Rocky Mountain Rose (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 3) (16 page)

Lyle caught her with an arm around her collarbone and drew her back against him. “Where do you think you’re going?” Naked, she felt his cock press between her buttocks. He was still hard.

She turned and looked at his turgid member, her mouth falling open. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m Lyle, remember.” His fingers went to her breasts and pinched her nipples lightly. “Your God.” He loomed over her, a dark angel, burning blue eyes holding her in thrall.

“But, we just…you can’t…” She backed away, feeling her body respond as he stalked her.

“I told you, Rose. You make me crazy.”

Staring into the eyes of the beast, she could believe it.

“I’m going to take you over and over again, until you can’t run, can’t walk, can’t move.”

Her knees did a wobble.

She made a dash for the door, and shrieked when he caught her around the waist. He stooped and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder. His large muscles flexed under her as he carried her to their bed. His intensity should’ve frightened her, but it only made her excited. He tossed her onto the pallet, and she found herself looking in the face of a predator. With a whimper, she turned to crawl away, but he caught her and dragged her back by her ankles. His palm cracked down on her flesh with a sound that reverberated across the room. As usual, Rose kicked and fought, even when she knew it would lead to another spanking. She ended up face down with her bottom drawn up, presenting a perfect target. Her insides quivered with excitement.

“Is this what you wanted, Rose? More discipline?” He spanked her hard. She felt her bottom heat again under his punishing palm, and even as she howled, she felt her lady parts moisten and throb with desire. “The way your body heats up for me when I spank you, I’m always happy to oblige.” A few more volleys and then he leaned down and buried his face in her lady parts. Screaming her pleasure, she clawed at the sheets, trying to escape his voracious mouth. Once her orgasm stuttered through her, she gasped for mercy, but Lyle wasn’t done. Flipping her on her back, he thrust into her with a shout. In response, she dug her nails into his back, welcoming him into the cradle of her hips, urging him to go faster. He bellowed, rearing up over her, and lifting her legs into an angle where he could pound even deeper. Her head rolled back even as his hand went to loosely collar her neck.

“Mine,” he growled, pounding into her with animal intensity. She cried out and raked her nails down his back, marking him.

In the end it wasn’t the brutal thrusts that shook her apart; it was the look in his eye, a look of complete possession that ravaged her. His gaze devoured her, his body dominated hers absolutely, and she was wracked with orgasm after orgasm until she lost all her humanity.

*

The next morning, she could hardly move. Lyle left the pallet before her, returning with fresh coffee. Rose took it, eyeing the steaming cup as if it was a snake that might jump out and bite her.

Lyle raised a mocking brow at her hesitation. “Don’t trust me?”

She shoved the cup back at him; he laughed and drank.

“It’s good.” He grinned and she reached for it again.

“Better than I make it,” she agreed, and they both laughed.

Leaning down, he kissed her hair. “Jesse and I will be out fishing most of the day. You gonna be all right?”

She grimaced. “I’m not sure I can move…”

“Good.” He dipped his head closer. “Means if you try to run, you won’t get far.” He chuckled at the face she made, and taking a handful of her hair in his fist, drew her head back and kissed her soundly.

After a few false starts, she did make it up off the pallet, wishing they had a more comfortable bed. Her lower parts were sore, inside and out, but it almost felt good. Combined with the memory of Lyle roughly taking her on the kitchen table, she could hardly look at that particular piece of furniture without blushing.

Halfway through the afternoon, she heard a wagon coming down the trail. To her surprise, Miles Donovan was driving the team. She stayed on the porch, leaning on her broom as the stern faced man approached.

“Howdy, ma’am.” He drew off his hat. “Is Lyle here?”

“No, at the river.”

Miles nodded, and handed her a pail. Rose took it and peeked in to see it was half full of eggs. “Carrie sends you these. Not much, but we wanted to welcome you here.”

“Of course, thank you. And tell her thanks for the apron. She’s—you both—are very kind.”

“More her than me,” Miles agreed, and Rose noticed the side of his mouth drew up slightly, in a very small smile. “One more thing. Lyle ordered it a few days ago and I was in town, so I picked it up.”

She stepped back as he went to and from the wagon, unloading carved wood pieces and a new, fluffy mattress. With her help, he carried it all into the house and spent some time joining the bed frame. When it was done, Miles stepped back with a full grin on his face. “There. I figure you’ll need this.”

Looking from her new bed to her normally taciturn neighbor, Rose felt a blush come on. With a tip of his hat, Mr. Donovan leapt back into his wagon and drove off.

She spent a few minutes examining the bed, stroking the carved wood and sinking her hand into the mattress. It was a wonderful feeling to have a bed, a real bed, not a pallet on the floor or the ground, hers and Lyle’s to share. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. This was her childhood dream come true. The only thing left was for someone to come and take it away. She shook her head as if she could dislodge that uneasy thought.

After a few minutes lying on her new bed and imagining all the things Lyle would do to her on it, she decided to set out to find her husband. The river was less than a half mile behind the cabin, through a small wood. She’d never made the journey, but Lyle had pointed it out to her.

All was well, she’d found the trail and was walking dreamily, thinking of surprising her husband and seeing him shirtless in the water (and Jesse, too, she couldn’t help be curious if the promise of his fine form under his clothes was true), when she came upon a little clearing. Much like her and Lyle’s homestead, the pines had been cut down in a large circle to give some space. Instead of a cabin, though, the land ran up on a slight incline to a raised mound. A part of her wanted to walk on and avoid it all together, but her feet took her right up to the grassy knoll. Something kept her from walking on it, and as she circled the mound, she kicked a piece of wood set into the ground. Kneeling, she could make out words carved in the wood, though mottled and stained with time. Tracing the letters, she felt a chill. Rose hadn’t had much schooling, her sister had taught her some spelling, but there were only a few words either of them knew. There were two words Rose would never forget how to spell. One was “Rose”, her own name. The other was “Mary”, her sister’s name, and the name carved on the grave marker.

Jerking her hands away, she scrambled to her feet, backing away, but never taking her eyes off her sister’s grave. So this was Mary’s end, a short beautiful life, long spells of hardship broken by a few moments of happiness, until finally, a forgotten grave in the wilderness and a piece of wood scrawled with her name. Pain pierced Rose’s side; she doubled over. All the moments of her own life, the times on the road, the gaudy existence on stage and in saloons, passed before her eyes. What was it all worth? Such a selfish existence, dancing, staying one step ahead of the men who lusted after her.

The pain was growing, an ache that sent a moan running through her, a low animal cry, barely vocal. Another cramp, and Rose fell to hands and knees and lost her breakfast. She crawled away and put her hand to her mouth, weeping. Her eyes were open, but sightless as memories of her sister marched through her: Mary hiding her under the bed, Mary pushing her through the window to escape their father, Mary doing everything she could, from begging on the streets to selling her body, to find food for them to stay alive another day. It was all a waste. What had it resulted in, other than her martyr’s death, and Rose’s sick life?

The sun went away, and it turned colder. A wind rose up, but Rose lay on the ground, pulling at her dress as if it was a blanket she could draw around her in comfort. Her Mary. Her beautiful sister Mary.

“Rose!” she heard someone shout, but she stayed face down, her fingers clawed in the dirt, as if she could dig her way into a grave of her own. A final resting place for a truly worthless life.

“Rose?” Lyle dashed up and then was at her side, pulling her to him. She curled in on herself, a dead weight in her husband’s arms, as sobs tore through her. “I’ve got her, Jesse. Go get a fire going.”

She barely heard the younger Wilder race for the homestead.

“Rose, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but you were having such a hard time. I thought I’d wait until you settled in, and then bring you here. Break it to you gently.”

She nodded, shuddering.

“All right, darlin’. Let’s get you home. Storm’s coming in.” He started to pick her up, and she moaned.

“No, leave me.”

“Rose, please, you’ll catch a chill.” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and started to stride away.

“No.” She came awake, clawing at him until he almost dropped her.

“Rose, what…” He let her down, but held her arms. “Stop and talk to me.”

She fought him like a wild thing, with every ounce of strength she had as the wind whipped away her cries. He grabbed her, still screaming and struggling like a wildcat, and brought her to the ground, pinning her with his hips and pressing her wrists above her head.

“Talk,” he ordered.

“It should’ve been me,” she cried, the words ripped from her soul. “I should’ve died, and Mary lived. She was good, like I’ll never be.”

“Rose, my lovely, you must know it’s not true.” He drew her up into his lap, his face pained.

“It is,” Rose insisted. “She sacrificed everything, so I could have food and a bed. She never fought and she never complained. She deserved happiness. Why did she have to die?”

“Rose, shhh.” Lyle tried to comfort her, but she struggled to her feet and started for the grave again. She was screaming, bent double, face a riot of red hair and tears.

He caught her around her waist and swung her into his arms, holding her wrists in case she struck out at him. Instead, she pressed her face against his chest, her whole body shaking with sobs.

“My lovely Rose, my wild, wild Rose,” he murmured over and over, kissing her tearstained cheeks, until she lay in his arms, exhausted.

Taking off his coat, he wrapped her in it, then picked her up. This time she didn’t fight him as they left the place where Mary lay.

It wasn’t until she sat in his lap close to the fire, a blanket around her and a hot drink in her belly, that she could speak again.

“I miss her,” she told him. “Not a day goes by that I don’t ache inside.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He kissed her hair. “I do too.”

Raising her head, she touched his face, tracking a tear that escaped his eye.

“She always told me a hero would come for us. And when you did, I almost believed it. Then my father took me away and I lost you.” She shook her head, pressing her forehead to his. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t lose me.” Cupping her cheek, he kissed her lips until she sighed. “Besides,” he said after a while, “you’ll never really lose Mary. She’s with you, as long as you live the life she fought to give you.”

Biting her lip, Rose nodded.

“Her last words were about you.” He smiled, but she saw his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “And me. She was full of nothing but love.”

“How did she die?”

“It was spring, and the snow was still clinging under the pines. I carried her out to the porch and sat with her in my arms, so she could see the first flowers come up through the snow.”

Rose felt her eyes burning, but she had no more tears. “Mary always found the beautiful things around us, wherever we were. Even in the darkness, she could find a star.”

“You’re the same way, Rose. You go into a saloon, and you make everyone smile. You dance and sing and light up a room. You adopt a boy two years younger than you, and fight for him with no thought for yourself. You don’t just find beauty; you make it.” His arms pressed around her. “And you love me.”

She blinked. “I do. I do love you.”

He smiled a sexy half-grin. “Most would find that difficult.”

“Most people would find it hard to love me,” she reminded him.

“We’re made for each other then.” He dipped his head towards hers, as if sharing a secret. “Besides, you’re all fight until I get up close. At a certain point, you’re nothing but sweet.”

She rolled her eyes, and he squeezed her tighter.

“It’s true. Except when you ignite and lose control. Last night, I thought you were trying to break my dick.”

Her laugh burst out, surprising her. Lyle grinned and she thumped his shoulder. “I thought you were going to break me.”

“Well, there you go.” He stood and set her on her feet. “We were made for each other.” Taking her hand, he drew her into the center of the cabin.

“What are you doing?” She stood confused as he put his right hand at her back and placed her left hand on his shoulder.

“Dance with me, Rosie May.”

She wrinkled her nose. “There’s no music.”

“Just try it.” His big body started forward and she stepped back, then let him lead her in an easy, swaying circle. “Do you feel it?”

Frowning up at him, she took small, stuttering steps, then followed as he spun them again. The dance took over, and she let him pull her closer, striding along with him, forward and back, left and right.

Closing her eyes, she felt it. Hand to hand, heart to heart, bodies moving together, so in tune she could feel the rhythm he heard. Her eyes opened suddenly, staring up into his blue ones. “I’m scared,” she told him.

His eyes flashed, but he didn’t stop moving. “Tell me.”

She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t explain it. How was it possible to be so connected to someone? To be so vulnerable?

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what, darlin’?”