Sinfully Supernatural

by Multiple

  The banker, Carlyle shrank back from the violence, but Ryker’s lackeys started forward only to freeze when Cobb cocked the scattergun. “You boys mind your business and leave this to the marshal.”

  Scarlett lost sight of Sam as the marshal followed Ryker out into the dark street, but his words drifted back. “I expect that tempers are running hot tonight, Ryker. Don’s opening the Saloon back up for the searchers. You should head over and drown that fire in your belly.”

  “Or what?”

  Silence exploded on the end of the man’s foolish challenge. Ryker’s friends kept their place under Cobb’s watchful squint. Scarlett clenched her fists, fear squeezing her heart. Would Ryker be foolish enough to pull a gun on the marshal? She’d only ever seen one man test Wyatt’s temper when he looked at someone as Sam had Ryker.

  Wyatt walked away.

  The other man didn’t.

  “Walk away, Ryker. I am not of a mind to warn you twice.”

  Cobb spit the burning remains of his cigarette down, grinding it with his boot heel to keep the embers from spreading through the dust to the wood on the floor. The grinding of his heel jerked the other men around. The banker paled further, if possible, and looked ill.

  If Scarlett wasn’t used to violence, this man had never really seen it and his anger sank into a morass of sickness as he realized his precarious position.

  “Whatever, Marshal. You might be able to keep her safe tonight, but the townsfolk will have their piece come first light. You just wait and see.” And as quickly as that Ryker’s cold fury backed down. The marshal cocked a glance in the door to the other men.

  They didn’t need any further invitation to scurry out of the office, shoes and boots scuffing the boardwalk as they rushed after Ryker. Cobb lowered the scattergun and grunted.

  “It’s just going to get worse come first light, Sam.”

  “I know.”

  “She can’t stay here, unless you plan on letting them string her up.”

  The marshal sighed, stepping back into the office, hard eyes on the street. More horses pounded past as riders set out after the first searchers. The sleepy little town of Dorado was boiling over, the residents up in arms.

  Over gold.

  Dread was a rock in the pit of her stomach.

  “Son of a bitch.” Sam swore, the oath virulent. He snatched the Stetson off his head and ran his fingers through hair the color of ripe wheat. The rock in her belly twisted and she met his hard stare with a healthy dose of wariness. She’d liked the sharp, easy command in his voice. The way he met a man’s (or woman’s) eyes directly. She even liked the peek at crispy, springy wheat colored hair visible where the buttons on his shirt opened.

  But she didn’t like the dark, frustrated look in his eyes.

  “We have all of one jail, Cobb. Where do you recommend I stash her while the town gets its good sense back?”

  “Take her to Molly’s.” Cobb shrugged. “It’s far enough out of town that most folks will think twice about it and even those that don't think twice won’t consider taking that argument to Jed.”

  Sam dropped the Stetson back onto his head, his scowl turning his mouth downwards. He fixed that look on her through the bars and Scarlett would have backed up another step if she weren’t already pressed against the wall.

  “Since your folk abandoned you. Why don’t you tell me where they are heading? There are folk out there who won’t think twice about stretching your pretty neck if they can’t get anyone else.”

  Loyalty stiffened her spine. She’d sooner take up life as an Army tramp, following the troops for the chance to spread her legs, before she’d betray her brothers. Sam shook his head, a flash of disappointment in his dark eyes at her mutinous expression.

  Cobb chuckled. “You still haven’t learned you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, boy. Take her to Molly’s.”

  A gunshot split the night air outside, dragging Sam’s attention away from Scarlett and she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. She didn’t know who Molly was or where she was at, but it might be a good idea to head there. Or…

  “…you could let me go.” Scarlett moved to the bars, wrapping her fingers around the cool metal. “I’ll make sure you get the gold back.” The boys would gladly trade the gold for her freedom. She didn’t doubt it for an instant.

  Especially if it didn’t mean explaining things to Wyatt or Quanto about letting her tag-a-long or worse—explaining why she wasn’t with them anymore.

  Sam snorted. “I’ll get my horse. Get ready to put her out the backdoor. And Cobb…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t let her out of the cell till I’m out there.”

  “That little thing is no never mind to me, boy. I’m old, not stupid.”

  “No,” Sam’s speculative gaze lingered on her. “There’s something about her and her gang…you just keep her locked up tight till I’m back.”

  Cobb bobbed his head once, before resuming his seat, gun loose on his lap. He glanced at her as the door closed behind Sam. His mouth curving into a faint smile. “You behave yourself, now Scarlett. Sam’s a good man and doing you a favor. Be a damn shame if you turned that back on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This time, Cobb didn’t correct her.

  Chapter Three

  Sam made quick work of saddling the sixteen-hand bay. The mare favored him with a bored look, her sleep already disturbed by cowpokes, farmhands and shopkeepers pulling their own mounts out of the livery. Corona was a sweet mare, even-tempered and steady. But she was also swift on her feet and cornered easily, allowing Sam ample time for roping runaway steers and cutting off headstrong horses.

  He’d raised her from a foal, gentled her and trained her to saddle and bridle. She’d stand a hack if he asked it of her, but she was as disinterested in wagon pulling and buckboards as he was in riding in them. She whuffed at his hat, lips nuzzling his shirt.

  He always brought a treat. Despite the lateness of his hour, he fished out a sugar cube and palmed it up to her mouth. She accepted the favor graciously and waited while he saddled her up. Leading her out of the livery, he paused to grab a length of rope off the hook near the door. He’d return it later, but as unladylike as it might seem, he was going to have to secure the prisoner.

  Sam led Corona between the buildings, giving the saloon a wide berth on the way behind his office. He knuckle tapped the door with three quick raps, his gaze scanning the perimeter. Corona was quiet, patient. She’d warn him if anyone was coming faster than his own ears.

  The brace slid off the inner door and it propped open to reveal the business end of Cobb’s scattergun, which lowered as soon as Sam stepped towards the light, rope in hand.

  “Keys are on the desk.” He told the other man, but Cobb was already in motion, unlocking the door and ushering the lady out with the gun pointed at her feet.

  Cobb was the same generation as his father. One just didn’t point a gun at ladies. Not even lady thieves. His feisty redhead stepped out of the office, her gaze darting around the dark. Behind Sam’s office the landscape gave away to a mixture of scrub, rocks and the occasional tree. The lack of a moon left it a shadowy scrape of nothing. But he hadn’t missed the expectant look turning up her features.

  “Don’t think being a lady means I won’t drop you,” he gave her fair warning. The most stubborn beasts in his life were female and he’d been around horses since he was old enough to walk. He paid attention.

  He scanned the night air around them, certain they were alone. The noise coming from the far side of the building was concentrated on Main Street, riders heading out, other riders coming in and the general moaning and complaining of shopkeepers taking up watch along the boardwalk.

  They were armed.

  “Cobb,” he paused, a firm hand on the redhead’s arm. “You watch yourself. Men get itchy when they’re frightened and armed.” If Micah or Jas
on were in town, he’d have one of them stay with Cobb. Funny, he wasn’t about to turn the redhead over to them.

  The older man snorted. “You get a move on, Marshal, I’ve been riding herd on most of those men since they were boys and coating their faces in sweets at their daddy’s knees.”

  Sam nodded, giving his redhead’s arm a little jerk and pulling her to the horse.

  “Now you behave yourself, Scarlett.” Cobb called quietly, his scattergun pointed to the right of the redhead. She already had one foot in the stirrup and looked at Cobb with a hesitant smile. Sam wondered what a real smile would look like on that kissable mouth, but shook off the distraction. He ignored the roundness of her bottom as she pulled herself up, mounting Corona as gently as a butterfly.

  Corona’s reins were on the ground and the mare wouldn’t move without Sam’s command, but he saw the twitch of Scarlett’s legs. He clamped a hand down on her thigh and gave it a warning squeeze.

  “Don’t.”

  The redhead—Scarlett—glared down at him, her nose wrinkling with rebellion. But she didn’t give the mare a good nudge and she put her hands on the pommel when Sam tapped it. He’d debated the need for the rope all the way from the livery, but after that flash of near flight, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Ignoring the disapproval radiating off Cobb, he wrapped a length of the rope around her wrists and then the pommel, repeating the process until she was firmly shackled to the saddle. He tied it off and then looped the free end through one of the saddle's numerous buckles.

  Reins gathered in one hand, he tipped his hat to Cobb before swinging up behind her in the saddle. The broad saddle was designed for long hours working the lines, bringing herds down and sleeping astride the horse, so it more than accommodated her slender frame. The top of her head came just to his chin. He gritted his teeth when she shifted her bottom, rolling it invitingly against his hips.

  Cobb sent them off with a wave and Corona paced out her steps in a slow walk as he gave her a gentle tap. He knew the trails from Dorado to the Flying K like the back of his hand, and if he didn’t, Corona certainly did. They followed the line of Main Street fronted shops and beyond the clapboard houses, circling the vegetable gardens planted for local use and turned northeast, Corona’s walk picking up to an easy lope, a ground-eating pace that she could sustain for hours – even with the additional weight on her back.

  The glow of Dorado’s kerosene lamped main street faded behind the hills. Spring rains had washed out two of five trails they could use to reach the Flying K. Two of the remaining trails dipped below the hills, the flatter terrain better under the dark moon, but lacked any cover if a summer storm should crop up or her gang returned.

  Sam and Corona knew the hills, so that’s where they headed. His prisoner was quiet, having held herself stiff and away at the beginning of the ride, but gradually leaning back into him as the bump and lift of Corona’s gait brought them together.

  “You should sleep,” Sam said, surprised at the gruff note in his voice. They’d been riding for nearly an hour and it would take at least four more to reach the ranch. The ranch was twenty miles as the crow flew from the town it helped to foster into existence. The Kanes controlled nearly three thousand acres and they’d be on Kane land within the hour, but the bunkhouses, corrals and main house were some distance beyond that.

  It was a two hour flat out ride, but nestled in the deep bosom of night, he’d keep Corona’s pace to an easy loping walk avoiding pitfalls, stones and exhaustion. The night was a cool blanket, with a northern breeze ruffling along his neck, occasionally stirring a red lock up to tease his nose.

  She smelled of sunshine, horses and something distinctly feminine, without the overwhelming lemon verbena favored by the town girls or the eucalyptus and horse lineament that ranch women often reminded him of. The feminine scent was sweet cakes and fresh baked bread rolled into one.

  “This isn’t the most comfortable way to sleep.” The low hushed response prickled with irritation and just the barest hint of entitlement.

  “It’s the best we can do for now, unless you think sleeping at the end of a noose is more to your liking.”

  “Could you at least move your gun?” The complaint was more plaintive than vitriolic. “It keeps jabbing me in the back.”

  He was glad for the darkness, for it shielded the heat that ruddied his face. That wasn’t his gun. He shifted in the saddle, easing her forward and then back so her bottom nestled on his opposite thigh. She let out a sigh of relief, her body softening and settling against him. The new position teased him with even more of her scent, but kept that sweet bottom from rubbing on his arousal.

  He was male and she was definitely attractive, but she was a thief. He tried to tell his body that, but it didn’t care. It was more interested in the soft curves, sweet fresh scent and the little soft sighs she kept making.

  “Better?” It went against his nature to ask, but he liked the sound of her voice.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “If you don’t want to sleep. You could answer some questions.” Where the hell had that come from? He’d just wanted her to go to sleep so he could stop tormenting himself and now he wanted to add to his own tension.

  Corona nickered and he forced his legs to relax. He didn’t need to accidentally urge the mare into a faster speed. The loping walk kept rubbing his prisoner against him as it was.

  She was silent for so long, he wondered if she had fallen asleep. They were leaving the main trailhead, Corona picking her way across the rocks to the downward track that wound through the hills. He knew the moment they crossed onto Kane land.

  He always did.

  The pressure on his chest lightened, his lungs expanded and even the air tasted sweeter. He took a deep lungful, but it wasn’t just Kane cedar and sage that teased him, but the rich scent of summer raspberries.

  “It would depend on the question.” She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Oddly, that pleased him more than cooperation. He liked the independent fire that blazed in her eyes, the warning snap in her gaze and the temper that sparked when Ryker and his boys burst into the Marshal’s Office. He’d watched her watching them.

  It hadn’t been fear clenching her fists.

  His little redhead was a fighter.

  “Let’s start with something simple. What’s your name?” He knew, of course, Cobb mentioned it. But he still wanted her to tell him.

  It might have been his imagination, but a measure of the stiffness in her body relaxed.

  “Scarlett.”

  “Appropriate.”

  “It’s a name.” A little shrug.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “A name is a gift, a promise of what you must live up to or live down. It can be a test or a curse, a challenge or a blessing.”

  “So is yours a blessing or a curse?”

  “I don’t know.” A quiet note, barely heard, but filled with inordinate sadness teased at the lonely syllables.

  “What is your family name, Scarlett?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Everyone has one.”

  “Maybe most of the people you know have one, but that doesn’t mean everyone does. There are more people in the world than there are in Dorado.”

  He laughed at the contrary note.

  “Do I get to ask questions?”

  Sam considered the request, keeping both hands on the reins even as he debated dropping one to lay against her thigh. He wouldn’t normally ride two handed, but he wanted to keep her boxed in, as much for her safety as security. It would be harder for her to slip sidewise if she bumped against his biceps when Corona moved up hills and down.

  It had absolutely nothing to do with the sensation of soft, full breasts rubbing against him.

  Nothing.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I won’t promise to answer them. But I figure we can trade, one for one.”

 
“Who is Molly?”

  Pain squeezed his heart.

  “My ma.” He said after pulling the reins tight on his emotions. It didn’t usually trouble him to talk about her, but the intimacy of Scarlett’s body against his, the blanket of the night and the breathy, hushed whisper of his voice spoke of trading secrets.

  “Oh. She won’t think it odd that you’re bringing a woman home tied to your saddle?” There was no mistaking the teasing note that slipped into her voice. He smiled. His mother might very well have had a problem with it, particularly if she could see into Sam’s thoughts. He found he liked the idea of Scarlett tied up and he wondered about tying her down, but the uncomfortable arousal swelled to nearly unbearable.

  “She might.” Honesty might encourage the same from her. “But she passed nearly nineteen years ago, God rest her soul.” She died in the labor bed, giving birth to Kid. His brother had a name, but no one used it. He’d been Kid to his father for months after Molly’s passing, the grieving Jebidiah too preoccupied to name the boy until Cobb took him in line.

  “I’m sorry.” Scarlett’s voice was a whisper of compassion, a soothing salve to the injured soul.

  “It was a long time ago.” Barely six, it was a struggle for Sam to remember his mother. The Flying K had been Molly’s for all of his life, a home where his father still addressed what his mother would have wanted or tolerated as though she were still with him.

  Sometimes, in the deep of winter, when the hard northern winds howled down from the plains, Sam thought he was right.

  He cleared his throat. “And your parents? Where are they?”

  “My folk passed when I was a baby. I don’t remember them.” The barest pause, the hiccup of dishonesty layered among the truth.

  Sam frowned. “Then who raised you?”

  “It’s my turn.” She bucked against him, the faintest of shrugs slapping at his chest. Her hair drifted along his neck, the soft, sweet tangle clinging to him, tickling.

  “So it is.” He could be agreeable, but he’d not forget his question. She chortled at his acquiescence. A simple, gleeful little chortle that she probably would have punctuated with clapping hands if they hadn’t been secured to the pommel.