Wild Outlaws

by Destiny Blaine

  Accustomed to working in a saloon, Mary Margaret isn’t sure what her future holds but she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life lying flat on her back. Right when she plans to move on and find another career, five of the sexiest men alive stroll into the Cripple Creek Saloon. Soon, Mary Margaret is their full-time employee but she quickly discovers the men are there for more than a good time and they’re promising something very similar to forever.

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  Wild Outlaws

  Copyright © 2012 Destiny Blaine

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-197-3

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  Wild Outlaws

  By

  Destiny Blaine

  Chapter One

  “When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a teacher. Lord knows, I never considered being a whore,” Mary Margaret confessed, speaking from the heart. She rubbed her bare arms and studied the young woman seated next to her.

  In her third week of employment, Annabelle still possessed a certain youthful quality. Her bangs hung right above the natural arch of her brows and scarlet ringlets fell straight down her back. Pins secured much of the long length at her crown, otherwise the extended locks would reach well past her bottom.

  Annabelle smiled sweetly, acting as if she hung on Mary Margaret’s every word. Perhaps she listened, but Mary Margaret doubted if she, or anyone else for that matter, ever really heard her.

  The Cripple Creek Saloon was vacant at high noon and outside of taking another drink of liquor, conversation helped pass the time. On this particular day, Mary Margaret had a lot to say.

  “Ma and Pa died in 1879. I was fifteen years old and left to fend for myself. Old Man Cobb, you’ve probably heard of him—he’s the fellow who later started the tent camps around here—took me in and finished raising me.

  “Cobb lived right across the way from an old rooming house on what is now known as Myers Avenue. I reckon he had plenty in mind from the time he saw me standing on his front porch begging for a drink of water.

  “Anyhow, he turned me out to earn my keep after my eighteenth birthday, told me I’d make my Ma and Pa real proud being a teacher of men, instructing fellas who needed a woman to show them the right and wrong way to love on a gal properly.”

  Annabelle stood, stretched and plopped down on a barstool once more, careful to keep her eyes fixated on the swinging double doors, on the chance a newcomer entered in search of a good time. She tapped the rim of her empty glass and Bob, the bartender, poured another round while Mary Margaret waved him away.

  “You ain’t in the grave yet, Mary Margaret,” Annabelle drawled. “If you want to teach, make yourself a right smart teacher. Get out of these drab clothes and march on down there to that school and tell ‘em you’re there to help the young’uns.”

  “Apparently you’ve never paid attention to what teachers wear.”

  Annabelle sipped her liquor. “Is that the only thing you got out of what I just said?”

  “I like the way we dress,” Mary Margaret admitted. “Outside of these damning corsets, that is.”

  “Then go on down there dressed just how you are. You might be good for business. The boys in your classroom will go back home and tell their fathers where to find you. Who knows, you may earn more money on your back than you’ll ever see standing in front of a bunch of kids teaching mathematics.”

  Mary Margaret knew that was true. She wanted to teach because she possessed a knack for helping others. The money, however, paled in comparison to a whore’s income. Still, it was a respectable job and Mary Margaret longed for a position that would polish her tarnished reputation.

  “I don’t know, Annabelle,” she muttered, thinking she’d waited too late. She was thirty-five years old, a lot older than most of the prostitutes working there. Aging whores generally worked the red light district for a few years prior to retiring altogether. Mary Margaret’s days at the saloon were numbered. She’d been saving for a rainy day, realizing when her time was up there, it was up. She’d watched other whores come and go. The only reason she was still there was because of her talent—men everywhere said she gave better head than any whore in the business.

  “It’s too late for me now. There’s not a man or woman around who’d want a whore standing in the middle of a schoolhouse. Reckon I wasn’t meant to teach.”

  Annabelle flashed an impish grin. “You can’t convince me. First day I came to Cripple Creek? I seem to recall being stuck in the hall watching you ride the tarnation out of some Indian who soft-footed his way in here. I still remember him, too. He said he was a-lookin’ for a woman who could handle a big dick.”

  Mary Margaret laughed, remembering her customer fondly. “How many times do I have to tell you? Big Dick was his name. Someone in his tribe must’ve thought they’d give him a name befitting of the tool he didn’t have. Shame really. I had great expectations and ended up thinking he would’ve been better suited for one of the inexperienced girls. It’s always better when a whore’s first caller isn’t well endowed.”

  “Says you. From the very beginning, I liked ‘em thick and long, lean and hard,” Annabelle said, waggling her eyebrows.

  “You take ‘em any which way you can get ‘em,” Mary Margaret reminded her.

  Annabelle shot the liquor down her throat, so much for being dainty and ladylike. Sliding the glass down the flat surface of the bar, she grinned at the barkeeper. “All I’m saying is you can do anything better than most. If you set your mind to it, you could have a classroom of your own someday.”

  Mary Margaret released a hearty sigh. “I’m thirty-five years old, Annabelle. Seems I’ve reached about all the goals a whore can have.”

  “Ah, now, don’t get down on yourself like that, Mary Margaret.”

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t help it. Lately, she’d been thinking a lot about the future and hers didn’t look all that bright. Her heart was troubled. There was a lot she’d missed.

  She sashayed to the end of the bar and struck a pose, never bothering to mention the approaching company. Several men were headed their way. The horses’ hooves pounding against the ground suggested riders were in a pretty big hurry to either whet their whistles or their little willies.

  “You could always open a business. The miners around here say some woman is starting something called Old Homestead. The place is said to have running water and electricity in every room. People are talking. Word is every suite in the house will have expensive furnishings and carpets and the most elaborate appointments ever found in a brothel.”

  Mary Margaret shook her head. “I heard about that place. Belongs to a gal who used to be a whore herself and she’s only hiring women who look like her—around five-foot-seven and two hundred pounds, gol
den blonde and curvy.”

  Annabelle frowned, most likely considering the image Mary Margaret painted. Then she copped a smile, “See there, you’re smarter than that, Mary Margaret. If you opened up your own place, you’d have women of all shapes and sizes. Here I was worried about our business when I first heard about the Old Homestead. If she’s only offering one type of gal, none of us should fret. Men are fickle. They don’t want the same kind of woman every night. Think about it. We all have our regulars but we also see our share of fellows who like to let us pass them around.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mary Margaret muttered, unable to quit pondering her bleak future.

  Annabelle patted her arm. “Mary Margaret, there’s a lot worse things in this world.”

  “You don’t know how wrong you are,” Mary Margaret said sadly. Age would change the young woman’s mind. “I’d like to think that when I’m dead and gone, my epitaph won’t read: ‘Here lies a dried up whore destined to spend eternity on her back’.”

  “Oh Lord, Mary Margaret. Why, that’d be plumb awful.” Annabelle straightened her dress and pushed up her breasts. “Maybe I’ll work on my epitaph and leave a copy in my dressing table drawer on the chance I die unexpectedly.”

  “What would you want yours to say?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe something like, ‘Miners came to Cripple Creek digging for gold. Men came to Annabelle looking for pleasure.’ What do you think?” She laughed as if she thought her epitaph was truly befitting of the future stone marking her memorial.

  “I reckon it’s better than the undertaker spreading your legs one last time and taking what he never had the money to afford. You know that’s what they say happened to a gal down in Tombstone. Poor thing was killed by an outlaw and then the undertaker tried to get it on with her corpse. Marshal caught him as he was removing his belt. Man hung for crude conduct.”

  Annabelle shuddered. “That’s morbid, Mary Margaret.”

  “Whores aren’t treated like people, Annabelle. That’s my whole point. In life and in death, we are viewed as no better than animals. It just ain’t right. It ain’t fair. I want a little respect before I pass on.”

  “Then earn it,” Annabelle said flippantly. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. It’s unattractive. Get up off your tush and do something else if you don’t like what you’re doing.”

  Mary Margaret didn’t know how to start over again. She glanced outside at the hitching posts now fully occupied by a half dozen horses. Cowboys dismounted. The shuffling of boots moved closer as the saloon’s latest patrons traipsed across the front steps.

  A second later, Annabelle joined her at the long stretch of wood. She placed her hand in the small of her waist and forced a wide smile. “You’d better kick doom and gloom in the gut and get to grinning. Unless, of course, you plan on leavin’ these fellas to me.”

  Mary Margaret stretched her neck and peered out the window. “Looks to be about eight out there, Bob. At least five or six of ‘em are together,” she called to the bartender. “Set ‘em up. They look thirsty.” A beat later, she added, “Annabelle, leave the leader to me or one of the others.”

  “You’d better listen to her, girl,” Bob said, glancing up as the first cowboy entered.

  “That ain’t no outlaw there,” Annabelle said under her breath.

  “The hell he ain’t,” Mary Margaret snapped, studying the first man inside. He was the epitome of a cowboy gone wild and just the type of fellow guaranteed to keep a woman up late at night.

  When he first entered, he’d placed both hands atop the swinging saloon door. His fingers had curved over the top of the rounded wood and he shoved his arms forward as if he were pushing back the equivalent to a heavy corral gate.

  Tight muscles bulged underneath his fitted black shirt. Mary Margaret wondered if those long sleeves covered up permanent scars or gaping bandaged wounds.

  Experience taught her to watch for guests with plenty of problems. Knives and guns brought many a man into a whore’s arms. They were generally looking for comfort and companionship. Most of them still wanted their momma when a bullet grazed their skin. Some settled for a whore while waiting for a town doctor.

  “Whiskey,” the cowboy grated out, barely looking at Annabelle before his gaze met Mary Margaret’s.

  Mary Margaret’s breasts swelled under the scrutiny. She was so accustomed to responding to an interested customer’s eye, she wondered if she’d ever find pleasure in life beyond a whorehouse.

  She couldn’t walk around in a constant state of arousal. That was for sure. If she collected stares from the local respectable men, particularly gentlemen she’d never serviced, she was bound to respond in an unfavorable way, in a manner offensive to the ladies on their arms.

  Mary Margaret was a flirt, a real tease. She couldn’t help herself.

  “These gang leaders are hard to handle when they arrive in packs,” she quickly told Annabelle, deciding the one at the bar proudly wore the title.

  Annabelle batted her eyelashes. Gaping at her target, she whispered to Mary Margaret, “Claim him or pass him. Your choice.”

  The cowboy looked straight ahead, pretending—and undoubtedly it was in fact an act—he wasn’t the main topic of conversation. He splayed his thick legs and propped the heel of his boots on either side of the bar stool. Relaxing his elbows on the flat surface in front of him, he straddled the wood under him with far too much ease.

  “Damn,” Mary Margaret whispered. “He knows how to make a woman jealous.”

  “What’d you mean?” Annabelle asked. “I told you take him or leave him.”

  “I’m not talking about you. I’m wishin’ I was that barstool right at the moment.”

  Annabelle laughed and then redirected her focus, immediately dropping her gaze to the man’s package tightly bunched in the front. She rubbernecked to the point her head was hanging upside down.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Mary Margaret snipped, gently slapping Annabelle’s shoulder with the back of her hand.

  Annabelle jerked to attention. “On second thought, I want him.” She hurried away and quickly made her first introduction.

  Bob grabbed a bottle from behind the bar. He set up several glasses in front of their customer. Then he left his post and took a seat at an old piano with stained ivory keys. Blood had splattered over them, leaving them forever tainted after a gunfight left one man dead, two weeks ago on a Thursday.

  Mary Margaret remembered the day well. She watched a young man take his last breath all because he made the youthful mistake of boasting. He stated he was the quickest on the draw in some gunfight right outside of Tombstone. As bad luck would have it, the outlaw present actually pulled the trigger. As it turned out, the desperado didn’t want some two-bit youth claiming a kill he didn’t have to his credit.

  Poor kid never saw a showdown coming and when he wouldn’t step outside the saloon, the outlaw who called him out decided to teach him a valuable lesson, one he’d remember for the rest of his short life—which was something like ten seconds. Mary Margaret felt the bile rise in the back of her throat. He had been nothing more than a kid, probably around seventeen or eighteen.

  Staring outside at the new arrivals, Mary Margaret summed up the rest of their visitors. They were hungry, thirsty, horny, and worst of all? They were outlaws sure as shootin’ and they were the worst of their kind. She’d seen enough of them to know.

  Killers owned a certain strut. They possessed hardened expressions, walked with a pronounced beat, held their shoulders back, their heads high, and dared a stranger to mess with them.

  When they ran together, they were untouchable. They were like a pack of wolves, typically led by an alpha male, the one who called the shots, took the best for himself, and roughed up anyone who challenged him for his position.

  Another cowboy entered. He walked with a limp and chose a seat at a small table, acting as if he expected sudden service. The man Annabelle had approached glanced at the newcomer but didn’t ack
nowledge him with a tip of his hat. Apparently, the older fellow wasn’t with this gunslinger’s group.

  The doors parted again and another cowboy strutted inside, working his walk like a woman’s man might. He had poise, not at all lacking in confidence. In fact, one glance and Mary Margaret understood she’d first been mistaken. The fellow entertaining Annabelle was definitely a hard-ass but he wasn’t the one packing bricks, carrying stone.

  Mary Margaret focused on the man’s dusty boots and let her gaze slide up the contour of well-shaped legs, imagining the flex of every sculptured muscle. She lingered at the spot right below the belt, focusing her attention on the protruding masculine evidence of raw hunger. Then she continued upward, following a cylinder neck heavily veined with tight cords pulsing with pure pent-up angst.

  Their eyes met and he copped a smile. He crooked his finger back and forth as if he expected her to swoon at the summons. She’d been there before. She’d been the whore to jump for a rapid score. Now, she wasn’t so easily impressed, or maybe she simply liked playing hard to get.

  “I’ll be right back.” She passed Bob and traipsed up the first flight of stairs. By the time she reached the landing overlooking the heart of the saloon, another few wayward bandits had entered the bar. She twirled a lock of hair around her forefinger and kept strolling up, taking eight more steps as slowly as possible and without another glance over her shoulder. She didn’t really care if she enticed her guests or not. In fact, Mary Margaret wasn’t in the mood to entertain company.

  Walking down the short hall, she pounded on the first bedroom door and then the second, skipped the third and fourth, since those quarters belonged to her and Annabelle, and lightly tapped on the fifth. Several girls appeared before she started down the opposite side. “Company,” she announced. “And we got lots of it down there. Everybody is working tonight.”