by Zoe Blake
The truth burned. Still, she fought both his words and her own body’s reaction.
Jerking her head away, she raised her hand swiftly to strike him. Brice easily captured her small wrist. Not to be outdone, Michaela sank her sharp teeth into the fleshy part of his hand. Brice grit his teeth in pain before spinning her about. Grabbing a fistful of her hair from behind to keep her steady, his deep voice rumbled, “If you want to act like an animal, I will fuck you like one.”
Sweeping his booted foot across her ankles, he forced Michaela to her knees. Her fall was cushioned by the thick layer of fresh straw.
Brice followed her down, maintaining his strong grip on her hair. Digging his fingers in the waistband of her riding skirt, he ruthlessly yanked it down, taking her pantalets with it. The creamy pale skin of her bottom was bared to his gaze. Reaching his free arm back, he landed one open palm smack on her right buttock, pleased when he saw his mark blossom on her skin.
Giving an outraged shriek as the burning sting of his hand warmed her skin, Michaela tried to rise off her hands and knees, but his large body bearing down on her prevented it.
Brice reached for the buttons on his trousers, quickly freeing his painfully aroused cock. Placing a hand between her legs, he was not surprised to feel her wet and ready for him. She could protest all she wanted… he knew what she truly needed.
Fisting his shaft, Brice pressed the head against her tight entrance. With one powerful thrust, she was impaled.
Michaela groaned as her body stretched and moved to accommodate his girth, loving and hating the feeling of fullness which made her feel dominated… taken.
Brice pulled his hips back only to thrust forward again slowly, wanting her to feel every thick inch.
“Say you’re mine,” he ordered with ragged breath.
She bit her tongue, trying to fight back a groan. Her body was betraying her.
“Say you’re mine,” he repeated as the ferocity of his thrusts increased.
Michaela fell forward onto her elbows as her body absorbed each push of his hips. The movement caused her bottom to rise and push back onto his cock. Brice smacked her ass, knowing the pain would spur her on. Her hips rose as she let out a pained yelp. He spanked her again, timing each hit with the thrust of his cock.
With one hand fisted in her hair, the other spanking her already sore bottom while his body forced its way inside her own, Brice overpowered her.
She needed this. The mixture of pain and pleasure. His dominance. It freed her from the prison of her mind and allowed her to only feel the hard press of his cock as her body strained to accept him. The scrape of his trouser uniform buttons as they pressed into the back of her thighs. The warmth radiating from her skin where he had punished her. The feel of his breath on her neck as he bent low over her body. All mixed with the fresh, sweet smell of the hay and the musky scent of the horses nearby. It all felt so raw. So primal.
“I’m yours,” she helplessly choked out.
“Say it again,” he demanded as his cock swelled inside her tight passage.
“I’m yours,” she screamed as the rush of her release overtook her.
“You’re goddamn right you are,” he roared as his cock released his seed deep inside her womb.
“THAT BITCH of a daughter of yours is fucking with all our plans.”
Parcels had gotten wind of uncomfortable questions being asked about him around town. Word was it was a couple of soldiers from the fort. He knew precisely who to blame. That bitch had spread her legs for that major, and now he was doing her bidding.
Beulah winced as she covered her ears. It wasn’t what Parcels was saying, it was how loudly he was saying it.
“Are you listening to me?” shouted Parcels as he snatched the threadbare blanket off the bed and tossed it on the floor.
“Parry, please! Not so loud! You know it hurts my head,” whined Beulah as she pulled her dirty dressing gown more firmly around her ample hips.
Gone was the elegant woman who’d given celebrated dinners from her mansion on Peachtree Street. Beulah had aged far beyond her forty and five years. Her once prized creamy complexion now looked sallow. Her trim body once clothed in the finest silks, tulle and muslin was now soft and rotund, covered in cheap cotton prints dyed bright, garish colors. She lounged listless across the bed.
“You know what hurts my head? That bitch you call a daughter!” groused Parcels, his lips contorting grotesquely.
With great difficulty, Beulah raised herself up on her elbows. Her head bobbed heavily on her shoulders as her eyes roamed the room, unable to focus. Ignoring his slur against her own daughter, she asked, “Where is my medicine?”
Her medicine was a healthy dose of laudanum several times a day.
“You drank it all last night.”
Her face crumpled as her skin became mottled. Jesus, thought Parcels, this is all I fucking need.
“I need my medicine,” she wailed as her fists beat the sawdust mattress.
Adopting a sing-song voice as if he were talking to a petulant toddler, Parcels held up a small glass bottle. “You’ll get more medicine when you tell me how to deal with your daughter.”
“There is no dealing with Michaela. She is as stubborn as her father is… was,” grumbled Beulah as she stared longingly at the bottle in his hand.
“So maybe I will have to deal with the bitch the same way.”
His words finally broke through the opium fog in Beulah’s head. Wringing her hands, she said nervously, “That took months to plan. Even a disreputable town like this will not look the other way if you kill a young woman. Why can’t we just leave town? Once we cross over into Mexico, she will never find us.”
“I have two cart loads of pine tar to unload first. The trade off with that injun, Taza, isn’t happening for at least another fortnight. I’m not lighting out till then. Besides, I’m tired of that bitch always tailing us. It’s time to finish this.”
A long dormant conscience started to prick Beulah. “Parcels, I don’t want you to…”
Unstoppering the vial, Parcels held it under her nose. Beulah inhaled. The pungent scent of stale wine mixed with spices made her pupils dilate as her body anticipated the euphoric response. Snatching the vial, she took a large swig. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Beulah fell back onto the bed, eyes closed, oblivious to Parcels and his nefarious plan for her daughter.
Parcels viewed her prone form with a disgusted sneer. Beulah’s portion of her former husband’s money had long run out. He only kept her around because it was easy to whore her out when he needed ready coin or some information. Perhaps it was time to get rid of mother and daughter?
CHAPTER 10
T yphoid.
Just saying the word could start a panic in any community. With proper care, it didn’t have to be deadly, but it always spread… rapidly… and always caused anxiety and fear.
Michaela had been sitting with Mrs. Hastings in her cozy cabin in the officer’s section of the fort. Mrs. Hastings was teaching her how to use a Singer sewing machine. Before the war, Michaela had actually enjoyed needlework. Her samplers, cushions and handkerchiefs were always admired. Out in the harsh conditions of the frontier, embroidering monograms on little white handkerchiefs seemed wasteful and supercilious. It would be much more useful if she could apply her sewing talents to something more practical like making dresses and repairing shirts. She had expected Mrs. Hastings to pull out a simple needle and thread. She was thoroughly surprised when the woman proudly revealed her Singer.
“Oh, dear! Did you think that just because we lived in these rough cabins out in the middle of nowhere, we were completely bereft of the modern conveniences!” exclaimed Mrs. Hastings with a laugh. “Mr. Hastings purchased this for me the moment he saw it. I was the first wife on base to own one. Now, of course, even the few enlisted wives do not consider their furnishings complete unless they have one.”
Michaela touched the cold, shiny black metal, marveling at the pre
tty gold scroll work. “Do you think I will be able to manage it?”
“Oh, dear! Why it is as easy as pie! A clever girl like you will be sewing complicated patterns in no time!”
Mrs. Hastings took her by the shoulders and pushed her down onto the upholstered stool in front of the machine.
“Place your foot on that metal pedal there and just start to pump.”
There was a wide piece of metal that looked like a cast iron grate under the sturdy table. As Michaela pumped her foot, the grate moved up and down and the sewing machine whirred to life.
Michaela gave a startled laugh and stopped pumping her foot. The machine came to a stop.
“Don’t stop moving your foot, dear! Keep pumping! We’re going to start with a simple hem. Just feed the fabric under the machine but mind your fingers,” instructed Mrs. Hastings.
It had all been so lovely. The feminine companionship. Drinking tea. Learning to sew. All simple domestic pursuits she desperately missed. It was the first time since the war Michaela felt a return to normalcy.
Then the private had burst into the cabin looking for Mrs. Hastings, one word on his lips. Typhoid.
Michaela was back in the war. Reliving the times typhoid swept through the soldier camps. The fever and rashes. The fear and worry. It all came back to her in a sickening rush.
“It must have come in with the new recruits,” observed Mrs. Hastings. “Run along, Private. Tell the medical officer I will be there shortly.”
“I want to help,” offered Michaela.
“Oh, dear. I don’t know. What would Major Brice say?”
Brice had left that morning on patrol with Company C. Michaela blushed to recall their vigorous love making before his departure. This time he’d had her straddle his hips and ride him as if he were a horse. He’d palmed her full breasts as her hips rose and fell on his thick shaft. She’d teased him by swirling her hips when just the tip of his cock was inside of her, only to slowly push her hips down on his hard flesh. When he could take it no longer, Brice had flipped her onto her back, spread her thighs wide and pounded into her with alarming voracity. Her nails had clawed his back, leaving red trails, as she’d screamed her release moments before he’d found his own.
But then he had to leave her…
It was too important of a patrol for Brice to stay behind. Their primary mission was to meet with Chief Chalipun, a powerful figure among the Apaches. Unlike some other fort commanders, Brice believed peace was possible with the Indians if they were shown respect and a little compassion. He was there to discuss the terms of Chief Chalipun moving his tribe closer to the fort for winter. If his tribe received provisions from the cavalry to get them through the harsh cold weather, they were far less likely to raid the different settlements for food.
“The major isn’t here to say, but I have had experience with the disease during the war. I can be of some use.”
“Very well. They’ll have put the afflicted in a quarantine tent behind the sick cabin.”
Michaela nodded. “I will meet you there. Let me just go and change.”
Racing back to her shared cabin with Brice, she changed out of her calico dress and into her riding skirt and simple blouse before heading to the quarantine tent.
“ARE YOU MAD? For the last fucking time, you cannot give these men calomel! It will poison them,” shouted Michaela.
“Oh and I suppose you have a medical degree now?”
“Do you?” she stormed back.
Michaela had been locking horns with the medical officer from the very start of the outbreak four days ago. When she arrived, the tent was stifling, all the flaps secured shut. She demanded they be open, explaining that fresh air was beneficial. The medical officer was giving the men calomel. An outdated remedy which contained mercury. Doctors in the East no longer used it since it was known to poison the patient. Michaela knew that many army posts were hard up for experienced doctors and often hired civilians who were little better than blood-letting barbers, but this was ridiculous! The man wasn’t just incompetent, he was dangerous. As such, she had refused to leave the tent for four days straight, despite the pleas of Mrs. Hastings and the other women. In the fever tortured face of each soldier, she saw her brother. He’d died of a bullet wound to the thigh which became infected, but all the same—he’d been a soldier in pain—as these men were. She couldn’t leave them to the incompetent ministrations of the butcher they called a medical officer.
Michaela swayed on her feet as she confronted the man. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, let alone laid down for a rest. She missed Brice. Missed his strength. Missed the feeling of having his arms around her, holding her protectively close. She so badly wanted him here, to lean on. Wishing did not make it so. Company C was two days late in returning. His second in command was not worried. Any number of issues could have caused the delay. That did not stop Michaela from worrying about his welfare as much as the sick soldiers.
It was startling how quickly she had come to care and rely on Brice. She no longer questioned it. She loved the man. Loved his arrogant confidence. Loved his overbearing protective side. Loved his strong sense of honor and commitment. She also loved how he made her feel. Cherished. Safe. And yes, loved in return—even though he had not said the words yet—but then again, neither had she.
Michaela snatched a Colt from the holster of a passing sergeant.
Straightening her arm, the tip of the barrel was only a few inches from the medical officer’s nose. She lifted her chin as her eyes flashed with accusation. With flinty determination she said, “Get out.”
“Gun! Gun! She’s threatening to kill me!” squealed the odious man.
The sound of several metallic clicks pierced the tense silence as several soldiers reluctantly pulled their weapons. Michaela did not have to look around to know they were leveled at her.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to lower your weapon,” pleaded the soldier closest to her.
“Not till he leaves,” she ground out.
“What the holy hell is going on in here?” bellowed someone behind her from the tent entrance.
Brice had returned.
“Stand down,” he growled to the men standing about the tent with their guns drawn… and pointed at his woman.
Four days on the dusty, dirty trail and all he could think about night and day was returning to Michaela. Of course, he would return to find her in the middle of another possible gunfight. He was going to have to tie the damn woman to his bed to keep her out of trouble.
“Brice.” The exhausted relief was evident in how she said his name. “This man is trying to kill your soldiers. Please tell him to leave.”
His warm, hard body pressed along her back as his arm stretched out to take the gun from her weakening grip. Wrapping his other arm around her slim waist, he whispered in her ear, “I’m here now, little one.”
With a sob, she leaned into his strength, turning her head to inhale the comforting masculine scent that was all him.
Leveling his hard gaze on the medical officer, he said simply, “Leave. Now.”
“You’re not going to take the word of some... some… whor—”
“Careful,” warned Brice.
“Some… woman,” the medical officer finished spitefully. “Over me!”
“You’re damn right I am. Now get out of my sight before I have you taken to the guardhouse.”
The medical officer left with a huff.
Brice looked down at Michaela, a frown creasing his brow. He did not like the dark shadows under her eyes or her wan appearance. It reminded him of when he’d first seen her in the saloon. Only worse somehow. Reaching up, he brushed a stray tendril from her forehead.
Her skin was on fire.
“I missed you,” she breathed before her knees buckled as she fainted in his arms.
Alarmed, Brice swept an arm under her knees and hugged her close to his chest. “Out of my way,” he ordered as he crashed through the curious
soldiers. “Someone go get Mrs. Hastings. Tell her to come to my cabin at once.”
With every step to his cabin, Brice held her close and sent up a thousand prayers to whichever god may be listening that he wasn’t about to lose her.
“WHAT DO you mean you don’t know?” His voice vibrated with frustration and anger.
Mrs. Hastings placed a restraining hand on his upper arm. “I understand you are upset, but there is no way to tell if it is typhoid this soon.”
“Of course it’s typhoid! She spent days cooped up with my men. How could it not be typhoid?”
“Not everyone catches it,” she soothed. “Oh dear! Major you must understand there is very little chance it will be fatal even if it is typhoid.”
“You don’t know that for certain. There is still a chance.”
Brice was kneeling next to Michaela who lay prone on the bed, unmoving, her breath shallow and uneven.
“Oh dear. There will be no change for some hours now. Why don’t you get out of those dusty clothes and have something to eat?” soothed Mrs. Hastings.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“But, Major—”
“I’m. Not. Leaving,” he said through clenched teeth as he grasped Michaela’s small pale hand.
“Very well. There is a basin of cool water and a linen for bathing her skin on the chest over there. It will help with the fever. I have also brought some bone broth if she should awake.”
Brice did not respond. His entire focus was on Michaela.
With a shake of her head, Mrs. Hastings quietly shut the bedroom door.
THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR hours were the worst of his life. Michaela laid in their bed, looking small and vulnerable. He would give anything to hear one of her colorful curses or one of her defiant temper tantrums. His little spitfire. Always so full of energy and movement. It was strange seeing her so still and quiet. Occasionally, she opened her eyes enough for him to offer a few mouthfuls of soup, but then she would fall back into a dreamless sleep. Sometime late the following evening, her fever broke. As she had never developed the spotted red rash or any other early symptom of typhoid, the assumption was she had simply worked herself into a state of exhaustion trying to nurse his men. Barely eating or sleeping for four days straight, her poor body had given out.
