Rafe's Redemption (2 page)

A man held her in a cruel grasp as he encouraged the crowd.

“Come now, speak up. She’s worth more than that.

Never been bedded.”

Fear for her ran thick through Rafe’s veins as memories of another time, another place, another woman being raped and degraded flashed in his mind.

His gaze flicked back to the cousins. He shouldn’t interfere. Look what happened last time.

But like last time, he couldn’t walk away.

“I’ll give two hundred!” old man Dobson offered, dribbling a stream of tobacco down his chin.

The woman’s blue-eyed gaze ran wild over the crowd. She leaned back on the crate, tugging on her arm in an attempt to break free. The man delivered a back-handed slap that stilled her actions and tangled long ebony waves down her back.

Goddamn him. Rafe placed his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“How about a look at what you’ll get?” the man suggested.

He grabbed the top of her bodice and tore until the buttons popped. Delicate, smooth skin and pure white undergarments gleamed bright in the surrounding sea of drab browns and grays. She clutched the ruined dress and tried to cover herself, but the cousin twisted her arm until she cried out in pain, and her lush breasts spilled over the top of her corset, her pink nipples puckered by the cold.

Her eyes widened, and a scarlet blush spread over her cheeks, but she drew back and spat into the man’s face.

“Well, now, gentleman, you can see she’s a fiery one.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face. “She won’t disappoint you in bed.

What’s the bid?”

“Two hundred fifty!”

“Three hundred!”

The blond man shook his head. “I’m afraid it takes more than that to have her.”

A putrid combination of molded pelts and rotten eggs invaded the air. Rafe knew who stood behind him before the man spoke.

“Three seventy-five. Now give her to me.” Skinner Joe’s voice confirmed the smell.

If Joe took her, she’d be dead before spring. The perverse man took pleasure in hurting women, and just the thought of his hands on this lady made chills slither down Rafe’s spine. His hand tightened on the gun.

Damn, shooting Joe would be less trouble than taking responsibility for a woman.

“A in’t nobody gonna pay more for her,” Joe argued.

Damn, damn, damn. Rafe squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath. “Five hundred,” he shouted before he changed his mind. A ll heads turned toward him.

Panic, colder than the icy wind, cut through Maggie.

Five hundred. Good God. One of these disgusting men would own her. Her heart stopped, then started with a sickening thud. Who was the winner?

“Sold!” Michael’s giddy voice sang as he yanked her off the box and pulled her through the mud.

She searched the crowd as men parted like the biblical Red Sea, her stomach rolling like a wave. A tall scowling man moved toward them. He wore an abused black hat pulled low on his forehead hiding his eyes, but the breeze caught too long dark hair and tangled it over a firm, full mouth.

She swallowed as a thick lump of fear crawled up her throat. Maybe she had fallen asleep and was in the midst of a nightmare. Michael jerked to a stop, and a needle-like pain shot through her shoulder. This was no dream.

She dared a glance at the man who had just bought her. He stood a head taller than Michael, broader in the shoulders, more muscular, more…everything. God help her. How would she get away from him?

Zeke moved to where they stood. “Didn’t figure you for bein’ in on this, Rafe.”

Rafe? Maggie forced herself to meet his stare. Icy gray eyes assessed her, so cool she shuddered under their intensity. He looked mean, as hard and cold as the environment. Was there any chance she could convince him to let her go in exchange for the necklace?

He continued to stare until she wondered if he had heard Zeke’s statement. Then Rafe shot a glance to the man.

“My pelts are over in front of Tom’s. I’ll get them.”

“You ought not to call them your pelts.” A graveled voice cut the air. “They should have been mine, just like the bitch should have been.” A bear-like man pushed through the crowd. The smell of the hides he wore—or maybe the odor of the man himself—reached her before he did. Hate flew from his bottomless black eyes, aimed at her new owner. “If Rafe didn’t horn in on my trappin’, those skins would be mine.” He turned to her and swiped a slick tongue over rotted teeth. “You, too, darlin’.”

“You lying sonofabitch,” Rafe growled. “I don’t poach. The pelts are mine.” His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned toward Joe. “So is she.”

Her hope for freedom plummeted at his possessive tone.

“Well, I don’t want pelts,” Michael interrupted. “I demand cash or the deal is off. The auction continues.” She gasped as Rafe spun and lifted him off the ground by the throat. Michael wheezed, his arms windmilling in the air as purple veins popped out on his forehead.

“You’ll take pelts.” A nerve ticked in Rafe’s jaw. “They spend the same around here.”

Maggie glanced around. Now was her opportunity.

Every man present slobbered in excitement over the chance of a fight. A ll she had to do was slip away and run. Somewhere. Somehow.

She stumbled backward in the thick muck, judging the distance to a horse tied in front of the store. The big animals scared her, but not as much as the big man choking her cousin.

“That’s right, darlin’.” A grime-covered hand snaked around her wrist. “You just sneak away with ol’ Joe.” Maggie snapped around. Black eyes, previously filled with hate, now gleamed with lust.

“No!” Her scream broke the heavy silence of the other’s stand-off.

Rafe dropped Michael and leveled a pistol at Joe. “Let go of her.”

She sidestepped and jerked her arm free.

Joe grinned. “Never you mind. My luck’s bound to change.” He shoved her against Rafe. “Yours, too, blue belly. Last time I was at Turner’s Mill I heard ‘bout a man lookin’ for a friend from the war. The description sure did sound like you.”

Rafe’s hard stomach twitched against her back as he sucked a sharp breath.

“I think I’ll send word to that feller,” Joe continued.

“I’m right fond of happy reunions.”

“Go to hell, Joe.” Rafe’s voice never faltered, but his knuckles turned white as he gripped the gun.

“Hah,” Joe spat. “I’ll meet you there.” He backed away, laughing, his beady stare never leaving them.

Rafe took her arm and tugged until she faced him, frozen in his steel gaze. He pulled off his coat and held it out to her. “Ma’am, I’m Rafe McBride. Put this on before you freeze.”

She glanced from where Michael rubbed his bruised neck, to the strong hand offering the coat. His expression softened as he waited for her to accept the coat, his gray gaze now warm, his full lips curved with encouragement.

Who was Rafe McBride? Owner or savior? Cruel or kind?

“Thank you.” She pulled the coat around her and worked the buttons to cover her breasts. Musky male warmth filled her senses and seeped into her chilled body.

“What’s your name?” His voice rumbled through her.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his gaze. She had to at least pretend bravery. Sniveling and crying would gain her no ground.

“Maggie Monroe.”

“Come over here out of the snow.” He led her in a gentle grasp to the covered boardwalk in front of the mercantile. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He tipped the brim of his hat in a ridiculous gesture given the circumstances.

He stalked toward the horses. A flannel shirt hugged his muscled back, wool trousers molded thick thighs. A simple wardrobe, but clean. His short, neat beard hugged a square jaw; dark brown hair brushed his shoulders. He had a loose-limbed gait, but she didn’t think for a minute Rafe McBride was relaxed. He looked to be the kind of man always on alert. Powerful.

Dangerous.

She inched toward the edge of the boardwalk. There had to be a way to escape.

“Goin’ some place?” A tall man wearing a skunk hat smiled, his gaze locked to her chest as if he could still see her exposed nipples.

She shook her head and scuttled backward, shaking, though not from the cold. Tears pricked her eyes, but she clenched her hands into fists and bit her lip.

Everything would be fine. She just had to remain calm and think.

Rafe wrestled dozens of furs from his mule and handed them to Zeke. The men exchanged a few words, then the saloon owner left with two huge armloads.

Michael, however, turned up his nose in disgust at the offered pelts. Rafe shrugged his wide shoulders, dropped the furs to the ground and turned to leave.

“But I need money,” Michael demanded, puffing out his chest.

Rafe stopped; his cold glare pinned Michael.

The door behind her opened. “Bring them pelts in here, boy,” an old man called. “I’ll pay you cash for ‘em.” Michael’s eyes danced at the mention of cash, and he dug into his pocket for gloves. With theatrical reluctance, he picked up the skins. When he reached the boardwalk where she stood, he stopped.

“Good-bye, dear cousin. Have a nice life. I know I will, spending your inheritance.” He chuckled.

A burning wave of hatred flowed through her, and she stepped toward him. “Good-bye, Michael.” She kept her voice quiet, meek, then planted her knee hard between his legs.

He fell to the ground, groaning in agony.

“I hope you rot in hell.” She let disgust drip from the words.

A smile quirked the corner of Rafe’s mouth as he stepped up onto the boardwalk. He took her elbow and turned toward the door.

“I’ll go to Zeke’s to get the rest of your things. You wait inside where it’s warm.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have anything left. He gambled it all away.”

“Sonofabitch.” Rafe turned to Michael and grabbed a couple of the skins. “She needs a coat. You’re buying her one.”

Michael grabbed for the pelts, but drew back when Rafe pulled his gun.

“F-fine, take them.” Michael’s drawn face flushed scarlet, and he gulped. “But the rest are mine.” Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Go inside, trade your skins, then get out of my sight.”

Michael climbed to his feet and shuffled past on the boardwalk, giving them wide berth.

Rafe’s gaze skated over her, then away. “A s soon as he’s finished, we’ll go inside.”

The frigid wind whipped her skirt from her legs, tangling the material around his leather boots. He jumped back as if flames, not velvet, encased him. She squeezed the necklace hidden in her skirt. He seemed to be a decent man. Maybe she could give him the locket for her freedom.

The ping of the blacksmith’s hammer rang through her thoughts. Soon the stagecoach would be repaired, and Michael would leave. A nd she would be here. A lone.

With this man she knew nothing about. She stole a peek at Rafe’s hard-set expression and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Nettie’s prediction about trouble had proved true.

If only Maggie had listened.

She inhaled the frosty air until her lungs ached, wishing she could float away on the mist she expelled.

Float all the way back to St. Louis, to the life she’d thought dull. There’d be no more wild dreams of sketching the western frontier or displaying her art in galleries. Drawing ladies’ fashions for Godey’s fashion periodical would be enough excitement to last the rest of her life.

Her fingers itched for her pencils. She could lose herself in a sketch and pretend none—

Her paper and supplies!

“Mr. McBride?” She grasped his arm. “I do have something I left in the saloon. It’s in my room—a leather satchel.” She had lost everything else; she couldn’t leave her drawings behind.

He nodded. “I’ll see to it as soon as—”

The door creaked open, and Michael strutted outside.

He smiled and flipped a few gold coins in his hand as he sauntered toward Maggie. She stepped back, bumping her body against Rafe’s. Reassuring warmth and needles of awareness prickled her skin, tightening her nipples, sending a hot shock of need pulsing through her cunny.

She felt him stiffen, but his hand wrapped around her arm and pulled her protectively behind him.

Michael sneered. “A w, that’s sweet. I—”

“You’re through talking.” Rafe pointed toward the saloon. “Leave.”

Michael gave a smug grin and strolled to Zeke’s.

Rafe ushered her to the mercantile. “Go inside with Tom. I’ll get your bag and be right back.” He opened the door for Maggie, and she entered the store. The commotion from outside melted away in the quiet warmth.

“Tom?” Rafe’s voice echoed through the small room.

“I need to leave Miss Monroe with you for a few minutes.”

The old man popped up from behind the counter. He scuttled toward the door to look Maggie up and down, then motioned her forward. “You come on in, young lady, and git warm.”

Rafe gave her a nod, then closed the door.

She turned a slow half circle examining the room.

Lanterns hung low from rough timbers, the dim light calming her scattered mind. Barrels and crates filled with shovels and axes stood in each corner. Dust-covered shelves climbed the wall behind the counter and formed two rows down the center of the store.