Rocky Mountain Rogue (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 5) Read online

  "That should do it, for now. I pity the man who takes you in hand for the rest of your life."

  He gave her a final smack and tipped her off his lap. She settled on her knees before him, glaring up at him with her dress almost sliding off her shoulders and angry tears coursing down her beautiful face.

  "Stay," he ordered, like she was a dog, and left her kneeling in the dust.

  Raising his rifle, he ordered the driver down, and held it on the man, forcing him to carry most of the luggage out into a big pile, until Jesse found the big black box he was looking for: Doyle's safe.

  "Just one thing and I'll be on my way," Jesse said cheerfully. He tried picking the lock first, then swapped his rifle for a pistol and took aim. The shot did nothing but make the horses nervous, and both the driver and the woman wince.

  Grim, Jesse went to his saddlebags and drew out the stick of dynamite. Halfway through rigging it, Jesse heard a shout.

  "Wait!" Hands still bound, the woman struggled to her feet, her neckline flapping. Jesse put his hand on his pistol, but didn't point it at her, even as she rushed at him desperately, her body half bent, her cleavage in serious danger of being exposed.

  "Not my trousseau!" she shrieked.

  "Whoa, little lady." Jesse caught the little miss around the waist when she rushed past him to the luggage, and held her against him.

  "Please don't harm my luggage. It's all I have." She looked up at him with eloquent eyes, but it was her body pressed against him that persuaded him.

  Jesse grinned down at her, noting how, with her corset loosened, she was curved in all the right places. With a gentle hand, he pulled her neckline into place. "Since you ask so nicely, I suppose I could let it alone. Kneel back down, sweetheart."

  With a little sob, she did as he said and his cock hardened further. He liked giving orders to this little wildcat, and watching her turn sweet as a kitten when she wanted something from him. He especially liked it when she was kneeling, her head at just the right height for other entertainment.

  Pointing his rifle, he guided the driver to separate the safe from all the other bags, then directed both his captives to stand back while he lit the fuse. The trunk blew open, scraps of paper flying about as Jesse stepped forward to take his treasure. He stacked the gold bars into two saddlebags and weighted Jordan equally.

  Turning to the open-mouthed driver, he tipped his hat at the man. "Much obliged."

  "Do you know who you've robbed?" the driver asked. "Silas Doyle, the most dangerous man in the whole territory. His men ride with the Royal Mountain Gang."

  "You must be sure to pass on my thanks to him for sending you right past my stakeout. Take care next time you pass through here. There are some really awful men about."

  He stalked back to his horse, but couldn't resist detouring near the little lady and offering her a hand up.

  Her pretty eyes shot bullets at him, but she allowed him to help her to her feet. As he straightened, he noticed her staring at his ungloved hand and the burn scar marring the skin.

  Cursing himself for his carelessness, he cast about for his glove and pulled it on. This was supposed to be a clean job: fly in, rob Doyle and worry his men, and ride off. He didn't have time to tussle in the dirt with a pretty, brave—if petty and misguided—piece of calico.

  Still, he couldn't resist stepping closer to the little chit again and brushing a strand of blonde hair off her cheek.

  "It's been a pleasure, my beauty, but all too soon we are parted." The little baggage was growing on him, he decided. Her features looked somewhat familiar to him, even twisted with hate.

  "I hope they catch you," she spat. "Then you'll hang."

  Gripping either arm, he pulled her close, until he could scent the lavender perfume she wore. Her bound hands pushed at his chest, frantic and ineffective, but her face tilted up to look at him enticingly. He bent his head close, so his lips almost touched hers. "Till we meet again, baggage." For a second, her sweet breath warmed his lips, and he was almost tempted to take her mouth, then throw her up over Jordan and ride off.

  Instead, he set her away, pleased when she made a little sigh of disappointment. Seems he made an impression on the little baggage. "Enjoy the rest of your trip." He smirked, before turning on his heel, mounting his horse, and riding away.

  * * *

  A few days later, Susannah paced about her grubby hotel room, waiting for her fiancé to arrive. A mirror stood in the corner; she checked it every time she passed. Wide blue eyes stared back at her, framed with dark blonde locks that she smoothed nervously. She'd lost weight on the journey, but kept enough curves to fill out her new white muslin dress, though as the hours wore on, the fabric, like everything else in this awful town, was gaining a thin coating of dust. She hoped her new husband would understand her somewhat disheveled condition. After all, it was a miracle she and her trunks had arrived safely at all.

  As soon as the black-clad bandit had ridden away with his stolen goods, she and the driver had repacked the stagecoach, leaving the smoking safe where it sat. The driver had fretted that his employer, a Mr. Doyle, might not believe the tale of the lone robber and therefore would suspect that he killed the guard and took the gold, but Susannah convinced him she would back his story. Once she arrived in Colorado Springs, she settled with her three trunks and six bags in a room at the Main Hotel to wait for her bridegroom, all too ready to put the event behind her.

  To her dismay, the first night she dreamed of the man in black: not his murdering or pillaging, but the way he held her and spanked her bottom, then leaned in to kiss her, darting away at the last moment.

  Impossible man. She would see that he was flogged before he was hanged.

  The truth was, she couldn't get the bandit out of her mind. Half the time she spent thinking of ways he should die, the other half imagining the pull of his lips, his large, strong body encompassing hers, his hands on her body, touching her flesh, handling it with both authority and care. In her dreams he spanked her again, undressed her fully, and looked at her like she was a goddess rising from the sea.

  Susannah woke gasping, and not even a rapidly waved fan or endless successions of baths could cool her ardor.

  Even now, pacing in her room and waiting for the man she was to marry, she couldn't stop thinking of the bandit. The more she thought about the rogue, the more he seemed familiar, which was ridiculous. How would she, Susannah Moore, a schoolteacher and lady of Boston, have cause to know an outlaw? A scoundrel, a knave, a rogue of the worst degree, a no-name bastard with a devilish glint in his hazel eyes. If he were here, she'd give him a piece of her mind.

  In fact, she wished he was here right now, so she could rip the bandanna off and spit into his face. That would serve him right. He'd ruined her best corset!

  The only thing that kept her pride intact was the thought of how the thief would be caught and hanged once she reported him to the authorities. Indeed, within a few hours of her arrival, the sheriff had come knocking to get her report of the incident, but she'd feigned weakness until he'd ceased his questioning. Some reluctance kept her from telling the complete truth: she’d made the bandit sound scrawny and short, with a paunch and a limp, knowing the sheriff would chalk up her confusion to her womanly nerves. She neglected to tell him about her ruined clothes and corset, and hoped the driver had left out those particulars as well. For some reason, she wasn't sure why, she didn't tell the sheriff about the scar on the bandit's hand.

  Realizing she was almost breathless from her frantic pacing, Susannah stopped and smoothed her dress. No use thinking of the incident, it was over and done, and by this time tomorrow, she would be a respectable, married woman.

  Of course, if she had her way, she would choose a man like the tall rogue to marry. Powerful, confident, masculine, unwilling to let anything stand in the way of what he wanted. The way he had picked her up so easily, his touch firm yet gentle—in her weakness she wished for a man who would handle her the same way, one who would stan
d up to her temper and take control.

  A knock brought her thoughts to a halt and sent her scurrying to the door. Mrs. Marsh, the hotel proprietor, stood outside. Susannah couldn't be sure if the woman liked or hated her; the matron had certainly been put out by all of the young traveler's luggage, and Susannah's request for a servant to assist with her toilet. Susannah's next best corset (in line after the one the robber had destroyed) laced up the back, and she wasn't going to meet with her intended wearing less than her best. She was sure her new husband would provide a maid to help her once they were settled in his home.

  Opening the door, Susannah felt a surge of triumph at the hotel matron's awestruck look. With her white muslin dress decorated in blue flowers to bring out the sapphire in her eyes, and new lace gloves, she looked quite the future bride. Perhaps not as fine as she would look in Boston, but good enough for Colorado Territory.

  "He's here," Mrs. Marsh stated, and Susannah took a deep breath. Time to meet her future husband.

  * * *

  "Mr. Oberon?"

  Jesse almost forgot to turn at the sound of his false last name. A sweet, familiar scent wafted across the room and he stiffened before swinging around with a smile fixed to his face.

  He spotted her immediately, stepping out from behind the dowdy Mrs. Marsh.

  Damn and blast. Here, pretty as a picture in a white dress, was the little baggage from the coach. Clean and rested, she glowed from the top of her blonde head to her satin lined hem. Silently, he cursed himself up and down; he'd thought the chit had looked familiar, but she'd thinned since sending her picture, and the dust-covered traveler—although alluring—was nothing like this beautiful vision before him.

  Besides, he'd expected her two weeks from now. When the message arrived at his "residence" alerting him of his bride's arrival, he'd nearly written off the whole marriage operation. His plans for Doyle were coming to a head, and he didn't have time for a distraction until they were finished.

  But his future stake in his brother's mine was contingent on him taking a wife and keeping her on the homestead for a month—a stupid plan thought up by his sister-in-law Rose. Unfortunately, his brother, Lyle Wilder, had agreed with his wife, and made it a condition of the agreement. Until Jesse could catch a wife and keep her, he couldn't share in the profits.

  So here he was, in a hotel parlor, meeting his future wife a few days after robbing her coach. He'd certainly been in worse scrapes, but at the moment, he couldn't think of any.

  He waited for a flicker of recognition in the blonde's face, but whatever preparations he'd made for their visit—washing his hair and changing his clothes to complete his transformation into the gentlemanly Mr. Oberon—had worked. The little baggage stared up at him with interest, but no recognition. As far as first impressions, his disguise held.

  "I present to you: Miss Moore," Mrs. Marsh said, and stepped away.

  "Mr. Oberon?" Miss Susannah Moore repeated the matron's call, and her voice was light and soft, nothing like the screeching wild cat she'd been on the trail. Indeed, he was hard pressed to decide which side of her he liked better—her on her knees in the dirt, or gliding across a parlor with a sweet smile on her face.

  Jesse crossed to her in one stride, and bowed over her delicately gloved hand. "Miss Moore, a pleasure."

  He looked up into his fiancée's lovely face and hoped she wouldn't recognize him.

  * * *

  His luck held. Mrs. Marsh presented an impressive lunch and served as chaperone, and Jesse played the gallant, sitting close to the matron and flattering both women with attention, while giving Susannah intense, heated glances whenever the matron's back was turned.

  By the end of the hour, both ladies were sighing at his charming manner, and he felt his fiancée would allow him to take his leave. He stood, bowing again, playing the gallant down to the last flourish. "Ladies, I must thank you for the pleasure of your company, and though it's been the most pleasant hour of my life, I'm afraid it must come to an end, for now I must go."

  "Oh, must you?" Susannah fluttered her eyelashes at him. Throughout the lunch, she'd proved her intelligence and wit, while flirting like a coquette.

  "I have business to attend to. Not the least of which depends on your answer to my next question."

  Susannah blushed, and Mrs. Marsh smiled as Jesse got down on one knee and took up Susannah's hand. "My dear, we have known each other through letters, and you graciously consented once, but I will ask again: will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

  Her answer came breathless and happy, accompanied by a satisfied applause from the stoic Mrs. Marsh.

  "Well done, young man." The matron blushed as pink as a schoolgirl as she escorted him from her establishment. She and his Susannah would spend all night planning a perfect celebration, he was sure.

  Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Jesse breathed a sigh of relief.

  At first, Susannah had seemed the perfect solution to his matrimonial problems: pretty, young, available. Last winter, he'd dashed off a letter introducing himself and dropping her friend Carrie's name as a mutual acquaintance. He'd half expected a reply, but none so eager as the one he received. It seemed Susannah was more than ready to be a bride.

  Everything had gone swimmingly, except for Doyle, the brothel owner who thought he owned Jesse's sister-in-law, Rose. As long as Doyle lived, Jesse's brother Lyle and wife couldn't live in peace.

  So Doyle had to die.

  But killing a man with power took time and money. Jesse had some of the latter, especially after robbing Doyle's own coffers. As for the former: spring turned into summer with no opportunity to kill the man who'd caused his family such misery. And then his bride showed up two weeks early, riding on the same coach as Doyle's gold.

  Hell and damnation. If that wasn't unlucky, Jesse didn't know what was. Still, the fact that the little baggage was more delicious in person than in daguerreotype was a point in his favor.

  First things first. Tonight he'd put the final touches in place to ensure Doyle's downfall, and then return to his fiancée's hotel tomorrow with the minister. Once he was married, he could turn his attention back to Doyle. By fall, he could ride to his brother's homestead, wife on arm, and prove he was ready to settle down and work his claim.

  He just had to manage to fool his bride for a whole month.

  * * *

  In her bedroom, Susannah brushed out her hair and contemplated her bridegroom Jesse Oberon. Very strange name, but familiar, since she was an avid reader of Shakespeare.

  Susannah Oberon. Mrs. Susannah Oberon. The name had potential, especially since her fiancé was everything she wanted and more. Dashing, attentive, with very fine clothes and manners. And, oh, the way his green eyes sparkled. He was just the right height and build, too, tall enough to tower over her, with enough lean muscle under his clothes to make her heart race. The men of Boston seemed weak and pale next to such a rugged, masculine figure.

  "You'll be back within the month," her aunt had blustered when Susannah had revealed the details of her engagement to a gentleman in Colorado Territory. "That is, if you are not killed by the heathen."

  "Nonsense, Auntie. If I'm taken by Indians, I'm sure to be married off to one of the braves. They like women with blonde hair." Susannah had bit her tongue so she wouldn't laugh over her aunt's appalled expression.

  Truth was, she'd been eager to escape her New England home. Sure, Boston was exciting with its international port and cosmopolitan populace descended from the first families of the New World. The women wore the latest fashions, and the men were witty and wealthy. Of course, one of those men had almost destroyed her. Whatever the painful result of her brief engagement, Susannah no longer felt at home in Boston society.

  So, when correspondence began arriving from a self-described "landed gentleman in need of companionship", she'd been at once flattered and intrigued. When the writer, a Mr. Jesse Oberon of Colorado Territory, spoke of his connection to Susannah's friend Carrie, the blond
e Bostonian thought she had all the verification she needed, and promptly wrote back. With the current speed of the postal system, they exchanged several letters throughout the spring. Mr. Oberon wooed her with very sweet words, and before she knew it, she was buying riding habits and imagining herself as a frontier bride.

  The last letter came with the photograph, and an exquisitely penned marriage proposal. She accepted by telegraph, and booked her fare to arrive in Colorado Springs by August at the latest.

  Laying down her hairbrush, Susannah sank into the bed. The mattress was rough and the sheets a scratchy, poor quality. She hardly cared.

  Her new fiancé was perfect, handsome and doting. Perhaps a bit shallow, and certainly a dandy, but a gentleman. He wouldn't treat her the way her former fiancé, Roger, had, and leave her a laughingstock, in disgrace, with escape from Boston her only recourse.

  Most importantly, he would never rob a stagecoach.

  With that thought, she rolled to her side and dreamed of a black haired man with bright green eyes. Whether bandit or Mr. Oberon she couldn't tell—both faces blended into one man who bent his dark head to her breast.

  * * *

  Jesse walked into the bar at midnight, hat pulled low over his face. Nodding to the bartender, he looked to the corner, where three men were waiting for him, and cursed silently. His luck had run out.

  One of the men was Otis Boone, one of the most dangerous men in the West, and Doyle's right hand man.

  Without pausing his swagger, Jesse headed for the table. Sitting with his back to the wall, Boone locked onto his approach immediately, and Jesse met his gaze head on. Here was another man who had it out for his sister-in-law, and would've gotten her, too, if his boss, Doyle hadn't stopped him. If Doyle died, Rose wasn't safe from Boone's blood feud.

  So, Boone had to die first.

  "Boone." Walking up to the table, Jesse extended his hand. Boone was shorter, with a square jaw covered in a brown and white beard clipped close to his face. After a moment, he leaned forward and silently shook with Jesse, but didn't rise. Neither of his underlings did, either.