The Rebel's Secret (Ride Hard Book 3)

by Zoe Blake

  He should have known his little rebel would never be felled by something as insipid as a fever.

  “YOU AND WHAT ARMY, YANK?”

  Michaela was feeling better. Her strength had returned two days ago, but Brice continued to insist she rest in bed. She was none too fond of the idea.

  “Do not test me on this, little one. You are not too sick for me to take my belt to your bottom!” countered Brice.

  Mrs. Hastings popped her head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, dears, but the chaplain has arrived.”

  “Tell him to give us a moment,” asked Brice.

  “What is the chaplain doing here? I am no longer, nor was I ever, at death’s door,” reasoned Michaela as she petulantly crossed her arms over her chest. She really did make the worst patient.

  Brice’s countenance sobered. He didn’t like to think of those hours where she did look like death was closing in. Shaking off the chilling thought, he reasoned she was among the living now, and it was long past time he made an honest woman of her. He just wasn’t sure how she would react to the news.

  Pulling himself up to his full height, Brice squared his shoulders before saying with determination. “The chaplain is here to marry us.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you just said the chaplain was here to marry us.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Michaela sprung up to her knees on the bed. Hands on her hips, she scowled at Brice. “I don’t recall being asked!”

  Brice placed his fists on his hips and scowled at her in return. “You weren’t. Asking would imply you have a choice in the matter.”

  “What if I still say no?”

  Brice was in no mood for her chicanery. She was already his woman. Now he needed it to be recognized in the eyes of the Lord and the law. “I’ll turn you over my knee until you say yes.”

  “Like that would work,” scoffed Michaela.

  Brice leaned in close, forcing her to tumble backwards. Placing a fist on either side of her head, he said, “Then I will tie you to this bed, spread those gorgeous legs of yours and taste you with my tongue as I force fuck you with my fingers until you are screaming ‘I do.’”

  Michaela focused on his full lips and the glimpse of sharp, white teeth. Knowing the power of that mouth, she licked her own lips in response. Still she would not relent. “What if I wanted to marry one of my admirers instead?” she teased as she glanced about the gift-filled room.

  While she recovered, there had been a constant stream of his men to the cabin with small gifts for Michaela to show their appreciation for her efforts with the sick. Wild flowers, sugared sweets, hand-whittled wooden figurines, pieces of ribbon and lace. Every surface of the room was covered with their offerings.

  “Not going to happen. You’re mine, Michaela, and I will fight any man who says otherwise. No man will ever love you as completely and whole-heartedly as I do. No man,” he vowed fiercely.

  Michaela threw her arms about his neck as she captured his lips with a kiss. Brice braced a knee against the mattress, his fingers digging into her soft curls, framing her jaw, as he deepened the kiss.

  When he finally released her, she teased. “It took you long enough to admit you loved me, Yank!”

  Placing a warm hand over her breast, he pinched her erect nipple. “I’ll have the words from you too, Rebel.”

  Michaela smiled shyly. “I love you too.”

  Brice placed a quick kiss on her nose before heading to the door, intent on summoning the chaplain.

  “Just remember who said it first!” he tossed over his shoulder.

  He was through the doorway by the time her pillow hit the wooden plank door.

  CHAPTER 11

  She was gone.

  They had only been married for a few days when he returned to their cabin to find her gone. Unlike the last time, it was clear she had been taken against her will. The cabin was trashed. Broken furniture. Shattered pottery. Even some of the simple prints she had hung on the walls had been torn down. There was no doubt his girl had put up quite a fight. Turning in a rage, Brice put his fist through the plank door. She loved him because he made her feel safe—protected—and now he had failed her. Some goddamn bastard had stolen her away from his own goddamn fort!

  He would find her. And when he did, anyone involved with her kidnapping would pay. Dearly.

  “ARE THE MEN ASSEMBLED?”

  The sergeant checked his pocket watch. “Ten more minutes, Major.”

  “Everyone, Sergeant. Even the fucking mess hall cooks. I want everyone in uniform and ready to march or ride,” commanded Brice.

  “With all due respect, Major. We are all very fond of your new wife. There isn’t a man in this fort who isn’t ready to ride to hell itself to get her back. It’s also a point of pride, sir. They snatched her from inside the fort. That don’t set too well with any of the men.”

  Brice swallowed hard, proud his little spitfire could inspire such devotion from his men in such a short period of time. Goddamn he loved that woman. He had to get her back. There was no other option. “Very good, Sergeant. Is that the report from the men who went to the boarding house?”

  “Yes, sir. They found an older woman. Strangled.”

  Brice nodded his head. Michaela’s mother.

  “Anything else?”

  “There was a small map scrawled onto a piece of paper. Leads into Apache territory.”

  Just outside his office, there was the sound of a scuffle. A few shouts. Splintering wood. The sound of at least two bodies hitting the dirt.

  Then his door opened. Two tall, rough looking men strolled in. One was dressed almost like a man of business; a silk waistcoat and gold pocket watch was paired with denims and scuffed boots. The other in unrelenting black, from the tip of his hat to the tip of his boots.

  “What the holy fuck have you done with Michael?” boomed the first.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Brice. His hand going to the handle of his Colt.

  In a lightening flash, the second man dressed all in black had drawn both his Colts. Cocked and ready. “I wouldn’t,” he drawled.

  Gunfighter thought Brice with a sneer as he still drew his weapon.

  “We want Michael. Heard tell you’re the sonofabitch who dragged her out of a saloon in town a few weeks back. We already broke into the guardhouse so we know she ain’t there. Where is she?”

  “Goddammit! Is this a fucking fort or a fucking stage coach station?” shouted Brice angrily as he turned to his sergeant. The man just helplessly shrugged his shoulders. “Who the hell are you two?”

  “Name’s Mason. This here is Horn.”

  “Horn? Jackson Horn, the gunfighter?” responded Brice with grudging respect.

  “The same,” said Horn with a side smile, his guns still drawn.

  “So you’re Mason Weiser, the whiskey man,” said Brice as he holstered his gun. He recognized their names from the letters he found in Michaela’s saddlebag. These were the men who’d fought alongside her brother.

  “Well, now that we are all cozy and acquainted like. You mind telling us where Michael…” Horn paused as a flash of anger crossed Brice’s features. “That is… where Michaela is?”

  Brice ran a frustrated hand over his face. As if his masculine pride hadn’t already been torn to shreds by her disappearance, he was going to have to admit to these two men she had been snatched while under his protection.

  “I don’t know. She’s been taken. I’m damn sure it was that man, Parcels, she was hell-bent on killing. We were close to arresting him. My men have been tailing him for weeks collecting evidence of trading whiskey to the Apache.”

  Mason and Horn both turned to leave.

  “Where the hell are you going?” demanded Brice.

  “To find Parcels,” said Mason.

  “And kill him,” said Horn without emotion.

  “And get Michaela back,” finished Mason.

  “I am going after my wife. I sure as fuck don’t need you
r help,” ground out Brice.

  “Your wife,” shouted Mason and Horn in unison.

  “My wife,” repeated Brice with emphasis.

  “We’ll see what Michaela says about that when we find her. I doubt some blue belly has the stones to control and keep a determined woman like her,” intoned Horn.

  “I have over a hundred soldiers at my disposal all saddled and ready to ride. I don’t need you,” warned Brice, ignoring Horn’s slight.

  Mason and Horn exchanged an amused look. “Yankees,” they said in unison with a dismissive laugh.

  “You and your hundred men couldn’t protect her. Trust me, you need us,” sneered Mason.

  Brice marched toward Mason, fists out.

  Just then there was yet another commotion outside his office door. Angry voices. Then the sound of a body hitting the dirt.

  The door opened and two attractive females strolled in.

  “Annabelle?” said Mason through gritted teeth.

  “Emma?” asked Horn, his vexation evident.

  Brice looked from the men to the women. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched with amusement.

  “You were both told to stay behind at the ranch,” glowered Horn.

  “We wanted to help,” offered Annabelle with a stubborn tilt to her chin.

  “You disobeyed me.” Mason’s jaw flexed.

  Brice leaned forward. “Now who can’t control their women?”

  Mason and Horn both shot him a dark look.

  “This has been quite the endearing family reunion, but I have to go after Michaela.”

  “We’re coming too!” chimed in Emma. “You may need an extra gun.”

  Brice spread both his arms wide as he raised his voice to the group. “For the last fucking time, I don’t need any extra guns. This is a fort! I have a hundred soldiers!”

  Annabelle and Emma looked at one another and laughed. “Yankees!”

  “SO WHAT’S THE PLAN,” asked Horn as he handed the binoculars to Mason.

  Brice, Horn and Mason were all on their bellies in the dust, perched on a high ridge. In the valley below was an Apache camp.

  After a great deal of wrangling, it was decided the three of them would follow the drag mark tracks leading away from the fort, with his men following far behind. There was no need to intensify the situation by having three companies of armed soldiers descend on the Apache camp. That would mean certain bloodshed.

  Brice used his own set of binoculars. “That’s Chief Chalipun.”

  “You know him?” asked Mason.

  “I do. A reasonable man. He’ll tell me where to find Michaela,” responded Brice.

  Horn pulled out his Colt. “We’ll make certain of it.”

  Brice held up a hand. “No. If anyone other than me enters that camp, it could get her killed.”

  “That’s a big gamble. Could get yourself killed,” warned Mason.

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  Mason and Horn nodded, something close to respect crossing their features.

  BRICE RODE slowly into the Apache camp. He was met immediately by Chief Chalipun.

  “Skeekizzen,” said the Chief solemnly.

  “Ashoge,” responded Brice. His mouth set in a firm line. “Izdzan, Shi’aad?” asked Brice, using the words for woman and wife.

  “Netdahe,” spit out the Chief.

  Brice stiffened. He only knew a sparse amount of Apache, but he was fairly certain the chief’s word roughly translated to death to intruder.

  Chief Chalipun started to laugh. “I’m just messing with you, Major. You seemed so serious! Like we were in one of those showdowns in those penny novels you whites enjoy so much!”

  “You speak English?” asked an annoyed Brice.

  “Yes. I use an interpreter when we meet because it is not good for the white man to know all your tricks.”

  “Where is my wife?” Brice was impatient for answers.

  “Stubborn Woman with Purple Eyes is with my warriors. First, we must talk.”

  The very last thing Brice wanted to do was talk. He needed to see Michaela. Needed to feel her in his arms so he could spend the rest of his life proving to her something like this would never happen again. But he knew ignoring the chief’s wishes would be seen as disrespectful and cause trouble.

  “Talk. Fast,” said Brice.

  “The snake who tried to sell us your woman also tried to harm my people with cheap whiskey and goods.”

  Brice nodded. “Turn him over to me, and he will be punished.”

  “I cannot do that, my friend. It is up to the Gods to punish him now.”

  “Parcels is dead?”

  “If that is what the snake called himself, then yes. Your woman is pleased,” offered the chief with a smile.

  Brice just bet she was. Indians were known for preferring ritualistic torture of their captives for spiritual reasons. He was certain Parcels paid and paid dearly for harming Michaela. His only complaint was he was denied the opportunity to kill the bastard himself. His whole career—hell his whole life—was dedicated to the rule of law and military discipline, but he found none of that mattered where Michaela was concerned. He would scald the devil himself if it meant keeping her safe and close.

  “Can I see her now?”

  “Yes, Stubborn Woman with Purple Eyes has provided much amusement to my people.”

  As they were walking to the outskirts of the camp, gunfire could be heard. Brice drew his weapon and ran toward the clearing.

  There was Michaela, standing in a field surrounded by Apache—all holding drawn guns.

  “Excellent. Excellent!” nodded Michaela with appreciation. “You see how much better of a shot you were that time? Guns are different from bows and hunting. You need to focus on the site not the target,” she lectured.

  Leave it to his woman to not need to be rescued.

  As soon as she caught sight of him, she ran into his arms.

  Brice brushed back her hair and stared into her beautiful eyes. Then he sighed. “Why is it you always seem to be surrounded by men with guns?”

  “This time was different from the saloon—and the tent—they weren’t pointed at me,” she said brightly.

  With the exception of a few scrapes and a torn sleeve, she seemed fine.

  Brice placed both warm hands along her jaw and looked deeply into her eyes. “The bastard didn’t hurt you did he? Because I swear to God, I will have him killed all over again.”

  She gripped his wrists and returned his intense gaze, deeply touched at the love and concern which shone brightly in his eyes. “I’m fine. To be honest, it was kind of upsetting to think a bumbling idiot like Parcels managed to evade me for so long. The man really was incompetent. I trashed the cabin so you knew to come search for me, but really I only went with him because I didn’t want him to hurt anyone at the fort. He didn’t even check me for a weapon! If my friends here hadn’t offered a much more satisfactory solution, I would have killed him myself,” she confided.

  Brice laughed. “God I love you!” He then sobered. “Darling, your mother.”

  “I know. Parcels told me. She hadn’t been my mother in a very long time. She chose her fate,” Michaela responded matter-of-factly.

  “You realize, from this moment forward, I am going to lash you to my side with leather straps so you can’t get into any more trouble?” intoned Brice seductively.

  “Really? I think I might enjoy that,” purred Michaela as her hands wrapped around his neck, preparing to lean up for a kiss.

  “Jesus Christ! Seriously, Michael? A fucking Yankee?”

  Michaela looked over Brice’s shoulder to see Mason and Horn standing a few feet away, a look of amused disgust on both of their faces.

  “Boys!” she exclaimed, but was prevented from hugging them by Brice’s arm around her waist.

  Whispering close to her ear, he said, “You make me watch you hug those two men after what you just put me through, and I will take my cavalry sword to that impertinent b
ottom of yours the moment we get home.”

  Michaela extricated herself from his arms, and with a saucy look over her shoulder, hugged both Mason and Horn… twice.

  God he loved his little stubborn rebel, thought Brice with a smile as he anticipated their upcoming evening together.

  EPILOGUE

  Willow Brier Farm, Arizona Territory

  Sweetbrier Whiskey Distillery

  Six months later

  “REMEMBER, YOU’VE PROMISED TO BEHAVE,” warned Brice sternly as they emerged from the traveling carriage. He was staring down at her with a dark, hooded expression. His mouth tight. Brow furrowed.

  Michaela wasn’t fooled. He could act all gruff and severe, but she knew better.

  Going up on her tip-toes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. “When have I not behaved?” she asked innocently.

  Brice started to tick off the incidents on his fingers. “The saloon when you started a gunfight. The time you disobeyed my order and escaped the fort. That run-down boarding house where you shot me—”

  “Shot you! No fair. Technically, I shot your hat,” interrupted Michaela.

  Brice gave her a playful swat on her bottom. “Do not interrupt me. It is a long list and I need to concentrate. The time you almost started a prairie war between my men and a tribe of Apaches.”

  Michaela ran her hand down his chest and over his flat stomach. Brice stopped talking. She palmed his balls through the fabric of his trousers. He groaned.

  “You forgot to mention how much you like all the other ways I misbehave,” she whispered suggestively in his ear before nipping the lobe.

  With a growl, Brice fisted her hair, drawing her head back, exposing her long, white neck to his mouth and teeth.

  “Goddammit! It is bad enough we have to put up with the fact you married Michael. Do you have to practically mate with her right in front of us?”