The arrogant ass. She had not given him leave to be so informal. When Thomas had been alive Mr. Sullivan had referred to her as Mrs. Galloway. Even several weeks ago she had been Mrs. Galloway. How dare he act as if they were intimates?
“I think not Mr. Sullivan. I have made my answer clear to your ranchman. I fear your journey here was a waste of time. I am not interested, nor will I invite you into my home.”
His lips flattened with anger at her refusal and his eyes glittered with rage. They shuttered immediately. A slight smile twisted on his lips, his eyes went frigid and expressionless.
He scared her. She wondered if she had seen the flare of anger. She needed to tread carefully, but she would not present a weak front. “I do not strive to give offense, Mr. Sullivan. I am simply not interested in your offers. I have made myself clear several times and you persist in courting me. I am newly widowed. I need time to grieve.” She met his eyes, and clenched her skirt with the hand not gripping the rifle to hide its trembling.
“You have been in mourning for three months,” he drawled, clearly undaunted by the argument she had been using for the past several weeks.
A breeze rolled off the mountains, more cooling than the rivulets of sweat that rolled down her nape. “I need more time, at least a year.”
A hard smile slanted his lips. “No.”
He slid off his horse, and she raised the Winchester with steady grace, cocking it and sighting down the barrel. He froze.
Satisfaction rushed through Sheridan that she had at least made him pause.
“Name your price,” his command snapped cold.
She angled her chin defiantly. “The Whispering Creek outfit is not up for sale, Mr. Sullivan.”
He watched her with a reptilian intensity that made her skin crawl. Cold eyes considered her, assessing the threat she presented. He scanned the main house, the barns and the range, noting the absence of her ranch hands. Majority of them were driving cattle to Abilene, and those who had remained to keep the ranch running smoothly, were in town or on the range. The blackguard had timed his presence at the Whispering Creek diabolically. A slow smile creased his face, and blond locks fell over his forehead as he removed his hat.
Her hands twitched, and his low laugh rolled over her, nauseating in its effect. She saw the minute he dismissed her threat as a bluff. His shoulders relaxed, and the coiled awareness he’d vibrated with seconds ago vanished.
“I am not talking about Whispering Creek, Sheridan.” There was a frightening look in his eyes as he stepped in closer. “What is your price?”
She held back her revulsion and fear. “I am not for sale.”
His chuckle was low and mean as he stepped in close enough so the barrel of the Winchester brushed against his jacket. “There are a lot of things that can happen to a woman out here living alone, bad things. Isn’t that right, boys?”
“Sure thing, boss.” A tall, dark haired, narrow-boned face man replied, and then spat chewing tobacco that landed brown and muddy only a few feet away from her.
Her stomach churned, but she would not let her disgust show.
“Now as I see it. A woman alone either sells, gets the hell out, or finds herself a man. What is it that you want, Sheridan? Because I am man enough for you.”
With unexpected swiftness, he snatched the Winchester from her grip and coiled her hair in his hand.
“Now this is a mighty fine rifle.” He admired the well-oiled barrel before throwing it to one of his men. He trailed a finger down her cheeks and over her lips.
A chuckle of anticipation echoed from someone, and her gaze slashed to the man on the horse, noting the lust glittering from his eyes. Her skin felt clammy, and a cold knot of fear bloomed inside her stomach. But she refused to show it, determined to appear unaffected. “Unhand me, sir.”
Mr. Sullivan’s hand tightened viciously in her hair.
“Now the way I see it Sheridan…. you need a man between your legs or you wouldn’t be so ornery. And I aim to be that man.”
She’d only lived in the west for three years but she understood his kind. He was a bully, vicious as a weasel, uncaring of those he trampled on to get what he wanted. Very much like the powerful lords and ladies of London’s society who could ruin someone with words alone. Mr. Sullivan though was a harsher breed than the men of the ton, his reputation preceded him, and she knew she dealt with a calculating, and ruthless man. “I will never be yours,” she responded with clarity.
His hand tightened further in her hair bringing water to her eyes. A shot cracked in the air and the dirt flew up at their feet. With a curse he recoiled, hands slapping at his holster.
She gasped, the speed at which his gun cleared rattling her. Some of his men’s horses shied, a few leapt from their horses and rolled for cover behind a bale of hay. While others remained cool and unaffected. Her gaze flitted to t
he unaffected ones briefly and she counted seven men who had not moved. These were the ones she needed to be most wary off. They were more than wranglers. They were the hired guns.
Mr. Sullivan holstered his pistol, his eyes going dead. “You have a choice. I drag you into that house and spread your legs with mine. Or better, the hellion that just fired at me? I will give her to my men.”
Sheridan breathed deep, hiding her panic. Fear crawled through her veins hot and potent as his lustful gaze stripped her. Her calm composure threatened to crumble. She didn’t doubt his words. He would rape her, or give Beth to his men to suffer a similar fate. Sheridan couldn’t trust herself to speak, but she forced the words past her throat. “Or?”