Savage Impulses Read online

  Savage Impulses

  Savage Impulses

  Midpoint

  Savage Impulses

  By

  Danielle Dubois

  (C) Copyright by Danielle Dubois, September 2013

  (C) Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, September 2013

  ISBN 978-1-60394-859-3

  Smashwords Edition

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Langtry, Texas, 1882

  Marigold had thought that the ship that had brought her to America was hell, but now she knew better.

  “No,” she said, tears filling her green eyes. “Please, sir, I can't put that on. I won't!”

  Jocelyn Black, the man who had brought her to this place, only stared at her for a moment and then shrugged, closing the door behind her.

  Shocked by the reprieve, Marigold almost collapsed with relief. After the filthy ship that had borne her away from her native city of Bristol, and after the cramped train ride that had brought her to the wilds of Texas, she had been ready to prove herself. She was willing to cook, to clean, to haul wood and muck out stalls if she had to. She could even read and write, and she had thought that perhaps a man would take her on as a tutor for his children.

  When she had arrived in Texas and been brought to the batwing doors of Langtry's Blue Cat saloon, however, she knew with a dreadful certainty that that hadn't been the work that they had brought her here to do.

  The sullen gazes of the gaudily-dressed prostitutes bored into her as Black led her up the stairs to the tiny bedroom, and she realized that soon she might be standing among them, waiting for customers with that same vacant hostility.

  With a burst of frenzied energy, she shot to the window. It was so small, but perhaps she could squeeze through it.

  Just as she was looking for something to pry it up, however, the door opened and Black returned. This time, he was not alone.

  The girl was tiny, which made Marigold think that she was a child, but when she looked up, Marigold could tell that she was close to her own age, perhaps twenty or so. The girl was dressed in the most flimsy silk skirt she'd ever seen, and she blushed when she saw that she wore nothing under her corset.

  The girl looked up at her fearfully.

  Marigold had to restrain the urge to go hug her, to get her away from the monster who walked like a respectable man.

  “You're new,” Black said flatly. “I guess your hide's a little too nice to mark up before I get anything from you, but Maisey here, she's not new at all. You get those clothes on or I'm just going to beat her ass until you do.”

  At the word, Maisey went limp in Black's hands, sobbing hysterically.

  He held her up without a tremor.

  Marigold could see red welt marks on the pale girl's shoulder, shockingly bright and livid.

  Black fingered his silver-chased belt meaningfully.

  In the face of that black leather slamming into the other girl's skin, Marigold's resolve broke. She nodded tightly, expecting them to leave.

  Black slouched back on one leg, watching her coldly and keeping the sobbing Maisey in place.

  Hot shame scoured Marigold as she realized that she was meant to undress in front of this man, but the threat of his belt on the poor girl's body steeled her. She stripped off her cracked leather shoes, but she realized that that was the easy part. Taking a deep breath, she undid the hooks of her calico dress. She resolutely ignored Black's low sarcastic whistle as she draped her dress over the room's small bed and unlaced her old corset. Soon she was standing and shivering in nothing but her camisole, her drawers and her stockings. Her hands were shaking too hard to continue.

  Maisey squealed piteously when Black pinched her soft upper arm. “Please, Miss!” she cried woefully.

  The girl's plea forced Marigold to continue. Soon she was standing naked.

  Black made her pause while he examined her from breasts to ankles. She’d revealed a body that was as pale as cream and as smooth as she undressed.

  She was barely above medium height, but her curves were voluptuous. In the fading light of the day, her skin glowed, and her dark hair, still in its demure bun, took on hints of copper. Against the cooler air, her coral-colored nipples tightened making his dick hard.

  Marigold resisted the urge to cover them and the curly hair between her legs. Instead, she took a deep breath and turned to the clothes that had been provided.

  First were the flimsy drawers that barely covered the curves of her rear, and she realized with a sick feeling that they were made without a center seam. Anyone could part the fabric and see her most secret parts. Underneath the drawers were a pair of barely-there stockings and an old set of tall heels that made her wobble. She flushed with shame when she bent to fasten the clasps. Then was the corset, black silk and far finer than her old canvas set, but it nipped her in so tight that she gasped. It plumped up her breasts, forcing them high and round. She realized it stood her up straight while pushing her rear out at the same time. The skirt came last, a swishy fall of green taffeta that rustled around her legs but barely came below her knees.

  “There's... there's no blouse.”

  Black sneered at her. “Of course there's not,” he said.

  She realized with a fresh surge of horror where she was and what Black intended for her.

  * * * *

  Langtry rose up out of the prairie like a nightmare, and Jake Sloan scowled hard at it as he drew even closer.

  Sensing her master's displeasure, Tamu whickered, dancing nervously on the road.

  Jake calmed her with a soft touch of his hand to her neck, murmuring gentle words in Comanche. She was a tobacco paint horse, splotched pure white and deep chestnut. He had never had a finer mount. She could be temperamental, especially if she felt she had been slighted, but there had never been an animal as responsive, as steady, or as even-tempered.

  He had acquired her from his cousin, who lived with his mother's people. She turned out to be worth every buffalo robe he had offered. Some of the elders spat at a man of mixed blood riding such a fine Comanche horse, but he thought wryly that he could live with the dishonor. On the ranch, she was worth her weight in gold, but even selling her wouldn't have made up a fraction of the money that he needed right now.

  In a drawer back home, there was a desperate letter from his half-brother. They hadn't spoken in years, but Peter had always treated him well. Now Peter's daughter Lily, who Jake had last seen as a sweetly cheerful toddler in Boston, was ill. The doctors of Boston had thought that she would die, but then Peter had had hope in the form of a doctor in Vienna.

  Please, if I have ever done anything to help you, if we have ever been family, please help us...

  Jake knew that he had to help where he could, but he was also painfully aware of how precarious his own situation was. He owned his own small ranch, his horse, and his cattle, but they were just intended for his survival. Real cash was something else, and he could only think of one way to get it.

  He rode into Langtry just as dusk was falling. The streets were already filling up with drunks and cowboys as he pulled Tamu sharply to one side to avoid a man who was reeling down the street. The man got a good look at Jake's dark skin and knife-straight black hair, spat, and swore, but when he saw the rifle that was comfortably holstered at Jake's side, he moved on.

  Jake hitched Tamu up outside of the Blue Cat saloon, flipping one of the local boys a penny to keep an eye on her, and walked through the batwing doors. He knew that what he was
doing was risky, but some part of him couldn't resist the thrill of stepping back into a time of life he had thought long past him.

  * * * *

  Though she shivered in her thin clothes, Marigold stood with her chin held high. Black had left her alone for a bit, taking Maisey with him, and now he was back, looking her up and down with no compassion at all in his cold eyes.

  “Not bad,” he said finally. “You, girl, are you a virgin?”

  “Of course,” she said, shocked, and then she was sickened by why he might want to know.

  “Every girl down there says she is,” he informed her, “but you, with that cute face of yours, I don't know, maybe you can sell it.”

  “I don't want to sell it,” she protested.

  Her words were cut off with a brisk slap to the face.

  She cried out, stumbling back.

  He wrapped his enormous bear's paw of a hand around her upper arm, closing cruelly.

  Now she could see why Maisey feared this man so much, he was enormously strong and not overly concerned with being gentle.

  “You're going to,” he told her flatly, “or at least, I'm going to. Come on, now.” With nothing more than that, he pulled her half off her feet.

  She was descending into the crowded common room that she had passed through so quickly before. On the stairway, she passed a girl hurrying up the stairs, nursing a split lip. At the bottom, she saw another girl pressed against the wall and being pawed by a drunken farmhand. She bit her lip against the terror that it would soon be her that was so brutally mauled and did her best to keep her balance on the uneven floor boards.

  The saloon itself was dim but large. It was lit with lanterns on every table, and, behind the long bar, there was a fine mirror that was crackled with age. It gave everything an air of debauched finery, as did the women in bright, flimsy clothing, and the men who were already carousing the night away.

  Black brought her to a table close to the back where there were already two men seated. They turned to hail Black with cautious hellos, and he took his place at the table silently.

  Marigold looked for a chair where she was supposed to sit.

  With an icy glance and a gesture, Black told her that she was meant to stand.

  She instinctively tried to slouch and cover her bared breasts with her hands.

  When Black saw what she was doing, he stood up again with a snarl. “Up,” he commanded. “Hands behind your back and tits out, you understand? I want them to see what you got.”

  “What, she's your stake?” one of the other men scoffed.

  The other man laughed.

  They subsided under Black's murderous gaze, muttering that whatever Black wanted was fine anyway, and they started to play.

  Marigold realized numbly that they were playing for her. Despite their initial protest, she could see their eyes start to scan her body, up to her breasts and down her thighs. The thought of going with one of those men, of letting them touch her and handle her, made her sick, and she choked back the tears that were welling up in her eyes.

  She didn't have much, but she had her courage, and she refused to let them think that she was afraid.

  Marigold barely flinched when Black wrote her name on a piece of paper and tossed it in. At first, she kept track of whose pile it was in, but then she couldn't even do that. She sunk into fear and exhaustion, oblivious to everything until she noticed that the table had stilled.

  “Well if it isn't fine Mr. Sloan,” drawled Black. “And we thought you were too fancy to come play in Langtry anymore...”

  The man who had just arrived was taller than Black but slender and lithely muscled. When he removed his hat, Marigold could see a face that was surprisingly young. The newcomer had no mustache or beard, but there was a firm set to his mouth and his hard jaw that told her that he was no one to be trifled with. With his straight black hair, sharp nose and deep brown eyes, she realized with a shock that he must be at least part Indian.

  “I don't, but I thought I'd make an exception tonight. You look like you need a fourth.”

  They made way so that the new stranger could sit, but Marigold could see that the tone of the game had changed. Suddenly the men were playing much closer to their chests, and Black himself, who had gotten her name maker back, had his face fixed in a quiet snarl.

  The play went back and forth. For a while, Marigold lost track of it again. She was making herself numb, she realized dully. She found that she could even wonder what it would be like to lie underneath these men, to wonder what would be left of her afterwards.

  She woke up when she heard numbers that she could barely believe. When she opened her eyes, the stakes on the table were high. There was cash, a bag of what she supposed was gold dust, and then there was her homely little marker, all there under the light.

  “Well, let's see them,” Black said with a hiss as he threw down a pair of fours and a triplet of fives.

  “Full house,” one of the other men said with disgust. His partner agreed, and they cast their cards down without flipping them.

  The stranger, younger than they were and quieter, too, simply turned his cards over without a flourish.

  The table stilled.

  From her position, Marigold could see four tens and the Queen of Hearts.

  “Four of a kind,” he said quietly.

  She realized that his hand was on the rifle that sat by his side.

  “Son of a bitch,” Black snarled.

  For a moment, it looked like Black was going to go for the gun Marigold knew he carried by his side, but then he shoved himself back from the table swiftly, shaking his head. He looked like he would have liked to spit at the man who had won the pot. Instead he only stalked off, giving Marigold a dark look that cut right to her soul.

  “You can have her, poxy slut that she is,” he told the younger man acidly. “I wish you joy of her then.”

  The stranger, in the middle of gathering his winnings up, frowned at the retreating man's back.

  “What the hell?” he asked the other men at the table.

  Much more relaxed now that Black was gone, they answered him easily.

  “The girl's all yours,” one said. “He brought her all the way from back east, said she was a virgin an' all.”

  Marigold paled as a dark cloud seemed to come over the stranger's face.

  “I never wanted a whore,” he said furiously. “I thought the bastard was in for ten dollars with that slip.”

  Marigold gasped. She knew that ten dollars was more than some laborers made in a week, but to be given a price on her body like that shocked her to her core.

  He glanced up at her sound. If he seemed contrite at all, it was quickly driven away.

  “Get her out of here, Sloan,” the other man advised. “Black will beat the hell out of her if he sees her, what with the state that he's in.

  Sloan snarled something in response.

  For a long, terrible moment, she thought that he would leave her. A glance around at the men nearby, who the night's progression and liquor had only made more savage, made her realize that that was the last thing that she wanted.

  “You. Come on.”

  She had no choice but to follow him into the night, wondering what would happen to her.

  * * * *

  Hours later, they came back to his ranch.

  It was full dark, and she had nearly fallen asleep in the saddle. At first she had been nervous about sitting so close to him, her back against his chest and his arms around her, but, over the course of the ride, she had relaxed. The horse seemed as sweet and gentle as the mare that had pulled the coal wagon at home, and, lulled by the motion and the man's silence, she drifted off. For some odd reason, she felt safer than she had in ages.

  That illusion ended when the man dismounted, helping her down off the saddle. The ranch house itself was small and dark, and she realized how far away she was from everyone else. She couldn't stop a soft whimper from escaping her lips, and that made the man turn o
n her.

  “What the hell are you making that noise for?” he demanded. “I haven't laid a goddamn finger on you.”

  “I'm not making any noise!” she retorted, stung. “I didn't, I wouldn't!”

  He laughed. “Are you the type of whore who likes to play Miss Purity? Trust me, miss, I don't have the time for the likes of you.”

  Fear was replaced with fury, and she stamped her foot on the hard-packed dirt. “I'm no whore!” she cried. “I'm not. I'm here to work, do you understand?”

  His eyes raked her up and down.

  In the bright moonlight, she could imagine how skimpy her outfit looked, how easily he could see the shape of her breasts and the curve of her hips.

  “I can just imagine you sweeping and scrubbing in those clothes,” he retorted.

  She trembled with rage, but he was right, and she could find nothing else to say.

  Abruptly, the biting anger went out of him, and he just looked tired. “I have no place here for someone who can't work,” he told her. “I just took you out of Langtry because the men said that you would see worse if you stayed. I'll take you back tomorrow and maybe you can find some rich supporter or something that will treat you right.”

  The thought of going back to Langtry, of running back under Black's hands, terrified her.

  “You can't! I won't go back there, you don't understand!”

  “I understand just fine,” he snapped. “You think I'm a cheap meal ticket, well, I'm not. I don't give a damn how sweet that body of yours is, I don't want it.”

  At least in the dark, he couldn't see how brightly her cheeks were flaming. After a long moment, he allowed her to go into the house while he saw to his horse.

  He was true to his word. He never touched her, but she wondered if there was some terrified, frightened and longing part of her that wanted him to. He was handsome, she realized, and when he was making up a pallet for her on the floor, she saw his name on some of the papers of his desk. Jake Sloan was a good looking man with strong features and an inherent strength and grace that called to her. At the moment, however, he was only treating her like a frustrating inconvenience.