I slid down off my horse, leaving the reins dangling. My horse was well trained, he would not move. The lady was trying to be brave, but it was clear she was terrified. Her face was pale, she was shaking, and she was on the verge on hyperventilating. It looked like she’d had a shock. While Roscoe held the panting horse still, I reached for the lady, taking her hands to help her down. Her hands were small, smooth, the nails well kept. She wore no wedding ring. They weren’t the hands of a woman who was used to work. What was a lady who had been so gently reared, doing way out here, alone?
She stepped down and collapsed against me, her small body wracked with sobs. She was trying to speak, but she was crying so hard I couldn’t make any sense of what she was saying.
“Sssshhhh,” I whispered, rubbing her back, holding her close. Her ample breasts brushed against me and my cock hardened in my pants at the closeness of her soft body against mine. It had been a long time since I’d held a woman. Too long. Her feminine curves were perfect. She fitted against me so well. The top of her head didn’t quite reach my chin; the perfect height for me to bend my head to kiss. The top few buttons on her blouse had been torn off, likely in her battle with the runaway beast, and I looked down at her, my gaze resting directly on her heaving bosom. Definitely more than a handful.
My other hand slipped around her trim waist, pulling her in closer.
Her tears wet my shirt but still I held her close. She was awakening desires in me that I thought were long buried and forgotten. When Rose had died, I had vowed I would never want another woman again. And up until now, I hadn’t. But there was something about the woman in my arms. Her vulnerability and fear brought out my protective instincts and her body brought out stirrings of lust. I wanted her. My cock throbbed.
Finally she stopped sobbing and let go of me, reaching for her bag. She pulled out several papers and thrust them at me, still breathing heavily, still looking frightened. She looked ready to flee at any moment. I took the papers and quickly scanned the barely legible script.
“You’re a mail order bride?” Disappointment welled within me. She belonged to someone else.
“The name,” she gasped, still panting for breath. “Do you know him?”
I read the letter her prospective husband had written, outlining the qualities he was looking for in a wife. If the woman standing in front of me met those requirements, she would be a very good wife indeed. She was certainly very pleasant to look at, she had fitted perfectly against me. And if she was a capable cook and able to keep a clean house too, Roscoe and I would have no complaints.
Then I read the name. Coleton Mallone. He was dead and buried. A grisly accident had claimed his life just three days ago.
“Is it true? Is he dead?” she asked, her voice small, tinged with desperation.
“Yes ma’am,” I told her. “It is.”
I passed the papers over to Roscoe to read before turning back to the lady. “He was a good man.” Her lower lip quivered but there was a stubborn tilt to her chin. She squared her shoulders, but there was no hiding her distress.
“I’ll have to go back then,” she whispered, sounding utterly bereft.
How far had she journeyed? Where was she going back to? More importantly, to whom was she going back to? As a mail-order bride, she had obviously come west for a reason. Ladies didn’t just marry a man they’d never met, even a man as good as Coleton had been, unless they had no other choice.
“Go back where?” Roscoe asked.
The lady startled at the unexpected voice coming from behind her but she gathered her composure quickly. If nothing else, she was courageous. But she couldn’t completely hide her fear. Whatever it was she was running from, it frightened her.
“Philadelphia.” Her hands flew to her mouth as she choked on a sob.
I looked across at Roscoe, one eyebrow raised in question, and he nodded. She would be ours. Roscoe and I were getting along just fine by ourselves, but it was mighty lonely at night and our small cabin needed a woman’s touch.
Roscoe and I had been friends since childhood. Ever since he had fought off my bully on the first day of school, we’d been inseparable. Roscoe wasn’t bigger or stronger than me anymore, but he was still my best friend. He’d stood beside me when I’d lost my Rose, supported me in my grief. We’d shared just about everything since then, including our house and small ranch in Bridgewater. It was almost inevitable that we would share a wife. I hadn’t been willing to before, but I was now. We would share her between us, in the Bridgewater way, both of us devoted to her pleasure. Both of us keeping her safe. Both of us teaching her all the ways in which a woman can please a man.
“No.” I shook my head, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard me. Her face was still buried in her hands. Long, fair curls fell through her fingers. Her bosom heaved with each breath she took. My cock stirred again. I wanted to fuck her until she was smiling, until she forgot the reason for her tears.
“Darkness is falling,” Roscoe told her. “Where are you going to go?”
“I’ll go back to Butte and stay at the hotel,” she announced
