Three Men and a Bounty

by Three Men

  Chris gagged against the rag at the thought of where they would brand him. He thought how they had taken away his will and put him at their mercy—like an animal. He felt the tears on his cheeks and heard one of the men above him say, “You’ve got a right pretty little ass for a boy. Pretty as a picture, perfect for this little ol’ brand.”

  Someone touched him. Chris felt the calloused pad of a hand fondling him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the shame when fingers strayed close to his back hole as if to enter him but suddenly stopped and the hand was snatched away.

  “Gimme that iron.” The voice came out gruff and disgusted, as if the owner hated himself for touching Chris the way he had.

  He struggled anew against the ropes and hands securing him but couldn’t get free.

  The heat of the branding iron neared his backside.

  Exhausted, Chris said a prayer, his struggles waning. He had about given up all hope of someone helping him when the barn door finally burst open.

  “What in tarnation is going on here?”

  The branding iron dropped, and men went scrambling away from him.

  Mr. Whitfield pulled the rag out of his mouth, and that’s when Chris started screaming and screaming until his throat grew raw.

  Strong arms came around him as he pulled away from the nightmare, eyes yet squeezed shut.

  Chris threw his own arms around a strong back and held tight, as if his life depended on it. “Don’t let ’em hurt me. Please, don’t…”

  “I won’t. No one’s gonna hurt you here.”

  Not Mr. Whitfield’s voice. It well and truly had been a dream. Thank God.

  Chris pulled back slightly to stare up at the face of the man holding him. “Troy?”

  “Who else you expecting?”

  Chris couldn’t say, except that the only other person whose arms he wanted to be in proved just as forbidden, if not more so, than Troy’s.

  Marshal Hayden.

  Chris stared at the chiseled features of the man in front of him, heart fluttering at the upward tilt at one corner of Troy’s mouth like he found Chris’ confusion amusing. It took everything in him not to bury his face against the solid wall of Troy’s hard-muscled chest to escape that amusement and find his comfort in the flannel folds of Troy’s shirt. He’d learned his lesson but good. Men didn’t cotton to shows of affection like that between men. If his time with Cooper had taught him anything, it had taught him that.

  Troy didn’t seem to mind Chris clinging to him, though. In fact, he did a little clinging himself, like he didn’t want to let Chris go.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Chris shook his head again. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was ruin the moment by opening up his pie-hole.

  He swallowed hard at the memory of what had almost happened to him, and his face heated at his shame. He did bury it against Troy’s chest then. It felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to do, and when Troy’s arms tightened around him rather than pushed him away, Chris knew he’d done the right thing.

  He didn’t know he cried until he heard Troy’s husky voice delivering soothing, soft words as if he tried to calm a spooked horse.

  Chris’ shame took a back seat to his hankering when he felt heat flood his groin as blood rushed straight from his head to his shaft. The flood made him dizzy.

  Would Troy be like the others and hurt Chris because he was different? Or did he share Cooper’s kindred spirit?

  At twenty-one, Chris still proved inexperienced at the right way to cozy up to a man, but for sure, there was only one way to figure it out. Chris’ heart pounded at the notion of feeling the older man’s full lips against his, giving and taking and—

  He lifted his face out of Troy’s shirt and gazed up to see the heat in the man’s eyes. The smoky gray color darkened with lust. Then Troy licked his lips, and Chris’ heart skipped several beats before he closed his eyes and tilted back his head, automatically parting his lips.

  Shock scudded through him like ice water when Troy’s firm lips covered his.

  It took all his willpower to keep his eyes from flying open. He didn’t want to ruin the fantasy, didn’t want to see the revulsion that might be in Troy’s eyes when the man came to his senses and realized what he did and with whom. It had happened before.

  Troy pulled away from him several moments later but not in the way Chris had expected. No. Troy dragged his lips away from Chris’ with a long groan. He sounded like he hurt and didn’t want to stop for fear that the pain would get worse if he did.

  “Christ, you’re just a kid.”

  That was a new one. Usually he got “What kind of odd stick are you?” right before the man in question knocked him flat on his backside or worse. Even the men who wanted to bugger him didn’t want to kiss him. Heck if he understood the difference or what made one act better or worse than the other. Men could be an odd lot, and he had the bad luck of preferring them to women.

  “I’ve been on my own since I turned ten.” Not that it made any difference. He still came off as a wide-eyed greenhorn and wasn’t as tough as he could be. Cooper had told him when they’d met it was a wonder Chris remained in one piece. To Cooper’s way of thinking, innocence and inexperience like Chris’ could get a body hurt or killed. Heck, Cooper had been as far away from a shave tail as they came and look what happened to him!

  “Ten, huh?”

  Chris nodded. It wasn’t like he’d had a choice in the matter. A cholera outbreak had taken his parents away from him eleven years ago, and Chris went to work in the factories in New York not long after and before he’d made his way out West. He wasn’t necessarily proud of the things he’d done to survive since, but fact was fact.

  “You’re all alone?” Troy pushed a stray lock of hair away from Chris’ face real gentle like, looking down into his eyes as if he wanted to protect Chris, not hurt him.

  Chris just barely puffed up his chest. He didn’t want pity. “I get by.”

  “I reckon you do.” Troy peered some more, like he tried to figure out what made Chris tick. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough.”

  Troy chuckled and shook his head. “I suspect you are.” He sighed and braced his palms on his thighs before standing up. “Well, Mr. Old Enough, think you’re ready to hold down some grub?”

  Chris looked toward the window for the first time since he’d waken up from his nightmare and saw that daybreak had arrived. The sun shone bright, spilling through the floral-print curtains to warm the four-poster bed.

  He glanced around the room and spied the bedroll on the wood floor at the foot of the bed then winced. “I took your bed.”

  “Don’t go vexing yourself about it.”

  “I didn’t mean to…Miss Josie said it was okay that…I thought it was her room what with the flowers on the curtains and the ruffles on the bed and...”

  “Josie has a habit of putting her stamp on things even when they don’t belong to her.” Troy laughed. “She said the room needed some color and style.”

  “Oh.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “About the room?

  Troy nodded.

  “I reckon it’s pretty.”

  Troy grinned, and the show of dimples was liked to knock the wind right out of Chris’ lungs. The man’s next murmured words, however, finished the job and took his breath away.

  “Not as pretty as you.”

  Chapter 3

  In the dark, James imagined the head bobbing up and down between his thighs belonged to another person, another sex. It was the only way he could stay hard.

  He closed his eyes tight to bring the vision of shaggy, honey-blond waves and wide blue eyes into sharper focus. The boy had one of the most beautiful faces James had seen in a long spell, if he ever had at all. Cheekbones didn’t come any more sculpted except on the Indians he’d taken refuge with back before Emancipation. Sharp enough to cut glass they were. If his hair was darker and he wasn’t as
fair, he might have been mistaken for at least a mix-breed. The eyes, however, those innocent blue eyes, were a dead give-away.

  He wasn’t from around here, for certain. Probably a chuck-eater or a shorthorn like old Bart had called him last night, his accent giving him away like a shirt full o’ fleas. He might have been out West for a few years, but there was no mistake he’d come from somewhere else—New York maybe.

  And James never would have met him had he not gone into Barrow’s.

  It wasn’t usually his habit to frequent white establishments, especially those patronized by drunk, armed cowboys. He could handle himself just fine, but he preferred not inviting difficulty if he could help it. He liked to keep a low profile and peace and quiet, particularly when he just arrived back from a hunt in Indian Territory.

  Troy Barrow had a reputation for being about as open-minded as anyone around these parts, though, known to treat everyone with the same respect he expected to be treated with.

  James had banked on this when he’d come through the doors tonight because he’d been too tired to go to Nellie’s. The blacks-only establishment was all the way across town, and after dropping off his latest quarries at Fort Smith, he’d just wanted to relax for a spell with a quick drink. Wolf Creek was the closest cow town, if a body could call a three-hundred mile ride close.

  Relaxing had been the last thing he’d done once that young’un with the honey-blond hair and wide blue eyes had walked into the bar and caught the attention of near everybody in the place, though, him included. Unfortunately, all the attention hadn’t come from the most seemly of characters, Bart just being the most vocal and roostered.

  In the end, James had wound up at Nellie’s anyhow, partaking in the special entertainment that only one of old Nellie’s sporting women could provide.

  It wasn’t enough, though, never had been.

  He wanted more.

  He wanted honey-blond hair and blue eyes.

  He wanted smoky-gray eyes and wavy chestnut hair.

  He wanted Troy’s broad shoulders and hard muscles that stood up to his own. He wanted to hold on to Chris’ slim hips when he slid his cock into the manchild’s tight little rear.

  He wanted the impossible.

  James muttered an oath and pulled away from the woman between his legs. His limp cock slid from her mouth with a soft pop.

  She caressed his thighs with both hands, looking up at his face in the dim light with a confused expression on her face. “You’re all tense, sugar. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing you can help me with.”

  The woman sat back on her haunches and put a fist on her hip. “I thought I was doing a darn good job of helping before you stopped me.”

  “I reckon you were doing okay, ma’am.”

  “Why are you always so all-fired formal, James? You come here often enough to call me by my Christian name.”

  True enough, but he just couldn’t cross that barrier with her, with any woman. He wouldn’t, not when he couldn’t truly give her what he knew she wanted—commitment.

  James couldn’t commit to any woman. And to commit to a man, any man, would just shorten his lifespan right and proper.

  “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Sarah.” He stood up from the bed and turned his back on her as he pulled up his long johns and pants. He should never have given his permission for Nellie to send him a girl, but he found it hard to say no to the woman, to most women. This inability remained the bane of his existence. “I’ll pay you the full price for the hour.”

  She stood, too, caught him by the arm, and turned him around to face her. “You’re not just a job to me,” she murmured.

  “I can’t be anything else.”

  She sighed and cupped his face, piercing him with a somber look that spoke to him better than any words ever could.

  What he wouldn’t give to return her affection, to want to. It would have made his life so much easier if he could be with Sarah the way she wanted.

  James caught her hand and held it against his chest.

  She deserved better than to be strung along, and he’d tried his darnedest not to. He tried to be a gentleman without betraying his nature, a difficult juggling act during the best of times. However, as one of several black U.S. deputy marshals appointed by Judge Parker, he had reputations to uphold—that of black people and that of the United States federal government. His loyalty to Sarah and his nature placed a distant third and fourth to these duties.

  Times like this he wished he had stayed with the Choctaw. They had a far different view of sexuality among their people. Their males, the hoobuk, who chose to live their lives as females, were celebrated and held in high esteem rather than seen as deviant.

  James swallowed as he brought Sarah’s hand up to his lips and gently kissed the palm, his way set. “I’m powerful sorry, Sarah.”

  “James…” She grabbed his free hand with hers, her eyes glowing with desperation. “I want to be with you. I don’t care about what you are.”

  His heart thudded at her words. He wasn’t as nervous when he tracked down bootleggers, horse rustlers, and murderers in the Cherokee Hills as he was right then peering into Sarah’s eyes because he suspected she wasn’t talking about his job.

  “You know.”

  She had the decorum to lower her eyes, a fierce blush coloring her maple-brown cheeks when she finally raised her gaze back to his. “I reckon I always have. You bluff a good game, but a woman knows.”

  “Then why would you want to be with me?”

  “You’re a good, honest man, James Hayden. That’s a rarity in these parts. Not to mention I just plain like you.”

  “I can’t give you what you want.”

  “These days a woman just wants companionship.”

  Sarah may have been willing to settle, but James wasn’t. He’d rather be alone, which was probably the best thing for him, especially considering his profession. He suspected not many women besides Sarah would put up with the demands of a job that kept him away from the homestead six months at a time.

  Would a man put up with it?

  James shook his head, determined not to go down that lonely, hopeless road. He was dreaming, being as impractical as Sarah.

  For certain he’d heard tell of stag dances where cowboys entertained themselves with polkas, waltzes and quicksteps. And acts of mutual solace between young, unmarried cowboys out here where women remained scarce were common. James, however, knew he couldn’t get away with the same things a white man could, despite the prestige of his job or the remoteness of the cow towns he frequently passed through.

  James easily released Sarah and stepped back. “I’m powerful flattered that you’d choose me to settle down with, sugar. You’re a pretty little thing who shouldn’t have to settle for someone who can’t meet your needs, not when you can have any man you want, surely.”

  She turned her back on him then and sat down on the four-poster bed, the big mattress seeming to swallow her slim figure up as sure as the whale that swallowed Jonah.

  James went to her, sitting on the edge of the bed, putting a hand on her shoulder and that’s when he felt her body shaking with silent sobs. Lord, he didn’t know what to do about a woman’s tears. He didn’t deal with too many crying females in his line of work, unless he counted the mother of two of his latest captures. That hadn’t been as much crying as it had been shrieking and cussing at James for hoodwinking her to get to her boys, though. Lord, James didn’t think he had ever heard such profanity come out of the mouth of the fairer sex before.

  He wrapped his arms around Sarah and pulled her close. Sarah, in turn, flung her arms around him and clung tight. When she drew her face away from his chest and reached for his lips with hers, he didn’t pull away. She kissed him, her lips hungry and searching as if trying to drag a reaction out of him that she thought would come to light if she just wished hard enough.

  James let her kiss him, closed his eyes and even tried to let himself get into the feel
ing, but it didn’t work. He just didn’t feel anything beyond mild affection and certainly not the fire he sought. Something remained missing—always missing.

  She jerked away from him with a strangled cry, roughly wiping the tears away with the back of her hands. “That was a mistake.”

  “I’m sorry, Sa—”

  She put up a hand. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault you feel the way you feel. I was just hoping that maybe, if I could get a rise out of you, you’d see that it’s not so bad, you know,” she shrugged, all of a sudden seeming shy before continuing with a murmur, “being with a woman.”

  She wasn’t the first who thought she could change his mind. He sorely wished she could get a rise out of him, but he felt the way he felt and wanted what he wanted. A woman wouldn’t do, not if he remained honest with himself, and he was sorely tired of living a lie.

  “You’ll find someone, Sarah. You’re young and you’re pretty…”

  “You don’t have to go. You’ve still got the room for the rest of the day. Might as well stay and relax for a spell.”

  He caught her by the hand as she rose to leave, a sudden horrible thought dawning on him. “You won’t…say anything to anyone, will you?”

  “Who would I tell? Who would believe me? The big bad Marshal Hayden, a legend in his own time, prefers to bugger men instead of women.” She grinned sadly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  He just looked at her, thoughts of the reporter camped out in the hotel across town even now writing up an account of James’ latest exploits for his newspaper filling his mind.

  Someone knocked on the door, and James and Sarah stared at each other before he asked, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Nellie, and you have a…visitor. He wouldn’t leave a message. He said he needs to speak to you in person. I couldn’t get him to leave.”

  Could it be the reporter? He had been fairly insistent about getting quotes from the horse’s mouth for his paper, and James had been just as insistent that he didn’t want to be quoted. He didn’t have time for such foolishness. Bringing in criminals was just his job, and he didn’t want or need accolades or recognition for doing what was in his blood and the right thing to do, like last evening with the kid in the saloon. He’d been born to help out those in need. His way just happened to be with his gun and trailing and finding the bad guys.