Sun-scorched Judgment
Copyright© 2026 by Trace Linden
Chapter 10
Western Sex Story: Chapter 10 - Western adventure mixed with raunchiness marks Mr. Linden’s debut work. It’s 1872, and young Caleb Warner, hoping to become a miner, instead finds himself navigating criminal goings-on while uncovering the needs of the women in the high prairie town of Judgment. Soon enough, he finds himself in a big ol’ heap of trouble.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Western Polygamy/Polyamory
Caleb had never felt so out of place in his entire life.
The unease began as soon as the “hacienda” came into view. Rather than an adobe structure, a bright white, two-story home, fronted by tall columns, as if torn from a southern plantation. Along with several outbuildings, a handful of oak trees, rare on the high prairie, dotted the grounds. The entire complex was surrounded by a tall stone wall, pierced by a broad archway.
No sooner had their mounts been settled in an expansive barn than Grimley led him up marble steps to the front entrance and into a massive foyer. Wide-eyed, he turned in a slow circle, squinting at the brightness of so much glossy white marble. After telling him to “hold fast,” the gray-clad man moved deeper into the home.
A while later, the colonel appeared. After a quick handshake, a double eagle, plus five silver dollars, landed in Caleb’s palm.
“Sorry ‘bout my boys. They can be ... unruly.”
“S’alright, sir.”
“First room on the right.” He pointed at the sweeping staircase. “Clean yerself up, Caleb.”
With a “Yes, sir,” he complied. The colonel’s expression said not to bother asking why he’d been invited.
Upstairs, in a large bedroom of pale blue trimmed with white, he discovered a proper washing area. Lined with engraved wood, a mirror on the wall above a deep porcelain basin. A pitcher of water beside a folded towel, under bar soap, a shaving brush, and a straight razor. After rubbing a hand over grime-encrusted stubble, he stripped to the waist and got to work.
Upon his return to the ground floor, with face tingling, hair combed, and shirt shaken out and buttoned tight, he followed the sound of voices. Upon finding the dining room, his footsteps staggered to a halt.
Beside the colonel, again in a white suit and seated at the head of a long table under a cloth of matching snowiness, sat the woman from the train station. Well, of course, his wife would be there. Yet, for whatever reason, that simple fact hadn’t entered his mind until right then.
Lit by an intricate crystal chandelier, the intensity of her beauty kept him from inhaling. But lungs moved, trying their best. Unlike before, the glossy sable mane draped shoulders and framed a face bearing unneeded makeup, not that it was heavy. Subtle powder on high cheeks, greenish eyeshadow highlighting vivid hazel eyes, and vermillion lips made glossier.
A risky peek revealed a dress of bright green satin, shimmering with every movement. The impressive bust, so well-covered at the station, now swelled within a swooping neckline trimmed in white lace. More snowy gauziness adorned the front of the straining bodice and the half sleeves.
Further details sent gentle tickles down his spine. The most delicate hint of a French accent, and several words of that language, slipping into her conversation. Also, the same delightful laughter that’d snatched his attention on the platform again held his focus.
Along with her husband, she was engaged in a deep discussion with two figures. In the “Blue Dog,” they’d been seated at the colonel’s table, with Teacup prancing between them.
Before more memories could be processed, the white-clad host waved him closer. Introductions came fast and furious. The badge on a black suit stretched over a large belly belonged to Marshal Simpson. Across from him sat Judgment’s tall, skinny mayor, Arthur Daniels. When the colonel introduced his wife, Annabelle, her eyes sparkled, and he found it easy to ignore the steady rise and fall of pale curves below that wondrous visage.
While they all returned to their conversation, he, still feeling quite lost, took a seat. As servants clad in charcoal twill came and went, removing cutlery and placing dishes for the next course, he didn’t know where to look. So many exquisite aromas already flooded his nose. His taste buds were awash in the rich flavors of elegant foods never before tasted.
Around him, the discussions roamed far and wide, from local politics to the challenges faced by business interests across the territory. When talk wandered into national politics, all agreed with the colonel, “That damn Yankee, Grant don’t deserve to stay in the White House.” All the while, other than an occasional slight nod or tossed agreement, he kept silent.
However, his mind latched onto several details. First, the town marshal might be “Tubby” or “Thomas,” and the mayor was either “mayor” or “Mayor Daniels,” but everyone addressed their host as “colonel,” including the white-clad man’s wife. Second, Caleb was most definitely catching the woman’s eye.
Whenever nobody was watching, Annabelle’s gaze flicked to him. At first, he was unsure and tentative. After all, a dangerous game, yet one that offered some distraction, and her furtive peeks soon got returned. With his heart pounding, he even snuck in a quick wink. That earned him a slender grin. Once noticing his interest in her extraordinary chest, she ensured it was best displayed, leaning further while reaching for things, or twisting aside and bending while seeking others.
Although she proved quite a flirtatious woman, he was no fool. Nothing like being with wild Erin and quiet, watchful Freddy. One mistake and the colonel ... well, at the warehouse, he’d overheard a few not so nice things about the man’s temper. Any glance from those glinting eyes confirmed steel hovered behind them. So, the rules of this playful game of hers remained unknown, and, erring far to the side of caution, he remained circumspect.
A mixture of relief and disappointment swirled through him when, along with the other men, he was ushered into a snug drawing room. Walls of glossy dark wood and paintings in heavy frames. Amid furnishings of crimson and black velvet, cigars appeared, as did a liqueur of peach and some other fruits, tinged with a delicate hint of herbs.
The conversation continued, but the colonel made sure to sit beside Caleb, and a hand was never far from him. At last, the other men stood and, after exchanging handshakes and pleasantries, departed, leaving them standing alone in the center of a thick carpet decorated with red flowers.
“So, what do you think, my boy?” the white-clad man asked, turning to face him.
“About?”
“Anything.” The hand not holding a small crystal goblet swept around. “Everything?”
“It’s a lovely home, sir.” After scanning the room, he glanced toward the exit. “Big.”
“That it is, Caleb.” As the colonel took a sip, glinting eyes grew in intensity. “I like the way you work. Dependable. Measured. Sumthin’ tells me should Colt or Amos been a might bit stupider today, you’d’ve dropped ‘em both.”
“Oh, I don’t—”