by Jools Louise
Land of the Brave: Forbidden Spice
Comanche braves and wolf shifters Chatan, Maska, Kata, and Dustu capture feisty blonde bombshell Mary Spice after she trespasses through their territory. For Mary, that’s the good news, since they happen to be her mates.
Not one to miss an opportunity, she is thrown into a world of love, passion, and danger. America is progressing, and progress means there’s no room for Native Americans to run wild and free. The buffalo are gone, and their way of life is over—it’s time to find a new way.
Setting off from their territory in the Southwest, she and her mates make a trek to a new homeland, guided by the spirits of her mates’ ancestors. Her alpha, Chatan, leads the way, followed by an old nemesis, a psychotic Arapaho Squaw with a grudge, and a troop of US cavalry. Their trek attracts attention, and they start a new tribe.
Nothing will be the same again.
Genre: Historical, Interracial, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Paranormal, Shape-shifter, Western/Cowboys
Length: 55,319 words
LAND OF THE BRAVE:
FORBIDDEN SPICE
Jools Louise

Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
LAND OF THE BRAVE: FORBIDDEN SPICE
Copyright © 2017 by Jools Louise
ISBN: 978-1-64010-184-5
First Publication: April 2017
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2017 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.
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PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
DEDICATION
Thanks to everyone who’s helped with the title for this…for some reason, it took a long time to get that right, even when the story was simmering away nicely! This book is a shout-out to a time when the Land of the Brave was in flux, when an entire nation was forced to make way for the pioneers who are celebrated in history.
I prefer to think of that time in a different way. We’re all one race under the skin, but for some reason, the paler we are seems to give some a sense of entitlement.
Never lose your fierce spirit, you were born to be free! –JL
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I’m fast approaching fifty and loving every minute of getting older, and somewhat wiser, doing something I absolutely love. I gave up a steady job to take the plunge to be a writer full-time, and despite being poorer, I’m happier than I ever was working nine-to-five!
I live in a beautiful part of northwest England, near the Lake District. The sea is only a mile away, the mountains on my doorstep, and I live a much simpler and far more productive life.
My writing is as varied as my moods, and I hope that I entertain as well as dealing with some subjects that provoke thought. I abhor prejudiced and judgmental people, and I try to put that message into my work. We get one life, so live it to the fullest and enjoy what you do…but don’t tell others what they should do, or who they should love, if it doesn’t match your own values. I’ve a small catalog of work now, and much more to come.
Enjoy! Love without limits. –JL
For all titles by Jools Louise, please visit
www.bookstrand.com/jools-louise
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Landmarks
Cover
LAND OF THE BRAVE:
FORBIDDEN SPICE
JOOLS LOUISE
Copyright © 2017
Prologue
Mary rested her worn-out pinto stallion, Domingo, dropping the reins and letting him drink from the small pond. He slurped thirstily, kicking the pebbles with one hoof, as his black tail swished flies away lazily. She was dusty and tired herself, having been in the saddle all day. She wanted nothing more than to swim in the cool water, but this was Comanche territory—and she was trespassing. The short cut slashed two whole days off her journey, and she’d been using it for years with no incidents. It didn’t pay to dawdle, though. Those Comanche did not take kindly to intruders, not even their own kind. A single white female would be easy pickings.
She froze when she heard low voices just over the brow of the small hill that led to the pond, and ducked behind a stand of thick bushes, pulling Domingo out of sight. Luckily, he seemed to have drunk his fill and came willingly. She grabbed a handful of oats from a saddlebag, and kept him quiet by letting him nibble the tasty treat while she figured out whether to run or simply stay hidden.
Two Comanche braves rode into sight, dismounting with a lithe grace that she envied. Both were tall, bare-chested, clad in buckskins, moccasins, and carried an array of weapons, including rifles. She was shocked, as they resembled the men from her restless, erotic dreams that had grown more vivid over the years. She ducked further behind the bush, quieting her mount with a hand over his nose, praying he wouldn’t give away their position. This was reality, not dreamland. They would probably kill her on sight.
Her eyes widened as she saw both men undress, grinning at each other. Their bodies glistened with sweat, roped with muscles that moved like silk beneath their copper-hued skin. She held her breath, almost whimpering as she spied the thick rods that hung between their legs. Without warning, she felt a hum of something simmering through her veins, a pull that urged her to get closer. Frowning, she shook her head to dispel the unwarranted thoughts. She would be killed if they found her. This was no time for lusty thoughts, but she felt a tangible need to go to the two braves.
Suddenly they both looked up, staring right at her hiding place, an arrested look on their faces. They sniffed at the air, and then glanced at one another, smiling wickedly. Gulping, she stayed still, hoping that they had spotted a bird or something, although what the sniffing thing was all about she had no clue. Her horse gave a welcome whinny to the Comanche’s horses, and she groaned inwardly, cursing him. Instantly, the braves’ focus turned to a more feral purpose and they reached for their buckskins discarded on the ground.
Mary didn’t wait any longer. She leapt into the saddle and wheeled her traitorous stallion about, kicking him into a fast gallop. Glancing behind, she saw the braves donning their clothes rapidly. Crap. The pair let out a loud whoop of excitement before giving chase,
their skill in the saddle awe-inspiring. Mary was good, but she had the sinking feeling that this chase was already over before it had begun.
Turning back around, Mary sat lower in the saddle, lying practically flat against his smooth neck. She scowled to herself, gritting her teeth. She was not going to end this day by losing her scalp. And she was the best rider that she knew. No Comanche was going to catch her.
Whooping herself, she sent them a one-fingered salute and let Domingo do his thing, racing toward the sunset as they made their escape.
Chapter One
Domingo’s hooves thundered wearily across the sparse, arid dirt. He was like an arrow, sure and true as he flew, avoiding rocks and shrubs. But he was fading, and fast. She had dared not slow her pace, and knew that if she didn’t change her course she would kill him. Mary risked a glance over her shoulder, seeing her pursuers gaining ground, despite her stallion’s immense effort. The miles were eaten away, but Mary had the sinking feeling that she had no chance of evading the inevitable. She had strayed into enemy territory, and was about to pay the price. They were closing fast, although for some reason they had yet to fire on her. That was puzzling in itself. She had thought they would have shot an arrow into her by now.
Suddenly, her luck ran out and Domingo stumbled, his lungs heaving from dashing at full speed for miles…too long for his stamina to hold out. At a canter, he would have held his own against the superb horsemen trailing them, but at a gallop? Even Domingo had his limits.
Mary gritted her teeth and decided that if she was going to die, she’d prefer to have death on her own terms, not fleeing like some scared rabbit. She was a Pony Express rider, for some five years. She had battled floods and blizzards, flies and filth, and searing temperatures. Two half-witted Comanche savages were not going to reduce her last moments on this earth to a quaking, cowering little girl.
Slowing, she patted her steed’s sweaty neck, soothing him as he snorted, and then wheeled around. With a shrill, banshee yell, she raced straight toward her pursuers, seeing twin looks of surprise when they realized what she had done.
Swearing at them luridly, she grabbed her empty rifle, which had run out of bullets several miles ago after she’d pelted the two idiots on her tail—and missed. Wielding the heavy weapon like a club, she clutched the butt in her fist and swung it as she drew level. Shrieking out another wild cry, she lashed out, but was swept out of her saddle onto the hard earth below.
The pain was quick and mind numbing, and her arm and hip took the brunt of the fall, as she rolled on impact before skidding to a halt a few feet away and groaned. She cried out as she tried to get to her feet, then collapsed in a heap, and then all went black.
* * * *
Chatan grinned at his brother, Maska, reveling in the sheer exuberance of a good chase. Their prey, an outrider for the Pony Express, would make a valuable prize indeed. They would take care to kill him quickly, since he had been a worthy opponent, and his skill on a horse was close to their own—but not quite enough to evade them completely.
His grin disappeared abruptly when their prey suddenly about-faced and began racing back toward them. Surprised, he exchanged a dumbstruck look with his brother, and then they both smiled in anticipation, watching as the rider clutched his rifle and swung it about his head like a stick, and then let out a banshee yell as he tried to strike Chatan as they drew level.
Chatan stopped on a dime as Maska leapt across over the other horse, and sent their quarry to the ground. A cry of pain escaped the smaller rider, his hat falling off, and a billowing cloud of sunshine hair fell to his—her—shoulders. Completely startled, Chatan froze, mesmerized. He saw his brother roll to the side, unharmed, and then the female tried to get up, only to collapse in a heap, unconscious on the hard ground.
Maska looked in awe at the person they had thought was a short man, but was quite obviously a woman. Chatan couldn’t blame him. The female was delightful. Blonde, buxom, with a curvaceous figure that begged for a man’s touch. She would make a great slave. Then his nostrils quivered and he changed his mind in an instant. This was no slave. This was something far more precious.
“She is injured, brother,” Maska said, frowning as he knelt beside their unconscious prize. He seemed to freeze suddenly, and then he looked at Chatan, his eyes wide. “Is this…?”
Chatan nodded, feeling anticipation and excitement well up inside him. “Let’s not take her back to camp straight away,” he said, thinking of their chief. The man would not let them keep such a woman, but would share her with the tribe’s soldiers, before killing her slowly…if she survived after being force-fucked by twenty strong bucks.
Their small tribe had suffered the loss of their old chief just a month ago, and the new chief was decidedly against any interlopers. He killed any white people they came across, often torturing them for hours. He had no honor. Chatan and Maska were warriors and killed in battle. They didn’t prey on children or women, nor sick old men, just for the sake of a kill. A death in combat was honorable. There was no reason to kill a perfectly good potential slave, unless they felt that a quick death would be a blessing. Their chief reveled in torturing his captives. The brothers took no pleasure in such despicable behavior.
“I agree, brother,” Maska said, looking pleased at the suggestion. “Let’s go to the river.”
Chatan smiled broadly. They had a secret camp some miles away, which they had used as children to hide from their parents. A pueblo dwelling set high upon a cliff, beside a wide, shallow river. It was unknown to any but them, and would provide a handy, secluded space to get to know their new slave. Chatan licked his lips as he watched Maska gather her into his arms. He would enjoy unwrapping their fierce little dove.
His attention was distracted by the arrival of the female’s pony, a hardy little stallion which had run well, its stamina immense. Taking pity on the little pinto, Chatan dismounted his own steed, and carefully approached the exhausted horse after grabbing a handful of oats from the small pouch attached to his belt. The horse nibbled delicately at the unexpected treat, but needed something to quench its thirst. Chatan emptied his water pouch into the little female’s hat, and allowed the horse to drink its fill, stroking its black and white face gently.
Gathering the reins, he hopped onto his own mount and set off. Maska followed slowly behind, keeping the pace to a gentle walk until the horses cooled down. He didn’t want to injure their little dove any more than necessary. He winced as he remembered how they’d treated her. As the sun began to sink over the western horizon, Chatan smiled to himself. Their little Chenoa had come home. He would build a fire soon and send a signal to his brothers. They would need to gather everything together. It was time to head to their new life.
Chapter Two
Screeching in pure rage, Mary lobbed a rock at her nearest captor. She had been bruised and battered, and had her arm broken. She certainly was not in the mood for any romantic shenanigans. She was not about to allow those two idiots to get their puny dicks anywhere near her. Apparently, they thought she belonged to them, after throwing her to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Like hell. If she’d had a knife, she’d have sliced their privates down to a stump. She lay naked on her blanket, her arm in a sling, and had to admit, reluctantly, that she was far more irritated with herself than her annoying captors, if she was going to be completely honest. Her prudish upbringing was at war with her womanly needs. She wanted her captors but felt she should not be too easily seduced. It was a losing battle.
She had been in the cave for three weeks, having taken a fever after her tumble from the horse. She had caught a chill, which had left her helpless and at the mercy of the two warriors. They had proven her wrong about their kind, treating her with such caring and concern, that she had become used to their presence. Gradually they had made her accustomed to their closeness, to the touch of their hands on her body, so soothing and so gentle. And then, last night, they had lain with her, warming her with their own heat, and she h
ad slept a soundless sleep, feeling safe and secure.
She should be feeling terrified that she had awakened lying between them, her body warm and devoid of clothing, with their equally bare bodies wrapped around her like a cocoon. Instead, she’d felt safe, and a little aroused by their proximity. Her nipples had ideas all their own, forming into hard little nubs without any help from her. That was just plain irritating. Even now, after sending her annoying captors packing, her nipples refused to behave themselves. It was outrageous that she had just woken up next to two naked men. She should be completely horrified. Except her clit was begging for their return.
One of the men had dared to place his hand on her bare breasts, flicking the nipple teasingly with his index finger while his brother stroked the curve of her ass. They had nuzzled at her, like two puppies, sniffing her and making snuffling sounds, which was weird. She felt no real fear of them, was eager for their attentions, which was alarming in itself. Her body seemed to respond to them as though it knew them, as though it wanted to do far more than simply lie beside them. They had been gentle with her, their touch soothing, and her instincts told her that they meant her no harm…it was their other intentions that had her a little alarmed. And her body was embarrassingly responsive. As gorgeous as the braves were, she was not the sort of woman who opened her legs for the first man who was nice to her. She had been married, for goodness sake. She was not some cheap floozy.
