by Dinah McLeod
Swept Off Her Feet: Swift Justice, Book One
By
Dinah McLeod
Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Dinah McLeod
Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Dinah McLeod
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
McLeod, Dinah
Swept Off Her Feet: Swift Justice, Book One
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by The Killion Group and Bigstock/Draw05
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Chapter One
Texas, 1872
Maggie
“I sure do miss Mama,” Trent sighed, putting garland on their freshly cut Christmas tree. “It’s not going to be the same without her.”
“Sure isn’t. Nobody can string popcorn like Mama,” Wesley joined in with a grin.
“I’m actually going to miss those tacky Christmas sweaters she used to knit,” Trent joked.
“Well, now, I don’t know if I’d go that far!”
Both men chuckled together for a moment before the room went somber once more.
“You know what I’m going to miss most?”
Wesley nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Her cooking!” The brothers said in unison.
“Apple pie, dressing, turkey—”
“Cornbread!” Trent finished, rubbing his belly. “Mm-mm!”
“It didn’t smell like Christmas until Mama took that cornbread out the oven,” Wesley remarked, his voice full of longing.
The way he was talking made even my own mouth water, despite the attempts I’d made to ignore their banter. With an inward sigh, I dropped the book I’d been reading—loudly. It got both their attention, and they turned guilty eyes toward me. They knew I didn’t like talking about our mother, who’d passed only three months ago. I still missed her terribly, and had only agreed reluctantly to celebrate Christmas at all this year.
“Not that you’ll have any trouble with those recipes, Maggie,” Trent said generously.
“Thank you,” I replied, forcing a smile. And that would have been that, if Wesley’s wife, Libby, hadn’t spoken up.
“Actually, Maggie, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
I turned to the petite woman, scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes. It was no secret that I hadn’t liked Libby long before she’d stepped over the threshold, and the feeling, as far as I could tell, was mutual. She was very pretty—I could admit begrudgingly—with her reddish-brown hair that flowed down her back, and her teeny-tiny waist—the woman ate like a cow! Damn Mother Nature and her discriminating ways! Libby’s skin was pale as milk, which wouldn’t last long after the long hours she’d be spending in the harsh light of the sun.
Her large blue eyes were clear and sweet-looking, but I knew very well that appearances could be deceiving. That was the case with Libby Swift, of that much I was certain.
“I was thinking,” she continued when I didn’t answer, “that I’d be happy to take charge of the Christmas cooking this year.”
I did a double-take. She couldn’t possibly be suggesting that she… in my place? In my mother’s own kitchen? It was unthinkable.
“That’s mighty nice of you, sweetheart,” Wesley praised his wife, who smiled—gloating was more like it, I thought—up at him.
I frowned at the pair of them. I’d never been able to see why Wesley had taken such a vapid, pretty girl for a wife. She was weak as water, and not nearly as useful. They seemed complete opposites in every way: he was a problem-solver, and she complained unceasingly; he was a hard worker, while she lazed about the house all day; he was an animal lover, and she couldn’t abide the smell of dogs. On and on it went. Why, they even looked completely different! His pale blond hair was startling when pressed to her own dark head. His eyes were a deep, warm brown to her bright blue; her skin was a flawless snow-white, while his was permanently tanned from all the grueling work he did outdoors.
“Mags?” Wesley prompted, turning the same smile on me. “What do you say?”
I returned his smile warmly and with calm eyes surveyed his wife. “That is very kind of you, Libby. But I’d prefer to handle this on my own.”
Libby twisted her lips in a pout; even when she was frowning, her mouth was pretty. “But I’m just dying to try my hand at a Christmas turkey.”
Then do it and be done with it, I thought, snorting at her attempt to be demure. “Thank you kindly, Libby, but you heard Wesley and Trent.” I smiled patronizingly. “They are used to a certain kind of cooking.”
Wesley began to chuckle but masked it quickly when his wife looked up at him with wide, pained eyes.
“Don’t you think I could cook for you this Christmas, honey?”
“Well, now,” he hedged, distinctly uncomfortable at having been caught in the middle. “I think you’d do a mighty fine job, Libby. But you have to take that up with Mags. It’s her kitchen, after all.”
“But she’s not even married!” Libby hissed, loud enough for me to hear.
I felt my face color in familiar, smarting shame. I knew it only echoed all the whispering that went on behind my back. They smiled to my face when they ran into me on Sunday, but behind my back they wondered at the oddity of me—almost thirty, and unmarried. I’d heard it all before, from women who decided to break the silence and inform me of my duty to bear children—an ability which, given my age, was surely coming to an end.
Wesley took in the pained expression on my face in a glance and glared at his wife. “That’s none of your concern,” he remarked, but I see could from the smile at the corners of her lips that she was decidedly unrepentant. “I was really sorry you didn’t get to go to town with us yesterday,” he remarked, deftly changing the subject. “I brought you some candy.”
My eyes widened in surprised delight, and despite my irritation with Libby, my lips spread into a smile. Wesley was so good to me—both of my brothers were. Even though I was the older, they often treated me like a little sister and had been even more considerate of me since Mama had died. I could practically feel the hard candy in my mouth, covering my mouth with its sweetness. I wondered what flavor Wes had gotten this time—he liked to surprise me.
Unable to contain my excitement at this rare and delicious treat, I flew to the kitchen and began searching through the sacks he’d left on the counter. Little by little, as I rifled through flour, sugar, apples, and other staples and came up empty handed, my excitement started to ebb. Maybe he’d meant to pick some up, maybe he’d thought he had, but it wasn’t here.
I tried to school my features to conceal my disappointment before walking back into the parlor. Wesley, in conversation with Trent about the mare we’d soon have in foal, looked up at my approach.
“Decide to save it for later?” he asked, surprise coloring his voice.
“Oh, um…” I offered a shrug, hoping he’d let it drop. I didn’t want to embarrass him, and really, it didn’t matter. Not at the end of the day.
“Well?” he prompted, and I could hear a note of impatience in his voice. I’d forgotten how much he hated when people used shrugs in place of answers. He found it very disrespectful.
“She’s hidden the candy from us!” Trent crowed, laughing. “Is that it?”
I could feel Wesley�
�s eyes on me, refusing to move until he had an answer from me, and I flushed deeper. I tried to turn away, but my brother’s words—more so his stern, commanding voice—stopped me where I stood.
“Did you not like your surprise?”
I couldn’t bear the pain his words brought me. The three of us had always been close, but since Pa’s death five years earlier, and our recent loss of our mother, we had bonded together as thick as thieves. That he could even think I would be so ungrateful in the face of his generosity made me ill. Unable to wait even another second, the words wrenched from me, as quiet as they were. “I’m sure you meant well, but I think you might have forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” he echoed, and I felt myself redden to the tips of my ears. Did the situation really call for further discussion? I found I’d much rather discuss the upcoming foal.
“I didn’t find them.”
Wesley got up and walked to the kitchen in a few quick strides. We waited, all three silent and staring after him. I shook my foot from side to side, secretly hoping that any minute now he’d reappear with the bag of candy in hand. We’d all have a good laugh and the matter would soon be forgotten.
When he did come back, not only was he empty handed, but his previously puzzled expression had become a deep frown. “I didn’t forget,” he told me, his voice short as he gave his wife his undivided attention.
I turned to look at her, too, and noticed right away that she was looking down at her neatly clasped hands in front of her. I could swear I detected the corner of her lips twitching.
“Libby, do you happen to know anything about how Maggie’s things disappeared?”
“Course not,” she replied, in a dismissive, offhand way. “How could I?”
Wesley’s frown deepened, and when he spoke again his voice had taken on a tone that I’d heard my Pa use a time or two. “I better get a straight answer from you this instant, girl. And look at me when I’m talking to you.” He tapped his toe once, hard, the toe of his boot meeting the floor with an ominous thud.
When Libby raised her eyes to his, they were more than a bit spooked. “I said I didn’t know anything,” she insisted, even as her lip quivered.
I saw it, then, in the defiant tilt of her chin, the square of her shoulders. She’d taken the sweets just to be spiteful.
Wesley seemed to read her the same way, judging from the way he stepped toward her, menacingly. “Don’t sass me, young lady—don’t you dare.”
“I’m sorry,” she squealed as she was hauled to her feet and into his strong arms. “I didn’t mean to, I swear!”
Wesley gave her a little shake. “What do you mean? What did you do?”
“I…” she looked at me ruefully, though I suspected what she really was regretting was her admission of guilt. “It’s so stupid to waste money on her,” she spat out, turning away from me and not even having the decency to look ashamed of herself.
“She is my sister,” he responded firmly, reaching forward and tilting her chin up so that she had to look him in the eye. “She deserves your kindness.”
“Why, because—” Libby’s words were cut off by a swift, hard smack to her bottom that resounded through the room. I watched her eyes widen, watched her try to reach back and rub her behind, but Wes grabbed both of her wrists and held them firmly in one hand. I’d never know what she’d been about to say.
“Because I told you to,” he replied. “That is good enough reason for you, young lady. Clearly, you need a lesson in manners.”
“Wes, please,” she whimpered, but he jerked his head to the negative.
“I will not tolerate rudeness, do you hear me?”
Before I could hear her answer, Trent laid a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s take a walk.”
I would have liked very much to witness Wesley taking his bratty wife in hand, but even though Trent was the much quieter of the two, he possessed the same commanding presence, an air of authority that would not be denied. Though I doubted very much that I would be in danger of a visit to the woodshed—I suspected that those trips were reserved for rebellious wives—Trent’s tongue lashings were formidable. It was with great reluctance that I followed him out of our small farmhouse. I could still hear rumbles of conversation after the door swung closed behind me, but Trent kept walking, and I dutifully followed.
When he’d gotten halfway down the dirt road he stopped in his tracks and waited for me to catch up.
“Sorry about that, Mags,” he said, scratching a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot.
“It’s not your fault,” I reminded him, forcing a smile. “New wives, I guess.’
“Hmm,” he replied noncommittally, and I realized he’d been especially somber the last few days. Trent was a reserved man by nature, but he’d been uncommonly terse this past week.
I felt like a fool for not noticing sooner. “You’ll know all about that soon enough,” I remarked neutrally.
“Hmph,” he replied, stomping down on the line he’d made. “Reckon so.”
“Oh, come on.” I nudged his shoulder playfully. “What do you have to worry about?”
“Never said I was worried,” he replied, his voice gruff, but I knew better. He didn’t have to admit to it for me to know it was true.
“Do you need me to educate you some?” I teased.
“On what?” he asked, arching his brows at me.
Trent was remarkably handsome—I knew that, even if he was my own brother. He’d had girls giggling and fighting amongst themselves just to sit next to him in church since he was nine years old. He had the same big shoulders, strong arms, and toned body that God had blessed Wesley with, though he was two inches shorter at six feet. His hair was a dirty blond, his eyes the same warm brown. He had a strong jaw and full lips that made every girl swoon. They didn’t seem to mind that he rarely had anything to say.
The truth was, Trent was a very picky man, especially where women were concerned. His company had been long sought-after, but he wasn’t the obliging kind. Another man might take a girl to dinner, just because she was pretty, and kiss her because he knew she was willing. Trent was nothing of the kind and was a better man for it, in my opinion.
“Oh, you know, the usual. What women like, romantic things.”
He truly seemed puzzled by my comment. “Well, I know what you like, Mags. It can’t be that hard.”
I had to bite down on my lip, hard, to keep from laughing. I had to start walking again so that he wouldn’t see it on my face. He caught up to me in no time, and we walked on in silence for a bit. When I’d calmed down, I couldn’t resist a little more ribbing. “You wouldn’t need to know anything about the wedding night, would you?”
Trent stopped as soon as the words left my mouth, and grabbed my wrist so that I too halted in my tracks. His eyes were hard, his voice sharp, as he asked, “And just what would you know about it, sister?”
I mumbled my apologies and tried to explain that I’d been joking, but Trent’s expression stayed sour after that. Though he’d had the attention of just about every girl in town at one point or another, Trent’s reluctance to show favor to one girl over another soon had them looking elsewhere. One or two had propositioned him, boldly, and ended up getting turned down anyway, along with a stern lecture for their trouble, as I’d heard it.
The way that Trent had gone about finding a bride had been the cause for much whispering and speculation these last few months. Even Wes and I weren’t immune from the trifling gossip. I could feel eyes following me every time I went into town—which was less and less lately.
Oh, yes, I could hear them now, giggling cruelly behind their gloved hands: “Isn’t her brother the one—”
“Oh, yes, didn’t you hear? They are to wed soon. It’s a private ceremony—they’re not even getting married in the church!”
“Having an old maid for a sister like that,” they’d say, clucking their tongues, “is it any wonder? Besides, she probably can’t boil a cup of decent Arbuckle, much less m
ake a wedding cake!”
I heard them alright. Maybe my imagination was crueler than the reality, but I doubted it. Trent had gotten plenty of attention here at home and had found no one to his liking. I’d begun to think we’d all live unmarried forever until Wesley bought a ring for Libby. I think we’d all been pretty shocked by that turn of events, and there were times I wondered if there’d been a reason other than love for their hurried courtship, but I didn’t have the nerve required to inquire further.
Still, whispers had been following Trent for a long time now, even if it didn’t seem to bother him. He’d rebuffed each and every suitable girl, to the point where all of them turned their eye to more willing fellows. Now, even the unsavory prospects had stopped trying. I’d begun to wonder if my brother even cared to get married before he told us about Abigail.
He’d seen her ad in the local paper asking for a pen pal, and my brother, of all people, had begun exchanging letters with her. I wasn’t sure exactly how long this had gone on before he told us, but I knew that it had continued for another two months, with him retrieving a parcel of letters from town once a month. Whenever he came back with them tucked under his arm I knew that he would be closing himself in his room until suppertime. I’d peeked in on him, just once, and saw him bent over one of her letters, eyes scanning the page hungrily. He was so entranced with whatever Abigail had to say—lost perhaps, in the world that they’d created for just the two of them—that he didn’t even notice me, and I was able to silently creep away.
Then one morning at breakfast, as I was frying sausage in a skillet, he announced as easy as you please that he would be meeting Abigail in town, where they would be married. He’d said the words as matter-of-factly as you’d ask someone to pass the butter. Upon hearing them, I dropped the skillet and uttered a word that made Wes’s brows draw together. I let my mind take me back to that foggy, cold morning when the world as I knew it had changed.
