Page 9 of The Scot Beds His Wife
Oh God. What had they done?
Over the deafening beat of her heart, she’d heard Bennett say something about federal marshals. About someone taking a bullet in the shoulder. Boyd? And then a shootout.
Through vision blurred with tears, Samantha glanced at the businessman, dead-eyed and bleeding.
Her fault.Allher fault.
Bennett had shot him without a word or warning. Then he’d grabbed Alison and put his pistol to her temple, because he’dknown.
He’d known the second he’d seen the horror and denial on Samantha’s face at the blood on his shirt, that she wouldn’t have gone with him. That, while she’d have stayed married to an outlaw, she couldneverlove a murderer.
“Come with me, Sam,” he’d ordered tersely. “Come with me now, and we will go to Oregon.”
It was in that moment Samantha hadknownhe lied to her.
They’d fought about it the night before, when he’d said Boyd wanted to go south to Texas or the New Mexico Territory instead of north to Oregon like they’d planned. That oil towns were the new gold rush.
She’d railed at him. It wasn’t the life he’d promised her. They were supposed to go to the sea to make their fortune in lumber. He was going to build her a grand house on a cliff and make love to her while serenaded by thunderstorms. They’d onlyjustescaped their desolate life on a cattle ranch in the high desert. She didn’t want to gobackto bleak sweaty days beneath the harsh, unrelenting sunshine. She wanted pretty green hills, trees, and meadows. She wanted to live somewhere she could wrap a shawl about her and listen to sea storms toss rain against her windows.
Last night, she’d been shrill, and Bennett had been cruel.
But he’d awoken his charming self, randy as he ever was before a dangerous job. And she’d lain beneath his thrusting body, unable to relinquish the churning of her resentments and worries enough to appreciate his affections.
Then it was time to wash, and dress, and commit a crime.
Bennett had promised to revisit the issue. To make her smile again, to fulfill her dreams.
Problem was, Samantha had already lost faith in Bennett Masters’s charming promises. A part of her had begun to accept what she’d long feared. Bennett would never go against his brothers, brutal and backward as they were. If Boyd decreed the family was going south to work in stinking, desolate oil towns, then there was no other option but to do exactly that.
Boyd had once whispered to her in secret that, while Bennett might love her, he feared him more, and fear was always more powerful than love.
“He’d let me fuck you, if I wanted,” Boyd had threatenedonce when she’d been mouthy. He’d grabbed her through her trousers, his fingers digging painfully against her sex. “You’d best keep that in mind.”
She’d never forgotten that night five months ago. Because she’d told Bennett of Boyd’s behavior.
And, as Boyd predicted, he’d done nothing.
Now, when Bennett held his pistol to this helpless woman’s head, and ordered Samantha to open the door to the railcar, she’d looked into the eyes of her husband of four years.
And seen a stranger.
“You’ll let her go,” she’d reasoned evenly. “You’ll let her go, and we’ll get out of here.”
She’d opened the door. Bradley had the horses keeping pace with the train as it slowed around the McCreary Pass bend. She motioned to him, and he spurred his ride faster. They’d get off the train, and she’d figure out just what the hell had happened before making any hasty decisions.
“She’s seen us.”
Bennett’s words had frozen her blood as she realized that he wasn’t wearing his bandana.
“People have seen us before,” she’d said over her shoulder.
“Not like this, Sam. We can’t leave witnesses. She has to die—”
Samantha had reached across her body, drawn her Colt single-action, turned, and shot him between the eyes in the time it took him to pull back the hammer of his higher-caliber, slower-action Smith & Wesson.
Only now, while clinging to a stranger on her knees, did she have time to think about what she’d just done.
She’d killed a man. Not just any man.
