by Ami Snow
“What?” she said, turning to him.
And he told her everything. About them conspiring to get rid of her. Telling him how they were going to handle things. And how the rider had to be part of the plot.
“But why?” she said moving him to her chest, “Why would they? Unless they think I’ve found a way to prove they were involved in my father’s death.”
“The bank president. I think he’s some kind of former outlaw. If he is the other members of the town council may also be crooks.” He told her about finding the poster.
“That would figure,” she said while hugging him, “an entire town council made of former outlaws. And it would explain the bank’s deposits being higher than they should be.”
“Correct,” Chico said, “Wetzer doesn’t want it known he has too much money in the bank. People will start to question how he came by it. And then they’ll start putting things together.”
“Don’t know what to do,” she sighed. “The whole town seems in their pocket. It’s just you and me. Oh, honey, you’ll need to stop that or we won’t get any sleep.”
They did it a few more times before dozing off. As he drifted into the land of night, Chico had a plan.
“So these are supposed to be the Brownington gang?” the sheriff asked Chico as she looked through the spy glass at the group of men camped on the trail into town.
“It’s what we’re meant to think,” Chico corrected her. “Why don’t you have a look at them closer?”
The sheriff adjusted the spy glass and had another look.
“I see some hard men who have been riding the trail all…hey! Those are badges they’re wearing!”
“Right. They’re Texas Rangers. We were supposed to think they were outlaws.”
“But why?”
“So the bank manager and his buddies can leave town with the all the gold he stole over the years that is stashed in his bank vault. With you out of the way, they’d have me believe the rangers were a gang trying to rob the bank instead of lawmen getting back his stolen loot.”
“Those bastards,” she growled. “The same reason they had my father killed.”
“Why Sheriff Mary Jane,” Chico exclaimed, “such words coming out of your mouth!”
They were over the ridge looking at the party which had camped out on the road into town. The sheriff had her horse, but Chico was traveling on foot as usual.
They embraced each other and kissed. He was glad no one was around to see them. What he had to do was hard enough without having the sheriff to be reminded daily of her lover who had skipped town.
“I have to go now,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ll be back in a few months’ time, but I don’t expect you to wait for me.”
She pushed him away.
“Just like every other man,” she said, turning away so he couldn’t see her tears.
“I know this is hard for you,” Chico said, “but you are the only one who can do what needs to be done. The crooks who are trying to leave town with their stolen money will be ready to go. I’ve checked. They started loading up the minute I shot the assassin they hired. By now they’ll be ready to leave. I can’t go stop them. You’ll have to go down and tell the rangers what is going on.”
She still wouldn’t turn around and look at him.
Chico went up to her and tried to put his arms around her from behind. She knocked them away.
“Mary Jane,” he said, “you may not believe this right now and I wouldn’t hold it against you if you didn’t.”
“I love you,” he whispered into her ear. He could feel her starting to cry.
“You have to be strong for us both. I’m going to hold those thieves off on the other side of town. Don’t ask me how, but I will. You have to come up the rear with the rangers.”
Chico kissed her on the cheek and walked away into the bush. He could hear her trying to stop the tears as he left. He hated himself, but there was no time to explain what would happen when the moon went up in a few hours.
When the sheriff and the rangers collared the fleeing town council the next day, they were amazed at how little resistance they put up. The rangers had expected a full blown gun battle with the gang, but the outlaws were actually glad to see them show up. When the sheriff and rangers came over the hill they found the wagons used for hauling the gold in a circle with the former town council inside it, guns ready. They tossed out the guns the moment the law arrived and begged for mercy.
“Thank God you are here!” the former mayor cried out. “I thought we were dead for sure!”
The sheriff looked at them with puzzlement.
“Why are you still here?” she asked. “I was certain you’d be all the way to Reno by now.”
“The bear!” cried the former bank president. “It’s out there! It came at us last night! You’ve got to help us, nothing can stop the bear!”
“Bear?” one of the rangers said. “What bear? I don’t see any bear around.”
“He’s out there!” screamed the former store owner. “He wouldn’t let us go last night. I emptied my entire pistol into him point blank! You’ve got to stop him!”
No bear was ever found by the rangers, although they did see some scratches on trees indicating something very large had been near the wagons. The town council was hauled off to the territorial prison where they spent the next ten years raving about a supernatural bear.
The sheriff returned to town where she served the honest citizens the rest of her life, although she never married. However, it was rumored she entertained a gentleman caller once a month who had been her deputy.
THE E
Gold Digger In Stealth
BDSM ROMANCE
By: Amanda Bolton
Gold Digger In Stealth
Chapter One –
Sandra Vaughn picked up the bowl of ramen, slurping up a forkful of limp noodles and bland, lukewarm broth, tasting vaguely of shrimp. She made a face, setting the cracked bowl on the table, turning towards the numerous open windows on her laptop, all a variety of some obscure social forum. After about two weeks of insufferable job hunting, she was on the verge of exhausting all her other options, turning to the plethora of ambiguously titled, sometimes frightening advertisements, a new one surfacing every half hour.
Sandra plucked a pearl copper strand of hair from her eyes, tucking it neatly under one of the countless bobby pins holding up the lace-braided bun nestled on her head. She hovered the cursor over the link of a post with no applicants, despite garnering thousands of views. She hesitated, twisting her lips skeptically, smashing the button of her mouse. She leaned towards the screen, her nose wrinkling, her expression growing progressively repulsed, mouthing the bold-faced words silently to herself in disbelief.
“No, no, no,” muttered Sandra, ramming the faulty backspace button on her keyboard as she frantically tried to exit the page, “Not that desperate, thank you.”
Sandra reached for the bowl of ramen, her elbows knocking off the bundle of schoolbooks and loose-leaf sheets stacked up on the edge of her desk, grunting in irritation. She nudged the books towards the foot of her bed, resolving to deal with the mess later. She continued to scroll down the simplistic forum, her eyes dimming as her expectations began to wither. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing, opening up a new tab to an advertisement seeking voluptuous women as “escorts”. She left the tab unattended and available as she browsed for other posts.
Sandra cocked an eyebrow as an unusually ordinary, inexplicit headline caught her attention. She clicked the link, her forehead wrinkling at the concise post. It read:
“Seeking part-time nanny for 10-year-old girl, no experience required, must be good with kids, must be patient. Must have flexible hours. No cooking or cleaning required – keeping the child company will be your only responsibility. Please include short description about yourself and photograph if interested.”
Sandra heaved a thwarting sigh. The “job” seemed profoundly out of place in the suspiciou
s forum, and the anonymous poster's seeming lack of concern for their child's prospective caretaker triggered a ringing of alarm bells, the impending social worker inside her emerging. On the other hand, she yearned for a home-cooked meal – or simply, a taste of fresh leafy greens, or the savory, juicy flavor of a genuine hunk of meat. For several months now, she had been surviving on canned vegetables, processed cheese and frozen meals, fueling the lapse of her deteriorating taste buds.
Sandra shrugged off her dissonant thoughts, prattling away on the keyboard as she formulated a quick reply. She hit “Send” and proceeded back to the main page. She exhaled through her nose, the page refusing to load, and fiddled with her internet settings. She muttered under her breath petulantly, “Come on, 3B, I need your wi-fi, don't do this to me...”
“Crap,” grumbled Sandra, conceding. She slammed her laptop shut, stashing her beaten, whirring laptop into her backpack, the once vibrant paisley print faded with age. She whirled her backpack over her shoulder and headed out the front door.
Sandra walked into the public library, approaching the front desk, the familiar face of the slender man with a dark-Cesar cut, prompting a wide, affectionate grin on her jewel-red, rouged lips. She capered towards the young man, rapping her knuckles against the hickory wood of the desk.
“Keep it down, Vaughn,” said the man, not looking up from the unfolded newspaper across the desk, the ink of the intricate tiger tattoo on his arm flexing as he flipped the page.
“Hi Louie! What's with the newspaper? Ever heard of the internet?”
Louie glanced up from his paper, raising a thick, steeply arched brow, “So I like to keep it traditional, is that a crime?”
“No – speaking of the internet, my damn neighbor must've changed his wi-fi password – I can't get through –”
“Now that's a crime,” said Louie, his dimples indenting, “Ay, you know we're closing for the –”
“Pretty please,” Sandra's voice was smoky, her head tilted, “I really need to get this job search –”
“Fine,” Louie agreed grudgingly, shaking his head, “You have twenty minutes.”
“And that's why you're my absolute favorite –”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Louie, waving her away flippantly, “Nineteen minutes and thirty seconds.”
Sandra pulled up the nearest chair, plunking down on the lumpy, fraying cushion, and drew the laptop out of her backpack. She cringed, the obnoxious billboard topper trumpeting out of her jeans pocket. She reached for her phone and muted the ringtone, cupping her hand next to her mouth as she called out to Louie, “That's mine, sorry!”
“Obviously.”
Sandra rose from the chair and scurried out towards the door, hastening to answer the call, her forehead creasing as the words “Unknown Caller” blinked across her screen. She stumbled out into the crisp evening breeze, the sidewalk beneath her feet barely visible under the pallidly dim glow of the streetlamps.
Sandra took a calming breath, shielding the receiver from the noisy gusts of wind with her palm, “Hello?”
“Good evening, I was wondering if I could get a hold of Sandra Vaughn?” The man had a smooth, husky tone to his voice, speaking softly with a slight texan flair.
Slightly taken aback by the stranger's manners, she gulped, her voice wavering, “Speaking.”
“Great, you responded to my ad for the nanny position – I was wondering if you were still interested in the job?”
“Oh, right – yes, definitely, when would –”
“Wonderful. Come by tomorrow at three in the afternoon. The address is 287, West Valley Heights.”
“Great, I'd love to –”
Sandra's mouth fell open as the line went dead, buzzing in her ears.
Chapter Two –
The pointed heels of Sandra's argyle ankle-straps clicked softly against the crushed stone of the puzzle-patterned sidewalk. She paused in her unremitting stride, slouching forward, fanning herself with her hand. She squinted at the address, beautifully scripted across the spotless, champagne painted mailbox perched on the curbside.
“187 West Valley Heights,” Sandra muttered to herself, gritting her teeth resentfully as she peered at the neat rows of extravagant, remarkably structured houses and impeccably manicured lawns. She twirled in a circle, sticking her hands to her hips, aggravated.
“Not a single friggin' bus stop? Really?,” Sandra rambled to herself as she trudged forwards, shaking her head, “Rich people.”
She flicked away the drop of sweat descending on her pulsing temples with her fingers, the pace of her steps once again slowing down as she stared, slack-jawed, approaching an exaggerated compound encompassed by a gleaming, french gothic steel gate. She lumbered towards the gate cautiously, her eyes closing in on the gold-plated sign bolted onto the drystone wall. She blinked, incredulous, buzzing the doorbell. The screen fizzled to life, a middle-aged man with a doorman's hat appearing on the picture, looking around slowly with expressionless eyes.
“Please step into the line of the camera.”
Sandra shuffled towards the small lens above the screen, clearing her throat, “Hi, my name is Sandra Vaughn, I'm –”
The gates screeched open. Sandra traipsed through the open gates, her heart pumping wildly in anticipation as she hiked up the escalating flagstone walkway, paved with dark slabs of stone. She lost control of her jaw briefly, her mouth dropping open at the grandiose 15,000-square-foot estate. She nipped forwards, her pupils swelling as she goggled at the magnificent cluster of modern, linked houses with tall, pristine, glass windows, painted a creamy, coconut white, overlooking a glittery, 30-foot-long, infinity-edge swimming pool. Her twenty-dollar heels felt almost inferior as she crossed the neatly-trimmed lawn to the looming, baroquely designed front door. She rang the doorbell, lacing her fingers around each other nervously. The door swung open, a frigid blast of chilled air gushing out the brightly lit foyer.
A glamorous woman in a silky, moccasin-white kaftan stared back at Sandra, her glossy, mandarin tinted lips scowling. Sandra blinked, slightly intimidated by the woman's hollywood features – she had round, almond-shaped, berry blue eyes, a straight, pointed nose that's obviously been tinkered with, her face caked with immaculately applied make-up. The woman tucked a lock of her bleached blonde, feathered hair behind her sparkling ears, folding her arms against her chest.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes – I'm sorry, my name's Sandra Vaughn, I'm here to interview for the nanny position. Is this the –”
“Tate!” The woman shrieked up the grand, double-ended staircase, leering spitefully at Sandra behind her shoulder. She shoved the door open, sashaying off into a room.
Sandra minced through the doorway, consciously wiring her mouth shut as her wide, spellbound gaze glided over the opulence of the majestic foyer, from the the iridescent crystal chandelier hanging above her to the impressive home theater system set up in the grecian-inspired living room. She crouched, feeling the cold, smooth texture of the marbled steps with the back of her hand, her eyes falling to the mesmerizing hexagonal patterns of the lavish carpet.
“Hope it wasn't too difficult to find us.”
Sandra bounded from the floor, flattening the rumpled fabric of the flare laced dress that grazed her kneecaps. She looked up, gawking at the coltish man with a neat, french-fork beard, suavely dressed in a platinum gray, three-piece suit, standing just two steps above her. His thick, hard-angled brows rested above a thin, twinkling set of eyes twinged with flecks of juniper green. She peeled her eyes away from his intense gaze.
“No, it was fine,” squeaked Sandra, hemming softly.
Tate Donahue pored over the faltering, bell-framed silhouette of the young woman before him. His lips curled as he studied her soft, delicate features, the hairs on his arms prickling – there was something about the subtle, timid way she carried herself, as if she hadn't an inkling of how beautiful she was. His lips parted slightly, studying her heavily lidded, jade black
eyes, his eyes dancing on the dainty cupid's bow of her thin, pink lips. He watched as she gathered the plait of her fishtail braid to the side of her neck, lingering on the creamy, tender beige of her flawless skin.
Tate sliced through the tension, introducing himself, “My name is Tate Donahue, we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes,” replied Sandra meekly.
“Right, if you could come with me this way, I'll show you to Coraline's room.”
Sandra followed him up the staircase quietly, rubbernecking the vibrant floral centerpieces and original pieces of priceless artwork hung up on the salt-white walls. Tate led her down the corridor, stopping at a tall, african mahogany door with typical juvenile no-entry signage, knocking three times.
“Dad? Come in.”
Coraline Donahue had every little girl's dream bedroom – the walls, gorgeous four-poster-bed with sherbet chiffon drapery, and furniture were all splashed with princess pink. The little girl was hunched over a toy chest brimming with action figures and varied sizes of bouncing balls, dressed in a baggy shirt with a print of a cartoon cat, her straight, mid-parted, flowing brown hair masking her face. Sandra smiled as Coraline turned towards them, revealing a set of round, mousse green eyes, below thick, naturally long lashes. She reminded Sandra of the eerily beautiful bisque doll her grandmother had given to her as a child.
“Who's she?” Coraline pouted, furrowing her faint eyebrows.
Sandra forced a smile onto her face, “Hi, Coraline. My name's Sandra.”
“Coraline, I'm gonna leave Sandra here for a few minutes to get acquainted, okay?”
