slice of tolerant mountain utopia home. No one was the least bit judgmental. As long as the “safe, sane, and consensual” mantra was adhered to, well, anything went.
If Ty had come as a one-pack, even as a hardcore Dom that this town sprouted like mildew in spring, Em would have snapped him up in a heartbeat. But there were two problems. Cocky, charismatic, sex-on-legs problems.
Colby and Zach Whelan had a smokin’ reputation as good-time boys. They were always the first to pick over the single women who migrated in droves to the sleepy little rural town each summer. Rumors abounded that they weren’t putting a ring on one until big brother Ty found one who was worthy of all their charms.
With Ty as a farrier, and the others owning and running the local rural supplies and feed store, Em had had a lot more to do with them than her questionable sanity should have allowed. The fact that Ty worked his charm on her every chance he got was a little concerning. While the other two certainly got her juices flowing, she wasn’t a good-time girl. The old “once bitten, twice shy” adage stuck like glue to her.
When the cloud of dust heralded the farrier’s arrival, Em had caught three horses but Tammy had no intention of being caught. The recalcitrant mare stretched her neck out like a giraffe to nibble at the handful of sweet feed Em offered but would not allow her close enough to clip the lead on. Emma’s tolerance had regressed to the point of throwing clods of dirt and hollering like a banshee with Tourette’s when the big, black Dodge pulled up.
* * * *
Ty looked over the scene with a smile growing on his rugged face. Emma was at the furthest point of the small paddock, having failed to corner the mare once more. He grinned when she started pelting dirt after the elusive animal, her temper right up, her face flushed magnificently with the rag
e riding her, and her aim totally fucking useless. So much fire, so much passion. Such a lousy arm.
Emma Duncan was sexy as hell when she was mad.
He stepped out of the pickup with a grin on his face. He always loved coming out to Emma’s Riding for the Disabled Centre, but today promised to be even better than usual.
He ducked through the fence. The Welsh mountain pony cross-trotted straight up to him. He got a firm grip on Tammy’s headstall and waited for Emma to get there with the lead. He soothed the pony while he waited for the curvy little woman with steam coming out of her ears to reach him.
* * * *
Emma shook her head in disgust. The hussy had run straight up to him. If that mare wasn’t so good with the younger clients, she would have sold her for dog food months ago. Watching those big hands play so gently over the little bitch before she had felt their touch made Em question her restraint.
If there was a way to piss Emma off, Tammy found it, and she had an uncanny sixth sense for knowing when Em was hungover.
Any other day she could walk straight up to her in the paddock, but if Em had a few too many the night before, trying to get hold of the slippery little bitch was like trying to catch a greased pig with your bare hands. It was a good thing the rifle was locked securely in the house. It always looked like a handy solution on mornings like this. There were times she would love to see Tammy try and outrun a high velocity bullet.
