WildOutlaws

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Accustomed to working in a saloon, Mary Margaret isn’t sure what her future holds but she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life lying flat on her back. Right when she plans to move on and find another career, five of the sexiest men alive stroll into the Cripple Creek Saloon. Soon, Mary Margaret is their full-time employee but she quickly discovers the men are there for more than a good time and they’re promising something very similar to forever.

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Wild Outlaws

Copyright © 2012 Destiny Blaine

ISBN: 978-1-77111-197-3

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Wild Outlaws

By

Destiny Blaine

Chapter One

“When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a teacher. Lord knows, I never considered being a whore,” Mary Margaret confessed, speaking from the heart. She rubbed her bare arms and studied the young woman seated next to her.

In her third week of employment, Annabelle still possessed a certain youthful quality. Her bangs hung right above the natural arch of her brows and scarlet ringlets fell straight down her back. Pins secured much of the long length at her crown, otherwise the extended locks would reach well past her bottom.

Annabelle smiled sweetly, acting as if she hung on Mary Margaret’s every word. Perhaps she listened, but Mary Margaret doubted if she, or anyone else for that matter, ever really heard her.

The Cripple Creek Saloon was vacant at high noon and outside of taking another drink of liquor, conversation helped pass the time. On this particular day, Mary Margaret had a lot to say.

“Ma and Pa died in 1879. I was fifteen years old and left to fend for myself. Old Man Cobb, you’ve probably heard of him—he’s the fellow who later started the tent camps around here—took me in and finished raising me.

“Cobb lived right across the way from an old rooming house on what is now known as Myers Avenue. I reckon he had plenty in mind from the time he saw me standing on his front porch begging for a drink of water.

“Anyhow, he turned me out to earn my keep after my eighteenth birthday, told me I’d make my Ma and Pa real proud being a teacher of men, instructing fellas who needed a woman to show them the right and wrong way to love on a gal properly.”

Annabelle stood, stretched and plopped down on a barstool once more, careful to keep her eyes fixated on the swinging double doors, on the chance a newcomer entered in search of a good time. She tapped the rim of her empty glass and Bob, the bartender, poured another round while Mary Margaret waved him away.

“You ain’t in the grave yet, Mary Margaret,” Annabelle drawled. “If you want to teach, make yourself a right smart teacher. Get out of these drab clothes and march on down there to that school and tell ‘em you’re there to help the young’uns.”

“Apparently you’ve never paid attention to what teachers wear.”

Annabelle sipped her liquor. “Is that the only thing you got out of what I just said?”

“I like the way we dress,” Mary Margaret admitted. “Outside of these damning corsets, that is.”

“Then go on down there dressed just how you are. You might be good for business. The boys in your classroom will go back home and tell their fathers where to find you. Who knows, you may earn more money on your back than you’ll ever see standing in front of a bunch of kids teaching mathematics.”

Mary Margaret knew that was true. She wanted to teach because she possessed a knack for helping others. The money, however, paled in comparison to a whore’s income. Still, it was a respectable job and Mary Margaret longed for a position that would polish her tarnished reputation.

“I don’t know, Annabelle,” she muttered, thinking she’d waited too late. She was thirty-five years old, a lot older than most of the prostitutes working there. Aging whores generally worked the red light district for a few years prior to retiring altogether. Mary Margaret’s days at the saloon were numbered. She’d been saving for a rainy day, realizing when her time was up there, it was up. She’d watched other whores come and go. The only reason she was still there was because of her talent—men everywhere said she gave better head than any whore in the business.

“It’s too late for me now. There’s not a man or woman around who’d want a whore standing in the middle of a schoolhouse. Reckon I wasn’t meant to teach.”

Annabelle flashed an impish grin. “You can’t convince me. First day I came to Cripple Creek? I seem to recall being stuck in the hall watching you ride the tarnation out of some Indian who soft-footed his way in here. I still remember him, too. He said he was a-lookin’ for a woman who could handle a big dick.”

Mary Margaret laughed, remembering her customer fondly. “How many times do I have to tell you? Big Dick was his name. Someone in his tribe must’ve thought they’d give him a name befitting of the tool he didn’t have. Shame really. I had great expectations and ended up thinking he would’ve been better suited for one of the inexperienced girls. It’s always better when a whore’s first caller isn’t well endowed.”

“Says you. From the very beginning, I liked ‘em thick and long, lean and hard,” Annabelle said, waggling her eyebrows.

“You take ‘em any which way you can get ‘em,” Mary Margaret reminded her.

Annabelle shot the liquor down her throat, so much for being dainty and ladylike. Sliding the glass down the flat surface of the bar, she grinned at the barkeeper. “All I’m saying is you can do anything better than most. If you set your mind to it, you could have a classroom of your own someday.”

Mary Margaret released a hearty sigh. “I’m thirty-five years old, Annabelle. Seems I’ve reached about all the goals a whore can have.”

“Ah, now, don’t get down on yourself like that, Mary Margaret.”

Unfortunately, she couldn’t help it. Lately, she’d been thinking a lot about the future and hers didn’t look all that bright. Her heart was troubled. There was a lot she’d missed.

She sashayed to the end of the bar and struck a pose, never bothering to mention the approaching company. Several men were headed their way. The horses’ hooves pounding against the ground suggested riders were in a pretty big hurry to either whet their whistles or their little willies.

“You could always open a business. The miners around here say some woman is starting something called Old Homestead. The place is said to have running water and electricity in every room. People are talking. Word is every suite in the house will have expensive furnishings and carpets and the most elaborate appointments ever found in a brothel.”

Mary Margaret shook her head. “I heard about that place. Belongs to a gal who used to be a whore herself and she’s only hiring women who look like her—around five-foot-seven and two hundred pounds, golden blonde and curvy.”

Annabelle frowned, most likely considering the image Mary Margaret painted. Then she copped a smile, “See there, you’re smarter than that, Mary Margaret. If you opened up your own place, you’d have women of all shapes and sizes. Here I was worried about our business when I first heard about the Old Homestead. If she’s only offering one type of gal, none of us should fret. Men are fickle. They don’t want the same kind of woman every night. Think about it. We all have our regulars but we also see our share of fellows who like to let us pass them around.”

“Uh-huh,” Mary Margaret muttered, unable to quit pondering her bleak future.

Annabelle patted her arm. “Mary Margaret, there’s a lot worse things in this world.”

“You don’t know how wrong you are,” Mary Margaret said sadly. Age would change the young woman’s mind. “I’d like to think that when I’m dead and gone, my epitaph won’t read: ‘Here lies a dried up whore destined to spend eternity on her back’.”

“Oh Lord, Mary Margaret. Why, that’d be plumb awful.” Annabelle straightened her dress and pushed up her breasts. “Maybe I’ll work on my epitaph and leave a copy in my dressing table drawer on the chance I die unexpectedly.”

“What would you want yours to say?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe something like, ‘Miners came to Cripple Creek digging for gold. Men came to Annabelle looking for pleasure.’ What do you think?” She laughed as if she thought her epitaph was truly befitting of the future stone marking her memorial.

“I reckon it’s better than the undertaker spreading your legs one last time and taking what he never had the money to afford. You know that’s what they say happened to a gal down in Tombstone. Poor thing was killed by an outlaw and then the undertaker tried to get it on with her corpse. Marshal caught him as he was removing his belt. Man hung for crude conduct.”

Annabelle shuddered. “That’s morbid, Mary Margaret.”

“Whores aren’t treated like people, Annabelle. That’s my whole point. In life and in death, we are viewed as no better than animals. It just ain’t right. It ain’t fair. I want a little respect before I pass on.”

“Then earn it,” Annabelle said flippantly. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. It’s unattractive. Get up off your tush and do something else if you don’t like what you’re doing.”

Mary Margaret didn’t know how to start over again. She glanced outside at the hitching posts now fully occupied by a half dozen horses. Cowboys dismounted. The shuffling of boots moved closer as the saloon’s latest patrons traipsed across the front steps.

A second later, Annabelle joined her at the long stretch of wood. She placed her hand in the small of her waist and forced a wide smile. “You’d better kick doom and gloom in the gut and get to grinning. Unless, of course, you plan on leavin’ these fellas to me.”

Mary Margaret stretched her neck and peered out the window. “Looks to be about eight out there, Bob. At least five or six of ‘em are together,” she called to the bartender. “Set ‘em up. They look thirsty.” A beat later, she added, “Annabelle, leave the leader to me or one of the others.”

“You’d better listen to her, girl,” Bob said, glancing up as the first cowboy entered.

“That ain’t no outlaw there,” Annabelle said under her breath.

“The hell he ain’t,” Mary Margaret snapped, studying the first man inside. He was the epitome of a cowboy gone wild and just the type of fellow guaranteed to keep a woman up late at night.

When he first entered, he’d placed both hands atop the swinging saloon door. His fingers had curved over the top of the rounded wood and he shoved his arms forward as if he were pushing back the equivalent to a heavy corral gate.

Tight muscles bulged underneath his fitted black shirt. Mary Margaret wondered if those long sleeves covered up permanent scars or gaping bandaged wounds.

Experience taught her to watch for guests with plenty of problems. Knives and guns brought many a man into a whore’s arms. They were generally looking for comfort and companionship. Most of them still wanted their momma when a bullet grazed their skin. Some settled for a whore while waiting for a town doctor.

“Whiskey,” the cowboy grated out, barely looking at Annabelle before his gaze met Mary Margaret’s.

Mary Margaret’s breasts swelled under the scrutiny. She was so accustomed to responding to an interested customer’s eye, she wondered if she’d ever find pleasure in life beyond a whorehouse.

She couldn’t walk around in a constant state of arousal. That was for sure. If she collected stares from the local respectable men, particularly gentlemen she’d never serviced, she was bound to respond in an unfavorable way, in a manner offensive to the ladies on their arms.

Mary Margaret was a flirt, a real tease. She couldn’t help herself.

“These gang leaders are hard to handle when they arrive in packs,” she quickly told Annabelle, deciding the one at the bar proudly wore the title.