Chapter 4

She sprinkled a pinch of the salt she’d carried all the way from Kansas City over the roasting fish, ignoring the irritating cowpoke stomping behind her. The disappointment at losing her claim rankled, but she was a sensible woman. There were other claims, though none so nice as this one. She held in a snort of laughter when she thought about his crazy idea of marriage.

Why he thought it would be a good idea was beyond her! They clearly didn’t suit. She wasn’t cut out for taking another husband, and the thought of nursing a second man into the arms of God made her stomach clench. It would be bad enough if they loved each other, but he only offered a marriage of convenience, giving her all the work of a husband and none of the benefits.

With a forked stick, she transferred a cooked fish to a tin plate and handed it to him before serving herself. Her dog appeared at her side, his mouth hanging open as he panted. She patted him absently and tossed him half of what was on her plate. “Why is it you always show up when I’m cooking, son?”

“He’s a dog. That’s what they do.”

“True. He’s a fine bird dog, though.” She took a bite and chewed, wishing she had some herbs or garlic to flavor the bland meat. Still, it was fresh, and better than the dry jerky she’d been subsisting on for the last few days. She reached into her pack for her flask and took a swallow of the fine bourbon she’d set into barrels before Matthew had gotten sick.

She passed the flask to her companion when he held out a hand, but her attention was elsewhere. Her second choice was another twenty miles west. She’d have to leave before dawn to have any hope of setting her stake before anyone else.

“Where did you get this?” Caleb’s hoarse whisper dragged her attention back to him. She smiled as he cradled the flask like a newborn.

“I made it shortly after I married my husband and set it into barrels in 1884.” She sighed heavily as she remembered Benjamin’s insistence that nobody cared if her bourbon had been aged. “That’s the last of it.”

He handed the flask back to her and slapped his thighs with both hands. “That tears it, I’m afraid.”

He jumped to his feet and rummaged in his saddlebag as she stared at him in surprise. “You don’t have to worry,” she called. “I’ll be out of your hair before dawn.” When he didn’t answer, she stood and gathered her things together, realizing he must be one of those abstinence people. She could sleep closer to the stream, or even leave right now if he demanded it.

But why had he drunk from the flask if he was a prohibitionist? He turned to her, his arm hidden behind his back. His long strides covered the distance between them in only a few steps and she backed away, suddenly afraid of the dark expression on his face.

She turned to run, and screamed when he caught her, terrified that he planned to hurt her. She raked her nails down his arm, unable to gain purchase on the ground. He hissed out a breath and slapped his hand over her mouth. She whimpered softly as his arm wrapped around her ribs.

“Shh, Abby. I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you go, either.”

“Please...”

“Yes. I’m going to please you six ways from Sunday the minute I get you in front of a preacher. Hush now, and let me finish.”

“What the hell are you doing?” She felt rope tighten around her arms and screamed again as he quickly lashed her hands behind her. She bit her lip when his hard hand landed on her bottom.

“No swearing, Mrs. Walsh.”

“Are you insane?” she hissed. “I’ll be damned...” She choked on another scream when he spanked her again. He loosened the rope holding up her pants then eased her to the ground, the dirt and pebbles rough on her bare flesh. She tried to squirm away but he had her boots and trousers off in a flash, leaving her bare from the waist down.

“We’ll discuss your swearing later, wife.” She kicked out, but he was too fast and had her ankles tied together before she could blink. “This will hold you for now. You won’t be able to run off without your trousers. Tomorrow, we’ll go file our claims and find a preacher.” Picking her up, he carried her back to the fire and set her down.

Without another word, he picked up her tin plate and fork. “Open up, sweetheart.”

“I’m not hungry. Eat it yourself.”

“Tsk tsk,” he chided. “We have a busy day tomorrow. Eat your supper.”

She scowled, but obeyed as her fingers worked the knot holding her hands behind her back. Though it was tight, she was sure she could work it free before morning. She ate the food he offered as she plotted. He’d be one sorry cowpoke come morning.

When she’d finished everything left on her plate, he carried her to the pallet he’d made and settled her under a blanket before spooning his big body around her. Thankfully, aside from wrapping a heavy arm around her waist, he didn’t touch her.

The whinny of a horse woke him. He smiled and stretched out, reaching for the warm woman nestled against him. Except there was no warm woman, and he couldn’t stretch.

Taking stock of the situation, he moved experimentally and turned his face away from the dirt. The little harpy had hogtied him most effectively. He glanced around, finding no trace of her, save the blanket from her bedroll he’d used to cover them as they’d slept.

He decided she was the perfect woman, except that she wasn’t much use for knots. Any woman who could make such fine bourbon was perfect in his mind. It didn’t hurt that she was smart as a damned whip and pretty to boot. He freed himself easily and saddled his horse.

The future Mrs. Caleb Walsh had a lesson coming.

He found her tracks not a hundred yards from his stake, heading due west. He shook his head and chuckled. She hadn’t bothered to hide her trail and it couldn’t be more than an hour or two old. Slowing his horse, he continued tracking. He wouldn’t put it past her to set a trap or two.

He found her three hours later. She’d set her stake in a nice piece of property he hadn’t noticed on the original survey. Water burbled in a narrow creek and he hid as she bathed, unaware of his presence.

Damnation, she was pretty as a speckled pup. Strawberry hair trailed in a tangled stream down her back, ending at a sweet pair of dimples at the base of her spine. Strong arms lifted over her head as she stretched, curving her back into an arch. Ghostly bruises marred her bottom from his switch and he wanted to add to the marks on her ass.

His mouth went dry when she turned to face him. Pretty pink nipples surmounted pert breasts that begged for his touch as she wrung the water from her hair. Sparse red curls decorated her little cunny and he hissed out a breath at the sight of her charms.

Her head shot up and she tensed like a startled deer before pulling on her clothes. She didn’t bother with her boots as she reached for her rifle, the Winchester held easy as pie in her strong hands. He held himself still, barely daring to breathe until she relaxed and set her rifle aside.