Free Their Christmas Bride by Vanessa Vale Page A

handsome faces had taken turns filling my mind as I touched myself at the apex of my thighs in the privacy and darkness of my attic bedroom. It had been the unknown things they could do with their big hands—used to gentle a skittish horse or carry heavy sacks of grain—that had made my back arch off my bed as I succumbed night after night to my body's pleasure.
    I groaned and grabbed my small bag, pulling out the biscuits I'd packed. They were dry and stuck in my throat, clogging there with tears. I lusted after not one man, but two. I eagerly sought the attentions of not one man, but two. I longed for not one man, but two. I was a...a hussy.
    I sighed, my breath coming out in little white puffs, knowing the men would remain on the Bridgewater Ranch while I sought work in a larger town such as Miles City or Billings, most assuredly turning their attentions to other women in town, women who were virtuous and did not dream of two men. I would be quickly forgotten. No, not forgotten, for what Mr. Matthews would tell the town would spread like a July wildfire and either one of them would be thankful they'd been saved from a woman such as I.
    Mr. Quinn and Mr. Porter would each have a wife to warm their beds and direct their carnal attentions while I, from whatever town I found work, would continue to think of them in my late night fantasies. It was wrong, I knew, to touch myself intimately and inappropriately, but I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop, for that short moment of bliss wiped away the hardship, the loneliness and the fear. Even now, as I pressed my head back against the hard wood of the seat and shut my eyes, my core clenched and pulsed. My body didn't care that I was painted a loose woman and a thief. It knew what it wanted.
    When the stage pulled to a rough stop in Carver Junction and not just Mr. Quinn met me, but Mr. Porter and a man with a star pinned to his heavy winter coat, I knew that Mr. Matthews had followed through with his more extreme threats. I'd hoped Christmas would at least delay the rumors, but that did not seem to be the case. Usually my heart skipped a beat at the sight of either Bridgewater man and this time was no different, but the reason for it had changed. It wasn't eagerness or feminine interest. It was trepidation and worry, for their faces were grim beneath their hats. I swallowed down my fear at being hauled off to spend Christmas in jail. At least I would be warm.
     
     
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
     
    October
     
    "May I carry your parcel for you, Miss Travers?"
    Mr. Porter startled me as I came out the door of the mercantile. I licked my lips and glanced left and right to see if he truly had spoken to me. The man was devilishly handsome with a quick smile and dark eyes. While they were similar in color to Mr. Quinn's, his were less brooding. I felt he could see past my cool facade. My palms were sweating inside my gloves and my nipples had tightened.  
    He, too, looked about. "There are no other Miss Travers, are there?"
    I frowned at his odd question. "No," I replied slowly.
    "Then my attention is solely for you." He held out his big hand and I had no choice but to give him my paper wrapped bundle. I could feel the warmth of his palm as it pressed against the small of my back. I had no interest in moving, for the gesture was the only contact he'd ever made with my person. "I wonder...." His words trailed off and I tilted my head up to look at him.
    When his gaze dropped to my mouth, I realized he'd stopped talking intentionally.
    "Yes?" I asked, trying to fill the nervous silence.
    "As I said, while my attention is solely for you, I wondered if perhaps your attention was given to someone else. Mr. Matthews, perhaps?"
    The other man had circled about me, but his interest was not returned. Mr. Matthews might have been handsome in a way, but there was something unappealing about him.... "No."  
    He gave a decisive nod. "Good."
    Butterflies filled my stomach at that one word. We went the