The Wyoming Debt

  The Wyoming Debt

  By

  April Hill

  ©2014 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  Hill, April

  The Wyoming Debt

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-479-9

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Bonus Short Story: A PICNIC IN THE PARK

  April Hill

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  Chapter One

  Awakened that morning by the smell of smoke, Will Cameron was out of bed with his pants half on before he recognized the source of the odor as burning biscuits, and not a fire in the cabin. Actually, the smell was a familiar occurrence in the Cameron kitchen, suggesting that his wife, Cathy was making breakfast, and not Hannah. At almost thirteen years old, Cameron’s daughter, Hannah, had been cooking full meals since she was tall enough to reach the oven door, and had never burned a biscuit in her life. Cathy, on the other hand, generally scorched more than she put on the table, which was just as well, since her biscuits always tasted of soot and baking powder, and were often hard enough to crack teeth.

  Will was buttoning his shirt when he heard a series of crashes coming from the kitchen, followed by the usual stream of obscenities. He grinned. Cathy was throwing pots and pans against the wall, again–or maybe out the window, from the sound of it. Since the day they married, Cathy’s language had improved, but she still tended to cuss like a drunken muleskinner when she got mad, and the ruckus from the kitchen told him that his bride just might need her pretty backside warmed again as a reminder. Will was a fairly tolerant man when it came to the more common human frailties, but with two kids in the house, he’d learned to save his own lapses into profanity for those moments when Hannah and young Caleb were out of earshot.

  He looked around for his belt, but the room was in disarray with articles of clothing strewn on the floor and hanging from bedposts. Last night had been an interesting evening, what with one thing and another, and Will smiled as he recalled a few of the more colorful moments. It was no wonder he was worn out this morning, after making love three times in one night. He’d be lucky to get through the milking without falling asleep. Minus his belt, but still bent on tending to his wife’s temper and foul language, Will opened the dresser drawer and rummaged through it, searching for the paddle.

  A few weeks ago, as a joke, Will had made a small, sturdy oak paddle and presented it to Cathy as a birthday gift. Trying not to smile, he’d explained to her in some detail how the paddle was to be used. Ten swats for any profanity, and twenty for her favorite one–the compound vulgarity she usually reserved for hurling insults at the ancient iron cooking stove. The following morning, Will had found the unwelcome birthday gift resting on his pillow–defaced and partially burned. Cathy had used a paring knife to carve the forbidden word down the length of the paddle in large, block letters. The paddle now read ‘Cocksucker’.

  This brazen act of wifely defiance had earned the lady an early morning paddling, which had left her sprawled across Will’s knee with the back of her drawers open and her charming bottom red as a ripe tomato. Even as the paddle proved its merit, though, and as Cathy squirmed and kicked, she had kept her lips pressed stubbornly together, denying him the satisfaction of even one anguished howl.

  During her next skirmish with the rickety stove, she had uttered the forbidden phrase in front of young Caleb, who repeated it later that afternoon, in referring to his sister. Cathy paid for that lapse in judgment before bed that night, as she bent over the bed with her bared rump on fire. She finally surrendered after the fifteenth swat, and vowed fervently never to utter the offending phrase again “as long as she lived”. Unconvinced, Will had hidden the paddle away in a drawer for safekeeping. Now, he wasn’t particularly surprised to find that it had disappeared entirely.

  By the time Will abandoned his search for the missing paddle, Cathy had already vented most of her anger on the old stove, and when he walked into the kitchen, she was on her knees, making a half-hearted attempt at mopping up the mess she’d made. With a resigned sigh, she got up from the floor, tossed the grimy dishtowel on the table, and dropped onto a chair. She was barefoot, and clad in one of Will’s well-worn flannel nightshirts that reached her ankles. Her bright copper hair was still done up in the single braid she always wore to bed.

  “You heard,” she said glumly–a statement rather than a question.

  “Folks probably heard it halfway down the valley,” he remarked with a yawn. “You about done throwing things?”

  She nodded. “Gideon took the children with him over to Clara Wilkins’ place for church. I was trying to get breakfast.” She nodded in the direction of the open window. “There’s a pan of biscuits out in the yard, somewhere–if you’re hungry enough.”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. Doc tells me that too much dirt can clog a man’s arteries. You hid the paddle, right?”

  “I didn’t hide it,” she explained. “Not exactly. We were out of kindling, and there it was, on a chilly morning like this, serving no useful purpose at all.”

  He grinned. “That little lie’s going to cost you, wife.”

  Cathy shrugged. “I only said the damned word once,” she lied.

  “Twice,” he corrected her. “Could have even been three, but you were banging too loud for me to hear much. Although, I also can’t find my belt.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  Will picked up a wooden spoon from the table. “Well, then, I reckon this’ll have to do,” he said affably. “It’ll have to be quick, though, with just the two of us here to get the milking done.”

  “What a shame,” she said sweetly. “I know how you hate doing things halfway.”

  He smacked the spoon in his palm, smiled, and pointed to the flour-covered table. “I don’t recall saying anything about halfway–just quick. Now, bend over and take down your britches–if you’re wearin’ any.”

  Cathy rose from her chair and leaned over the messy table, and when she reached back to pull up the flannel shift, he saw that–as he’d expected–she was naked from the waist down. Will closed his eyes, momentarily distracted by the sight of his wife’s beautiful, totally bare backside along with an array of very pleasant mental images from last night. The morning sunlight that streamed through the open window was casting a pale peach glow on her softly rounded buttocks, and the backs of her thighs gleamed like satin. He fought the urge to put the spoon down and run his strong hands down the supple curves of her body. To pull her close against him, open the front of his pants,
and take her right where she was, deep, and hard, and …

  Instead, he raised the spoon and brought it down with a sharp crack. Cathy yelped, clutched the sides of the table, and swore–softly, but loud enough for Will to hear every syllable.

  “I swear to God, Mrs. Cameron,” he muttered, “you are just about the slowest learner I ever met.”

  When Cathy looked back at him and smiled, Will tossed the spoon in the sink.

  “All right, then,” he groaned. “We’ll let it go–this time. But I still want breakfast. Is there something around here that won’t taste like charcoal?”

  After laying out a breakfast of slightly scorched bread heaped with Hannah’s homemade blackberry preserves, Cathy went to the bedroom to change clothes. Will followed her, stretching out on the bed to watch as she dressed. Feeling his eyes on her, she pulled her shift around her, almost shyly.

  “I’m sorry for staring like that,” he apologized. “It’s just that I don’t usually get to see you like this–in the daylight, anyway. I can never seem to get over how beautiful you are.”

  Cathy came over and joined him on the bed, her face solemn. “Being beautiful never got me much in life, Will. Nothing I really wanted, anyway.”

  He nodded. “I know, and I shouldn’t have said what I did. Like your being beautiful was all …”

  She leaned over to kiss him, and then lay back in his arms. “Oh, you can keep on saying it. In fact, if you ever stop saying it, I’ll find a way to make you wish you hadn’t. Just try not to let things like that get too important. And don’t you ever let me catch you saying it to anyone else.” She laughed. “Not ‘til I’m old and gray and wrinkled like a withered apple, anyway.”

  “Is it all right if I’m a little confused by that?” he asked, chuckling.

  “It’s all right. I’m not sure I understand it, myself.”

  For a few minutes, they lay in one another’s arms, saying nothing, and enjoying the silence in the cabin. Finally, Cathy raised her head from his chest and kissed him again, very gently.

  “I sent the children away on purpose, Will. I need to talk to you.”

  Will nodded, but his face betrayed his concern. “I reckon the cows can a wait a bit longer. What’s on your mind?” It was obvious that something was bothering Cathy, and whatever the problem was, it had been simmering for the last couple of weeks. Which was odd, really, since the danger that had threatened their life together was over, now, and gone for good.

  Cathy clasped her hands in her lap, and studied them as she spoke. “I think it’s time we got a divorce.”

  Will touched the top of her head with his lips. “Folks generally get married before they go looking for a divorce, Cathy. “

  “That’s another thing,” she said quietly. “I’d like you to start calling me by my real name–and explain all of it to the children, as well.”

  He nodded, again. “Sure, if that’s what you want, but I don’t understand why we have to …”

  She turned to face him. “Because I need to be single again–really, honestly single. I know I’m the one who got us into this mess in the first place, but I’d rather you talked to the children, if you don’t mind. To explain about my name, and why I’m leaving, I mean.”

  “Leaving?” Will repeated, his voice strained. When he started to speak again, Cathy put her fingers on his lips.

  “I’m going to have a baby, Will.”

  “But, that’s wonderful,” he exclaimed, beaming as he drew her close. “We’ll go into town and get married for real as soon as …”

  Cathy shook her head. “No.”

  Will could only stare. “But, why?”

  “Because you don’t owe me anything–nothing at all.”

  “Owe me?” Will’s fingers tightened around her upper arm. “What has owing me got to do with whether we …”

  Slipping from his grasp, Cathy got up from the bed, opened the top drawer of the small pine dresser they shared, and withdrew a lace handkerchief with an object knotted inside. As she handed him the handkerchief, Will saw that there were tears in her eyes.

  Hesitantly, he undid the knot, allowing a handful of coins to spill across the quilt.

  “It’s the last of the money still owing on the bond,” she said softly. “And I even added the four dollars you paid for that damned parrot costume. I sold the quilt Hannah helped me with in town. So, now, I don’t owe you anything, either. The bargain we made all those months ago is complete. As of this moment, I’m Alexandra Thornton again. I’m not sure how I feel about that, after all these months, but it’s time I found out, don’t you think?”

  * * * *

  Denver, Colorado, eight months earlier

  Don’t cry, damn it, Alex thought, stuffing her fist between her lips. You can bawl your head off when it’s safe, but not now. Not yet. Still crumpled in the corner where she’d crouched all night, Alex took a deep breath and tried to stand up. The sharp stab of pain beneath her right breast could mean a cracked rib, but if she cried out, she risked waking Jack. A few feet away, her husband lay sprawled across the wide brass bed, dead drunk and snoring. Even in this condition, rumpled and unshaven, Jack was still astonishingly handsome. The stray lock of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes made him look younger, almost innocent. Alex felt something deep inside her twist as she remembered their first year together, before she learned that Jack Thornton’s charming good looks and boyish smile were only a mask. How many nights since then, she wondered bitterly, had she lain awake, trying to get back to that long-ago place in her mind where she’d loved Jack, and not feared him? How long had she been living on nothing but dogged loyalty and hope?

  What she needed was time–time to clear her head and come up with a plan. But Alex knew that her time had finally run out. For years, she’d clung to the idea that no matter what had happened between them, she owed her husband too much to simply walk away when he was down on his luck. Last night’s beating had come close to killing her though, and if she was going to get away, this might very well be her best chance. Maybe her last chance. The beatings had gotten worse in the last few months, but in some sad and ironic way, they had also given her a reason to stop hoping that Jack would change.

  In their better days, Jack had loved surprising her with expensive gifts, and last night, without knowing it, he had given her a final gift–the best gift of all. The gift of freedom. Freedom from guilt, and after too many heartbreaking years, freedom from him.

  He was stirring now, his breathing ragged as he mumbled a lot of words she couldn’t make out and didn’t want to hear, anyway. When he talked in his sleep like this, the few words she could understand often frightened her.

  Six hours earlier, Jack had been in a blind, staggering rage, and even if he woke now, Alex knew that he’d probably be too hungover to hurt her again. With any luck, the worst was over. But this time, she wasn’t going to wait around to see how her luck was running. If she was going to escape from Jack, and from the horror their life had become, it was now or never. Stifling a low groan, she staggered to her feet and limped across to the dresser, wincing with pain at every step.

  For a moment, the battered face in the mirror didn’t seem to belong to her at all, but to one of the worn-out whores who worked the tables downstairs. The women’s names and hair color changed, but the haggard, world-weary faces were always the same. As saloons went, Top Notch was pretty much the end of the line and the bottom of the barrel. The ladies who plied their trade there seemed resigned to their low place in life, and to Top Notch’s down-at-the-heels clientele, as well. The few customers that happened to wander in were always a rag-tag mix. They were mostly trail-worn cowhands between herds, along with a sprinkling of hardscrabble miners with no grubstake and few prospects.

  Many of the saloon’s customers had bad teeth and dung on their boots, and usually smelled as bad as they looked, but the working ladies at Top Notch still scratched and squabbled among themselves, vying for the men’s attentions. The rare co
wpoke with a dollar left in his jeans after he’d downed his fill of cheap whiskey could always wangle himself a quick trip up the creaking stairs to one of the squalid rooms. The women were no longer pretty, and the upstairs visits were short and to the point, but poor men can’t afford expectations, and once struck, the bargain was generally accepted as fair by both parties.

  Jack was different, or so he had kept telling her. He was a gambler by trade, and when he was sober, there was no man alive more meticulous in his grooming and speech. Almost every day, he cautioned Alex once again about the danger of contamination by “that downstairs saloon filth.” He was a gentleman, he liked to remind her, and being his wife made her a lady. And Alex had wanted very much to believe that.

  Now, as she stared into the mirror, Alex realized for the first time that she was really no different than those women she had pitied and sometimes scorned. Without knowing exactly when it happened, she had become one of them–one of the dull-witted and dispirited creatures who stuck with her man no matter what. A woman stubbornly loyal to her man, even when that ‘man’ had just done his level best to beat her senseless, as though acceptance of his abuse was a badge of honor and courage.

  She touched her swollen left eye and swore under her breath.

  “Damn it, Jack! What help did you think I could be, looking like this?” No question about it, Jack was losing his touch. He generally waited until they got kicked out of a town before getting mean drunk enough to leave her looking like the bedraggled trollop she saw in the mirror. From long practice, Jack had always known exactly where to hit her so that the bruises didn’t show. This was their living, after all, and a lady shill with her eyes blackened and her cheek puffed up was more likely to put the mark off than draw him in.

  The other problem was that when Jack drank, his game slipped, and the quality of the marks slipped, as well. Lately, it was mostly half-pickled greenhorns that Alex had been able to entice to Jack’s table, but even those men still expected to be rewarded by a sweetly innocent smile and a deeply plunging bodice–a bodice that revealed no ugly bruises.