The Wicked West. Victoria Dahl

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      The Wicked West by Victoria Dahl writing as Holly Summers:

      When Lily Anders gave up her proper English roots to settle in the Wild West, she didn’t dare hope that she'd meet someone who shared her own wicked bedroom secrets. But the virtuous Sheriff Hale has never told anyone about his shocking desires. Will he give in to the surprising temptation of the young widow?

      CHAPTER ONE

      “Mrs. Anders,” Sheriff Hale murmured, touching the brim of his hat. The young widow lowered her eyes when she inclined her head, more modest than any other woman he’d ever met. She was English, and that probably explained it. It certainly explained her pale skin.

      “I understand you have some misgivings about our local bank. Mr. Johnson asked me to stop by and give my reassurance. It’s secure and legitimate and a much safer place to keep your money than in your mattress.”

      “I apologize,” she said. Her soft voice touched him like a physical sensation, like fur against his skin.

      Hale frowned at the strange thought.

      “It’s not that I suspect Mr. Johnson of being a criminal. It’s just that I was warned not to be naive, so the idea of turning my money over to a stranger…And I’ve never seen a bank constructed of raw timber before.” When her green eyes rose, they didn’t look the least bit timid despite her soft voice. In fact, they flashed with strength before she lowered them again.

      Hale took a step back, because what he really wanted to do was step forward, closer to her. Her shiny brown hair glinted gold in the sun and those jade eyes burned through him. He felt the edge of the rough porch with his heel, and set his foot down on the packed dirt of the street. “You were smart to hesitate,” he assured her. A faint flush washed over her cheeks as she licked her lips.

      Hale cleared his throat. “I’m always right next door if you have any more questions.”

      “Thank you, Sheriff,” she whispered.

      Well, hell, he thought as he turned toward the setting sun and made his way toward the saloon. He couldn’t tell if she was delicate, weak-willed or just quiet. If she was delicate, Mrs. Anders wasn’t going to last long in Wyoming. He wasn’t really sure why she’d come in the first place. Just because her brother had left her the house didn’t mean she had to live in it.

      “I give her a month,” he muttered as he drew closer to the grating music spilling out the open windows of the saloon. One month at most, and then his new neighbor would head back to England where she clearly belonged. “Fool woman.”

      He had no idea why her being here bothered him. He just knew that it wasn’t right. Life here in Wyoming was short and rough. Even the toughest men could end up broken, and everyone, regardless of age, sex or strength…everyone turned hard after a few years in the face of the harsh sun and brutal winters.

      He didn’t like that he’d have to worry about this fragile woman. Didn’t like that she was his responsibility. And he definitely didn’t like the way her downcast eyes roused shifting shadows on his soul.

      When Mrs. Anders left this place, he’d be able to breathe easy again. But right now, he needed a goddamn drink, and that was one thing he wouldn’t deny himself.

      Hale didn’t bother lighting a lamp before he moved through the entry of his home and trudged up the stairs. The moon wasn’t bright enough to light his way, but he’d lived in this house for four years now. There was nothing here to trip him up.

      Head heavy from one shot of whiskey too many, he shrugged wearily out of his coat and unfastened his gun belt. The pistols clanked hard when he laid them on the low dresser, and Hale winced.

      He unbuttoned his shirt and laid it neatly over a chair. He didn’t have a wife to take care of these things anymore. Marie had left three years before, run off with some rich miner headed for Sacramento. Now anything that needed pressing had to go to the laundry. Any food he needed, he had to cook himself. And anything else that required a woman’s touch…Hale went without. His head grew even heavier at the thought.

      Though he wanted to drop straight into bed, his face felt coated with grit, so Hale washed up quickly with some cold water and soap, then scrubbed his skin with a piece of rough toweling. As he lowered the rag, his eye caught on movement in the window, and he froze.

      It was just the widow, he realized almost immediately. Before she’d moved in two weeks before, the place next door had been empty for months, and he’d gotten used to looking out at darkness. But now a soft glow lit the small table where she sat in her bedroom. Her hand rose toward the lamp and set the flame a bit higher. The light touched her body now, and the sight stole Hale’s breath away.

      She wore some sort of delicate wisp of a gown, something he guessed wealthy ladies wore as they tended to their toilette. The women here in Wyoming, on the other hand, didn’t truck with such luxuries. They wore a shift when a dress wasn’t needed. Even the whores didn’t waste money on these kinds of unmentionables. But this woman did.

      As he watched, she slipped off the fluttery sleeves of the robe, and it collapsed into a puddle on her chair.

      Hale’s breath hitched. Now her shoulders were bare but for the thin straps of her chemise. Fine, white shoulders led down to pale arms and, finally, to delicate wrists. Her hands, unblemished by even the barest hint of labor, rose to her hair and began to work the long pins free. Hale followed the line of her arms back down. Her corset, another wonder of delicate fabrics, cinched her waist into an impossibly small span.

      Mrs. Anders was a portrait of sophistication and impracticality. She was a pampered flower, and she’d wilt soon enough. Hale shook his head in scorn. But the motion was stopped by the abrupt fall of her hair.

      The heavy darkness fell across her shoulders and stopped his previous thoughts. How did she fit that much hair up into such a tight coil? Her arms flexed, and she began to brush.

      For some reason, Hale’s cock tightened at the sight.

      Actually, there wasn’t much mystery about it. He hadn’t been with a woman in months. And each stroke of the brush pushed her breasts higher above the lines of her corset. Her hair curved around her, as if it wanted to touch her skin. As if it wanted to wrap her tight and never set her free.

      By the time she’d finished brushing, Hale was rock hard and throbbing. When the widow reached back to tug at the ribbon of her corset, Hale reached for the buttons of his trousers.

      Marie had called him cruel. She’d cried and said he was too rough when he made love to her, too demanding. He still couldn’t quite understand that. He’d been painfully gentle with her, doing his best to keep his real needs hidden, suppressing every urge to slate his true lust. But she’d known somehow. She’d claimed to be frightened by the fever in his eyes.

      And Marie hadn’t known the half of it.

      The things he’d wanted to do…The things he fantasized about doing…Hale had to go to Cheyenne to buy those kinds of services, even the watered-down versions of his fantasies he tried to appease himself with. But a man couldn’t live for six months without some kind of release.