Acres, Natalie - Propositioned by Outlaws [Outlaws 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

Outlaws 2

NATALIE ACRES

Copyright © 2011

Chapter One

“A woman can sort of tell when a man gives her more than a look or two. If he’s someone she finds right handsome, then the way he studies her can make her wobble around on unsteady legs, particularly if he’s among the willows, maybe dodging the law for some practical reason. Those men, rebels that they are, know how to sweep a woman plumb off her feet.

“I call ’em bad boys, and I sure had a weakness for ’em. I’ve seen many a man hang because of his wrongdoin’. Sometimes I knew he was gonna swing before I let him poke me. Still, I figured it was my duty as a woman to bring a man—outlaw or not—some pleasure before someone tied a rope around his neck and he was forced to carry out a sentence maybe he didn’t deserve.

“See, my men were all innocent anyhow. No one ever convinced me of their guilt. There again, I reckon I always brought out the best in men, in one way or another. When you’re providing a service such as mine, you only see the face a man shows you, and generally, he keeps a wide smile if you’re treatin’ him all right.

“I ain’t got no excuses for my behavior, but it sounds like I’m makin’ a few. Fact is, I’d show a fellow a nice time, make him feel special, and send him on his way. Sometimes I felt pretty good about myself for spreadin’ my legs. Well, truth told, I came to that decision based on how well the fellow poked me the night before. Sometimes, I couldn’t wait for a few of these cowboys to get on up outta here.

“Believe it or not, those men were few and far between. I had more good times on my back than I ever had standin’ on my feet, so I feel pretty good about the way I’ve lived.

“Very often I was the last thing a man held before he went on and met his maker. There ain’t no shame in helpin’ someone find his self-worth again, if only for a minute. Ah now, I know what you’re thinkin’. Some of ’em don’t last that long. They’re lucky if they make it five or ten seconds, but that’s not what’s important. Buildin’ up a man down on his luck, that’s what matters. Allowin’ another human being a tad bit of happiness, that’s what counts.”

Victoria Page pondered her ma’s words as she said them aloud and tried to mimic the tone she might have taken if she were actually telling her story. Temporarily, she slid into her ma’s shoes, and
Victoria
longed to understand the woman who’d raised her, the mother she barely knew.

As she skimmed the pages of what must’ve been pieces from her mother’s journal, she realized her momma held compassion for outlaws, these fellows who were nothing more than dead men walking.
Victoria
became greatly disturbed as she read one line after another, but at the same time, she felt closer to her ma. They’d never been much for conversation when her mother had been among the living.

Sure enough, her ma attracted rotten men. There was no debating that fact. She was prone to the worst of the lot. She had an appetite for harboring those running from the law. Best
Victoria
recalled, her momma didn’t care what the man had done. If he paid her a bit of attention, looked good enough to tolerate, she’d spread her legs, and let him go at her until the sun came up.

In a peculiar way, the past was beginning to make sense. Her mother thought it was her obligation to please as many men as she could before they hung for their crimes, paid for their sins.

Victoria
wondered then. Was her father an outlaw? Had he stopped in to pay her mother a visit before he made his way on up toward Poverty Gulch, where he later died for a crime he’d previously committed? Or, God forbid, was he still out there somewhere? Did he know he had a daughter? Would he even care?

Victoria
pieced together the ripped, faded yellow paper. Holding up the stationery to what was left of the sunlight, she studied the chicken scratches and finally made out the rest so she could continue. “My ma and pa used to call these fellows and riders, passerby travelers who were no count, but never ye mind what they really were.

“They might have been useless to some, but they mattered a lot to a woman without a man to keep her company. I sure found plenty of joy in the outlaws without a purpose in life. Oh yes indeed. They had plenty to offer somebody like me.

“I reckon sometimes the right man can give a gal those little butterflies in her gut just by shooting the right sort of look in her direction. Myself, I took kindly to those rare occasions. A strong feeling of need would rise up from out of nowhere. Thanks to a dozen or so wanderers, I earned myself a name in these parts, and I reckon I deserved the ill will behind some of the slang associated with me. I suppose a good many of these men came lookin’ for me after they figured I’d give up for free what the gals over in Poverty Gulch made their livin’ doin’.

“I ain’t gonna deny what I am, or if you’re reading this now…was. I liked havin’ a man inside me. Didn’t matter to me what he did for a livin’.”

Victoria
cringed. She closed her eyes as tightly as she could. The images of one man after another ran through her head. Her mind’s eye recaptured their faces as her ears thrummed with their voices, their masculine laughter. The wind kicked up a little, and with the breeze came the stench of liquor, too. She must’ve been tossed way back in time as she relived the past and everything she recalled about her mother’s history.

The haphazard way the men tried to seduce her mother made
Victoria
’s stomach churn. She remembered how some of the men snarled at her, viewing her perhaps as an obstacle.

Some of her mother’s friends had been kind to her, though there were very few who acknowledged her. She recalled a man from town who used to pass through looking to join a posse. He might have been a marshal. She couldn’t say for certain.

The fellow used to bring her rock candy. She’d sit on his lap and listen to grand stories. He’d tell about riding the train to
California
and swore he’d take her on a journey someday. They’d go on a trip together, just her and him, following the tracks that went on forever.

The kind stranger came and went a few times and then disappeared for good. Either he wasn’t a marshal after all and he was hanged, too, for a crime he didn’t commit—according to her momma’s beliefs—or he just got tired of her mother’s ways. She sure hoped it was the latter.

Snapping the paper between her hands,
Victoria
returned to her reading. “If you find this letter and you’re a woman, then maybe you ought to take a little notice, and every night before you go to bed, why don’t ya read what I chose to share? Out here, men come and go. When a man catches your eye, it can be a dangerous kind of meeting. Wild emotions can lead a woman to do things she wouldn’t ordinarily do. Loneliness will sure do that to ya, too.

“I’ve lifted up my skirts several times, right here in this wide-open prairie. Rarely cared who was out there watchin’. See, I’d often do things to please a man, and never mind that he was nothin’ more than a stranger and only stayin’ put here for a minute. I just wanted a little company, and most of my visitors provided some. That is, if the fellow wasn’t pumped full of bug juice.

“I’ve seen a lot of them characters, I have. They’d get drunk off fresh-squeezed lemonade if a woman convinced ’em there was liquor in the bottom of the glass.

“Anyhow, I reckon the only one who’ll ever see this letter will probably be my daughter. I hope, since I wasn’t much of a mother, she’ll forgive me of my sins.

“I suppose this note was written for her and other daughters of the prairie. Reckon the main purpose is to share the truth about these wanderers some women meet in the dead of winter, or on the hottest day of summer. I met my share everywhere in between.

“These men can be animals, but if you treat ’em as such, then you learn to accept what they are. Most of ’em are turned out in search of prey. They’re on the loose and wanted by the law. They’ll take what they want, but they ain’t gonna stay. No matter what you do or how hard you beg ’em.

“They’ll hop on their horses in the mornin’ and ride for them hills just as fast as their mount will carry ’em. They won’t look back. That’s a fact and a promise. I never met one of ’em who did.

“I reckon I liked it just as well anyway. See, me? I got used to the outlaws and accustomed to their games. Once I settled for what I had, I discovered somethin’ about myself. I wasn’t the keepin’ type, neither. I wasn’t gonna turn down any future proposition, particularly from a man with sweet lips and beautiful lies.”

Victoria
read that last passage aloud once more. She didn’t know such men, at least not on a personal level. So as she sat on the mushy shores, enjoying one of the many
Colorado
streams, she drew her legs tightly against her chest, daydreaming. She wondered when, if ever, she’d have the opportunity to encounter such a fellow.

That’s when she decided she sure was lonely.

She missed her ma, which made it even harder to read the tortured words she’d written out and left behind. Her momma used to sit right there on many late afternoons. She’d watch as
Victoria
skipped rocks, or maybe collected a few buttercups, a favorite pastime she’d yet to outgrow.

As
Victoria
had read the advice written by a woman shunned, the mother she’d often felt quite ashamed of, she wondered if she were destined to become like her ma. Then again, her momma knew more adventurers than outlaws, regardless of what she called them. Nowadays, there were more outlaws than ever before, but back in the mid-1800s, trappers came to the
Rocky Mountains
in attempt to cash in on the fur trade. In those days, the hunters would follow the
South Platte River
to their cabin near the Ute territory.

Some fellas used to say their cabin was “just” on the way.
Victoria
imagined they wouldn’t have stopped if they’d been off the beaten path.

Since their place was convenient and all,
Victoria
’s momma would see a different group of trappers every few days. She even became a businesswoman of sorts, often arranging trade meetings between the Utes and trappers interested in swapping goods for buffalo robes.

Yes, her momma entertained a handful or two of wayward men. Most of them always carried loaded guns. While she often referred to them as outlaws, a great number of the men her mother met were hardly criminals, unless these fellows could be charged for stealing away with her mother’s virtue. Then again,
Victoria
suspected her ma of losing what was left of that long before she was ever born.

Victoria
’s stomach rumbled once more as she thought of the regulars who often stopped by for a glass of whiskey. How her ma let some of those men touch her would forever remain as one of life’s greatest mysteries. In any case, she’d always remember what went on in that barn out behind the house. Whenever her momma took a spell to toddle out of sight, it was hard telling when she might take a notion to reappear.

Victoria
swallowed once. She glanced over her shoulder a few times, studying the rapids rushing over the large rocks before splashing against the splintered logs lying close to where her legs were positioned. She asked herself the question she often did when loneliness set in—why did she choose to stay there in the middle of a forgotten prairie all by herself?

Victoria
came up empty-handed. Down deep, she realized she had a purpose in life. What it was, well, she’d pay to find out. One of these days, she might get an answer, but by then she’d probably be so old she’d forget about the question.

Dusk approached and
Victoria
leaned back. She wasn’t in any particular hurry to rush home. The sky was clear and she anticipated a beautiful sunset. That’s when she sensed someone else’s presence.

After hearing the whisper of limbs and leaves, she decided it was as good a time as any to head back to the cabin. Releasing a nervous sigh, she placed her palms on the ground and hoisted herself right on up, briskly clapping her palms together in order to shake off a little grit and grime. A crunch-crunch sound alerted her to the accuracy found in her fears.

Someone was right upon her. She wasn’t alone. She had a bit of company.

“You over there,” a gruff voice called out about the time she heard the single cracking sound of a gun cocked. “Stop where you are.”

Victoria
’s lungs felt heavier than usual as she gulped. With the last gasp of air she nabbed a conscious effort to hold perfectly still. She closed her eyes and started to pray, wishing she hadn’t stayed down by the water this late.

Back when her ma was living, she often warned
Victoria
about hanging around the creeks and rivers for long periods of time. That’s where she was bound to meet up with strangers. There was a clearing there, and considering Cripple Creek was well-populated now with the Gold Rush in California leading folks to Colorado, many wanderers stopped to view the open area with its numerous springs, rivers, and brooks.