Emma Wild lived most her life in Valentine growing up around the saloon girls and the gangs that came to swoon them. She never sought that life, choosing from day to day to clean after the misgivings of the old west, to those who chose to live so re...
Clayton pulled the little cherub up into his strong arms. She was weightless against him. A feather would have felt no different. She truly was a pretty, young thing. Early twenties maybe? Younger than the dark-haired vixen Colm sought after.
He held her close to him, edging an experienced eye out the door to check if anyone was watching. Quiet as a serpent, he slithered his way to the back of the saloon, exiting silently to his steed that waited for him there. He could have just as easily thrown her over its rump like a rainbow, but instead he chose to bind her feet and legs and position her in front of him to lean into his chest as he rode.
She shivered, even in slumber, moving him to open his thick duster and welcome her into his warmth. He liked this. The way she was vulnerable against him. The seductive kiss of power he felt from being her only source of protection and heat. Even as the horse trotted towards the grand plantation past Annesburg it irritated him, the thought of handing her over to that charming Van der linde. The silver-tongued devil had enough women flocking to follow him wherever he went. He did not deserve this one too. He felt the arousal stir against the small of her back and grimaced. Strict orders though. He could not touch her. No one could. Colm would have his head on a plate if he did. And for whatever reason he placed the blame on his denial to touch her on the girl herself. So pretty, so very soft against the open V of his shirt was her pale cheek. She teased even asleep. Anger boiled just behind Clayton's eyes. Little wench. Petting him as she did, even if his hand had controlled it. She would see. She would learn. Dutch would have her; of that he was for sure. At least in body anyway. But before the trade HE would own her mind.
***
Dutch Van der Linde stood just inside his tent leaning into the strong pole of the makeshift room and drew heavily on the sweet-smelling leaves of his cigar. He had a plan. Didn't he always? The girl Lilah, Colm's daughter he discovered, had been in the camp for a little while now. Poor John, he considered. He could see the boy was undyingly smitten with her. He could even understand it. Every time he laid eyes on the girl all he could see was his precious Annabelle. It was scary how her dark waves of hair and stunningly beautiful face reminded him of his fallen angel.
How he missed Anna. Missed her with every fiber of his being. He had wooed many a young woman since her, including the fiery Miss O'shea, but no one compared to his beloved Annabelle. And sadly enough, he didn't think anyone ever would. They were just soft vessels of pleasure to him. He didn't mean to use the women he welcomed into his bed as he did. It wasn't a cruel conscious act. But they could never quite please him as Anna had. Dutch was a dominant Alpha in the world of men. His ladies he simply required to be docile, subservient. And his desires could be somewhat over the top demanding at times. By the end, they all seemed to buck him. None of the lovelies ever fully submitted themselves to the every whim of the charming leader. And although he expected very much from his lady, he gave as good as he got. Strong arms of protection. A soft touch to quail even the smallest of fantasies they may pine for. Just as long as they knew who was in charge.
He watched as the tall blonde headed cowboy that was Micha Bell, sauntered by, giving him a knowing wink of the plan, he had laid into place. In a few days he would have him take the young Miss Preston to his cabin and lure Colm there to meet his demise. But for now, he played the part of the concerned leader. Looking back over his shoulder at the sleeping Lilah that was stayed on his cot and committing to memory how she held his Annabelle's face under her closed eyes.
"How is she?" John Marston's raspy voice brought his face back around to meet the outlaw's deep brown eyes brimming with concern. He crossed his arms under the white pinstripe shirt and looked gently at the boy. "She is as well as one could be considering the circumstances John. Don't you worry Son..." He clapped a calming hand on the kid's shoulder. "I'll keep a close eye on her." John nodded, averting his dark eyes to his boots. Reluctantly he watched the young outlaw walk away leaving the girl under his guarding watch. Inwardly Dutch felt a pang of guilt for what he was about to do. His plight was not to hurt John, or the girl, but Colm had to fall. And if this was the only way, well, intense measures had to be taken.
Reluctantly he walked back into the tent tossing the cigar and sat in the old wooden chair by her bedside. He raised a single finger tucking the wild hair of black behind the girl's ear tenderly. It would work. It had to work. They would see. Lilah would be fine, Colm would be dead, and perhaps Dutch himself would be able to finally sleep a night. A luxury he had all but forgotten.
Sitting back in the chair he grabbed the nearest book and settled on reading to the sleeping girl to sooth her and his own rambling mind. In a deep baritone voice, he began the melodic poem. His thoughts swirling of Anna.
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