Logan
A busy week passed and we quickly learned how much land Bridgewater had. With fall approaching, we had to bring the herd in from distant grazing land, repair fences, prepare for the harvest of wheat and hay. Closer to the houses, the large garden was producing vegetables and fruit that needed to be canned. Everyone was busy. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to become an American cowboy. Growing up in Manchester, I lived two lives, one of relative comfort and safety while my father was alive. I’d been a merchant’s son, going to school. I’d learned reading and my maths, and felt like the world was full of wondrous possibilities. Then my father died, and my mother was left destitute. We lost our home and I took to the streets to try to steal enough food to keep us both alive.
She died after a few years. I was too old to go back to school, and too dirty to do much else. I sold my mother’s wedding band to buy my conscription into the military. Mohamir’s way of life seemed so much smarter, safer, and saner than the suffering I’d seen on the streets.
Now I finally had my bride, but she was holding back. I could sense it. Ford knew it, too, but we couldn’t figure out how to make Lizzie open up. We fucked her senseless, cared for her and kept her safe. Spanking her could force her to share her problems, but she liked it too much. Besides, we wanted her to learn she could come to us.
Ford advised patience, but that was such a nobleman’s game. He’d played the political game at court, learning at the feet of one of the greatest manipulators of all time, his father, the marquess.
However, his father also donated his seed to several mistresses, producing a string of bastard sons eager to see Ford dead. After the third attempt on his life, Ford had told his father to sod off and joined the military.
There was no going back, not for either of us. Nor did we want to. The wide open prairie was amazing and different, the mountains in the distance the biggest things I’d ever seen. Nothing compared to the sunsets in the territory, not even the desert glow in Mohamir. It was an incredible feeling to know that after such a long journey, so many miles, that we were finally home. Home with Lizzie.
She, too, seemed to thrive at Bridgewater. Her struggles with her bloody uncle’s verbal abuse had taken a harsh toll, but Ford and I were working with her on it. While she always loved how we fucked her, she was becoming more relaxed about it, even joking and teasing the other women about how we Bridgewater men were primitive, cave-dwelling creatures who did nothing more than throw our women over our shoulders and fuck them like mindless animals.
I had to admit, when I had Lizzie naked and spread open before me, her pussy glistening with proof of her desire, and the world please on her lips… aye, I was a bit of a caveman then.
She was passionate in bed play, she did behave like a wanton. She did like to watch others fucking. She had a wild creature inside her as well, one that loved it when I fucked her hard and deep, one that loved the strong pull of a man’s mouth on her clit. At our first touch, her body melted with desire, in complete submission to our needs. That made her perfect for us.
Ford had dragged her into the tack room and fucked her up against the wall. She’d learned to suck cock by the edge of the creek, her knees in the soft grass. She’d taken the larger and larger plugs in her ass, knowing we’d soon claim her together. Each and every time we ensured she came at least once, often twice.
When we weren’t fucking her, we were working. This morning, Lizzie was in the barn, learning how to tend to a new foal born the night before. Ford and I were moving a small herd of twenty head of cattle up to the main pasture behind the house when Emma ran out to the fence, little Christopher in her arms. She looked upset, and I kicked my horse in the sides to get the ornery stallion to move a bit faster. I pulled up on the reins, hard, and the horse’s sides brushed the sides of the fence a few feet from where she stood.
Emma waited for Ford to join us seconds later, then surprised us both.
“The sheriff’s here and he’s asking for Lizzie.”
Elizabeth
“Don’t worry, Lizzie. You’ve done nothing wrong, so there’s nothing to fear,” Logan murmured, guiding me toward Kane and Ian’s house with a hand at the small of my back.
I felt as if I would vomit. I knew why he was here. He was here to take me to Mr. Jenkins, my true husband, the man to whom I was actually married. The wedding to Ford, while it had been in a church, couldn’t be legal since I was already wed to another at the time I took my vows. I’d been living in
the worst sort of sin ever since. Both Ford and Logan had been correct. My uncle’s words were untrue. I wasn’t tainted. I was passionate and loved what they did to me, even when they put those dreaded plugs in my bottom. I knew it was for my own good, for they’d soon fuck me together. No, not any longer. I’d be leaving with the sheriff and returning to Hayes.
A lump of fear lodged in my throat and I couldn’t respond to Logan’s reassuring words. Ford came running from the barn along with Ian and Brody.
When he walked alongside of us, he removed his hat and wiped his brow. “What’s this about the sheriff?” he asked. His sleeves on his shirt were rolled up, showing off his corded muscles. His blunt fingers gently held his hat, just as he’d used them to touch me in such wonderful, remarkable ways. No longer.
“Don’t know,” Logan replied. He opened the front door and we walked through the house to the kitchen where we heard voices. This was the moment I’d been dreading, when the men—everyone—would learn the truth.
The sheriff was a large man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He had white hair that had thinned and his pale scalp glistened. He was smiling at something Emma was telling him as he held a cup of steaming coffee.
The smells of breakfast lingered and it only added to my nausea.
When we entered, the sheriff stood.
“Brody, good to see you. How’s Laurel?” he asked. It seemed the sheriff was familiar and relaxed with those at Bridgewater.
“Well, thank you.”
“Her father and Mr. Palmer were quite the duo, but I’m glad you prevailed.”
I didn’t know about what he spoke, but it sounded as if it had to do with Laurel, his wife with Mason.
“Thank you,” Brody offered.
The sheriff turned to me then, pleasantries out of the way and looked me over in a professional way. “Ma’am,” he said. “I assume you are Elizabeth Lewis?”