Chapter Six

Brantley couldn't quite believe the turn this situation had taken. The woman hadn't whined, screamed, cried or whimpered a single damn time. Hell, she had gone so far as to pull his own gun on him!

And look goddamn tempting as hell holding that carefully crafted block of iron and wood in her hands.

No, his hostage wasn't at all what Brantley'd been expecting. She hadn't even turned her dainty nose up at his offering of burnt beans and hardtack biscuits for her supper.

She was small, the top of her head barely reached his chest and she was slender, slim and dainty. Brantley wanted to protect her, keep her safe....and ride the hell out of her.

He hadn't missed the way those big brown eyes had looked at him. The hunger in that expression and the heat in those cheeks as he pulled her close to keep her from falling earlier.

Damn she was temptation... and Brantley was a sucker for temptation. He was always giving in to it and taking what he wanted—and he had a feeling Mrs. Smallwood would gladly give him everything he was wanting.

Oh to hell with it. Brantley tossed his cigarette into the dusty yard, the end glowing faintly in the darkness. He was going to go back to that room and get exactly what he wanted out of the woman.

Brantley strode through the small shack and opened the door to her room, fully prepared to bury himself in the woman, only to find her curled up and sound asleep upon the tiny, lumpy bed.

The sight awakened a tenderness in Brantley and he growled at the emotion. Tenderness got you killed. Caring led to dying. He

But, hell, she seemed to worried, so frightened and unsure, but still strong and brave. Not many men had the balls to stand up to him but this woman had done it.

Distance. Brantley needed to keep his distance. This woman was trouble. These feelings and thoughts were trouble. Lust was fine. Lust was something he could give in to—as long as it was only lust. But when you started throwing in things like tenderness and caring, you were entering dangerous territory.

With a sigh, Brantley grabbed the folded blanket off the end of the bed and draped it over the sleeping woman.

He just had to keep her here, keep her alive and hope that Hoff made it back soon to get her out of his hair.

***

"Countering my offer?" Hoff couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

That rich bastard had one hell of a lot of her nerve!

Hoff had sent him one of his men to deliver a letter demanding one thousand dollars for his wife's safe return. It was a lot of money, yes, but not an obscene amount given the man's wealth and his wife's beauty.

And Mr. Smallwood had had the balls to send him a letter back stating he would willingly pay seven-hundred and asking if that was satisfactory.

Satisfactory? Hell no it wasn't satisfactory. That goddamn rich bastard! Hoff would gladly start cutting off that bitch's fingers and sending them one by one to the cheapskate—maybe that would loosen the strings on his money belt.

"I think he was just testing the waters, boss," Samson stated. "He seemed real upset over his wife missing. Maybe he offered this just to see how serious we was."

Hoff shook his head. "Surely the man knows we are serious! We murdered his driver for chrissake!"

Hoff rubbed at his jaw. He didn't really want to hurt the woman. Hurting women wasn't something he took pleasure in—though he had been rough with a few to ensure they knew their place. Which was flat on their backs with their legs spread while he buried his cock inside them. Maybe he'd have a go with Mr. Smallwood's wife before he either killed the woman or returned her to her husband.

He was sure Brantley was already having a good time. Though, then again, who knew. Brantley was damn good with horses, guns and intimidation. The man was nearly indispensable as a gang member. But Brantley was different from Hoff and the other men.

Brantley wasn't rotten deep down. Brantley had a goodness in him that Hoff himself lacked. Hoff supposed it came from being raised by a good mama—Hoff's own mother had been a alcoholic whore who'd tossed him out just as soon as he'd been old enough to make it on his own. Apparently she'd seen nine years old as a full grown man.

Brantley's lack of cold-heartedness had caused more than a few issues over the years. Hoff worried that his oldest riding companion would one day wind up dead over it—Hoff hoped he wouldn't have to be the one to kill him. He would kill him if need be and he'd do it without a second thought. Hoff didn't form real attachments—he never had.

"Go back to him," Hoff told Samson. "Make sure he understands that he either pays us the full amount or we'll start sending body parts until he see things our way. And make sure he understands it could be days before he hears from us again but if he goes to anyone else for help, we'll know and we'll send him his wife's head in a sack."

As Samson hurried away, Hoff sat down on the rock he'd put his bedroll beside. No matter what Mr. Smallwood reply was, Hoff would make him sit and stew a few days before he responded.

The man needed to learn his lesson about attempting to barter with a man like Hoff.