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  The bay mare made no protest as he collected her reins on his way back down the hill, trotting obediently beside them. Thank God for that—he was in no mood to be chasing down and calming a spooked horse.

  He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this kind of fury. They had met because she had been accused of theft, a claim that had quickly been refuted. He had been drawn to her innocence, the fact that she seemed to be a good girl at heart, one who had been unjustly accused. As a matter of fact, she had been so outraged to be named a thief that she'd leapt up and tried to escape.

  And yet, here they were. She had lied to him, made him think kindly of her—shoot, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her—and now, as it turned out, she was a criminal. He'd caught her red-handed, there was no denying this one, no more deluding him.

  Crawford was surrounded by criminals every day. Some of them were amusing; the drunks he and Jeb brought in to sleep off their inebriation… having a few too many drinks was a petty offence, and one he could easily forgive. But he was repulsed by the real offenders: bandits, rapists, and murderers, dishonest scum for whom no punishment was too harsh, in his mind.

  The closer they got to Main Street, the more his initial rage was turning into something else. Resignation.

  The woman had bewitched him with her fluid movements and her big, innocent eyes. He'd pitied her circumstances, admired her courage, and lusted after her body. He'd started to care about her. And she'd turned out to be none of the things he'd thought her to be.

  Sapphire was a liar and a thief, and he'd been taken for a fool.

  Nobody got away with making Crawford Slade feel like a fool—especially not a dishonest little whore.

  As if she could sense his distaste, she was sitting as far away from him as was possible, although he could still feel the heat of her skin through his shirt. She was also astute enough to do as he'd said and remain silent throughout their journey back into town. For a moment, he wondered how she was feeling, what had driven her to take that man's horse, but then he pushed the thought away. He was done pitying her.

  The mare's owner was waiting outside the sheriff's office, hopping from foot to foot, twisting his hat in his hands. He gave a shout of relief as they approached, rushing immediately to his horse, running his palms down the animal's legs to make sure she was still sound.

  "Your horse is fine, sir," Crawford told him, tossing him the reins and reaching back to give Sapphire a brisk pat on the thigh. "Get down and go straight inside," he said to her.

  "Is that her?" the man asked, watching Sapphire slide off Crawford's horse and flounce into the sheriff's office. "She the one who stole my Gertie?"

  "I'll deal with it," Crawford said.

  "She don't look like a regular horse thief," the man went on, his forehead creasing up into a frown. "Do my eyes deceive me, or was she wearing a nightgown?"

  "Sir, I said I'll deal with it." Crawford dismounted and tethered his own horse to the post, making sure the water trough was full. He turned and eyed the man cautiously. "Gertie has been returned to you, safe and sound. Will you be wanting to press charges?"

  There was a long pause. "I don't want that girl thinking she can go around just stealing other people's property without there being any consequences," the man said at length.

  "Oh believe me, sir, she will be punished severely, regardless of whether or not you decide to submit a formal accusation. Once I'm through with her, I can assure you she'll think twice about doing anything like that again."

  "Well, heck, in that case I guess I can let it go—this time. It had better not happen again, however."

  "I'll see that it doesn't. And thank you."

  Taking a deep breath, Crawford left the man to tend to his mare and headed for the door. It was time to be as good as his word—and this time, no amount of flirting or pleading would weaken his resolve.

  * * *

  Sapphire was pacing, her bare feet silent on the wooden floorboards. The jail cell was disgusting; every bit as awful as she'd imagined it to be. There was a narrow, hard cot in one corner, and a filthy chamber pot in the other. She'd already decided she'd rather die than use that. Nor was the cot to be trusted; the blanket was probably crawling with lice.

  It had all played out so differently in her mind as she'd planned what she was going to do. She would steal a horse, make sure Deputy Slade caught sight of her and followed, then she would pretend to fall off and he'd rush up to her, frantic with worry, leaping off his mount and tenderly making sure she wasn't hurt. Their eyes would meet, his hands on her skin warm through the flimsy material of her nightgown, he would discover his desire for her, and…

  Except it hadn't happened that way. For a start, she hadn't even considered the possibility that the horse's owner would be coming out of the boarding house at daybreak, intent on getting an early start mining his claim.

  And she never, ever would have expected Crawford's actual reaction. There hadn't been a trace of tenderness, not the tiniest hint of worry or concern. Instead, there had been cold, distant anger and a few brusque words.

  He doesn't care about me. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she blinked back the tears, which kept threatening to spill down her cheeks. Not even in the slightest. And now he thinks I'm a real thief.

  Even upon their return to the sheriff's office, he had barely spoken to her. She had expected to be questioned, perhaps even to be spanked, but neither of those things had happened. Instead he had gripped her arm, marched her through the door to the cells, opened the nearest one, thrust her inside, and locked it behind her.

  "You can stay here and think about what you just did," he'd snarled. "Considering you were so upset about being called a thief when we first met, you'd sure as hell better have a good explanation when I've calmed down enough to talk to you. 'Cause from where I'm standing, you are a thief—and a godawful one at that."

  Her first attempt at a reply had been nothing more than a pathetic croak. Clearing her parched throat, she'd tried again. "How… how long will I be here?"

  "As long as it takes."

  "May I please have some water?"

  He'd shoved the cup between the iron bars. "Like I said, I'll be back in a little while. And you'd better brace yourself, I won't be nearly as kind and forgiving as I was the last time you were here. That's a promise."

  Those words now echoed in her mind as she paced the cell, up and down—four steps, turn, four steps, turn.

  Was the deputy going to spank her? Mr. Gabe would almost certainly be taking the strap—or worse—to her when he found out. If he didn't dismiss her on the spot. Oh, no… I can handle any punishment Mr. Gabe decides to mete out so long as he doesn't fire me. I have nowhere else to go.

  At the thought of being turned out, of having to leave Culpepper Cove and find somewhere new to stay, the tears once more threatened to fall. The Red Petticoat was the first saloon in which Sapphire had found employment, but she'd heard stories of other houses, of places where the girls had to give up not just a far greater percentage of their earnings, but where they were mistreated on a daily basis, by the owner and customers alike. Opal, Della and Amy had all shared their own horrific accounts of life in other establishments. Tales of being bought and sold like chattel, daily beatings, and indentured servitude had made her want to fall to her knees and thank God for having found a home with Madame Jewel and Mr. Gabe.

  Overwhelmed, no longer caring how filthy the blanket was, Sapphire stopped pacing and sank down onto the cot. She hadn't thought her plan through, hadn't considered all the eventualities, and now, it might be too late.

  By the time she heard the key scrape in the rusty metal lock, she was almost beside herself with panic.

  "Get up," Crawford said curtly.

  "What time is it?" She had no idea how long she'd been waiting, wallowing in self-pity, misery and fear.

  "I didn't say you could talk. Get up," he said again.

  With watery knees, she did as she was told.r />
  "Raise your gown to your waist, turn around, and bend over, placing your hands on the cot."

  "Sir, please, wait, I—"

  For a man as big as he was, the deputy could move like lightning when he so chose, Sapphire discovered, as he cut off her words by grabbing her throat and pinning her up against the wall.

  Her instinctual reaction was panic but then, as he stood there, looking down at her, she realized he was breathing slowly and evenly. His gaze was unwavering. He was calm.

  His fingers around her neck were warm, he was holding her firmly but not so hard as to choke her. She could still breathe. And there it was again, that liquid heat in her loins, intensified by his touch, by his proximity, by those silver grey eyes.

  Her head began to spin.

  "Listen very carefully, darlin'," he began, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "Did you or did you not have permission to ride that man's horse?"

  "I did not," she muttered.

  "Then what you did was stealing. Simple as that. You know what the penalty for horse theft is around these parts?"

  She shook her head, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he must be able to feel it.

  "Prison time. And I'm talking years, not months. Matter of fact, many a man's been hanged for stealing a fella's horse," he told her.

  "Oh, God. Please—"

  "Shhh. You only speak when I ask you something. I'm not done talking yet. Now, little girl, you have exactly two choices. Either you agree to let me deal with this and punish you as I see fit, or you will be formally charged, and will be subject to any legal penalties Judge Johnson decides on. While I'm not saying the discipline I've a mind to give you will be easy to take, it will sure as hell be over quicker than letting a judge decide your fate. And I can promise you this; while it will most certainly hurt, you won't ever come to any real harm from me."

  She searched his eyes, trying desperately to find even the barest flicker of warmth.

  There was none. He was deadly serious.

  Even more unsettling than that was the way he was making her feel: that same combination of terror and desire he always seemed to inspire in her body. Her sex was slick, and she wasn't sure whether it was fear or his musky, enticing scent that was making her weak at the knees.

  "Well?" he said, his breath warm on her face. "Are you going to be a good girl for me and do exactly as I say, or shall I go fetch the judge right now?"

  "Good girl," she breathed. "I'll be a good girl for you, sir."

  Sapphire almost groaned with disappointment as his hand left her throat, but then he traced the seam of her lips with a single fingertip. The hot pulse between her legs intensified.

  "That's a very wise choice," he said, and it was all she could do not to open her mouth and suckle his finger.

  What the hell is wrong with me? He pins me to the wall and threatens me, and all I want is for him to kiss me…

  As Crawford let her go and took a couple of steps back, she caught sight of what he was holding, at which she almost dropped to her knees and begged him to call the judge after all.

  His wide mouth curved up into a humorless smile. "I took the liberty of cutting a few switches, just in case you made the right choice and decided you'd rather not be branded a thief in front of the whole town."

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I only did it—"

  He raised a hand to stop her, and the expression in his eyes told her she'd do better to mind him. "No more talking," he said. "Take off your gown and bend over. Now."

  "But just now, you said—"

  "That was before you decided to argue. Nightgown off. Shoot, that thing's so transparent, you might as well be naked anyway. And hurry up. The longer you dally, the worse it'll be for you."

  Her fingers were trembling so much she had difficulty grasping the hem of her shift. After what felt like an eternity, she managed to drag the garment up over her head, feeling her curls swish against her bare back as she let it drop to the ground. As she stood before him, completely naked, blushing furiously, she could feel his gaze on her skin as surely as if he were actually touching her. Her nipples were so hard they almost hurt.

  Then she met his eyes.

  "I didn't think you'd be shy," he said. His tone sounded almost mocking, and suddenly something else surged up within her.

  Outrage.

  That he would make such an assumption purely because of where she worked.

  That he refused to let her explain why she had taken the horse in the first damn place.

  That her plan hadn't worked.

  That he still didn't want her.

  And it was at that moment that she decided she would no longer show him even the slightest hint of fear or vulnerability. No matter how much the switch hurt, no matter what kind of snide remark he decided to make, she would take her discipline stoically—and then, hopefully, she'd never have to see the infuriating deputy again.

  Putting her hands on her hips, she cocked her head to one side and stared at him boldly. "Shall I bend over now, or would you like to ogle my breasts for a little while longer?"

  There was no mistaking the disconcerted flicker that crossed his face for the briefest second before he was able to regain his composure.

  "Bend over now," he said gruffly.

  "And will you be informing me in advance as to how many strokes are appropriate for my crime, or do you intend to surprise me?"

  "No more lip, missy," he said. "I will decide when you've had enough."

  "Very well." In truth, she was terrified, but somehow she had managed to keep her voice as clear and confident as a bell as she turned around, bent over, and placed her palms on the scratchy blanket.

  "Brace yourself," he ordered, just before he slashed the entire bundle of switches across her bare backside.

  She had anticipated a single stroke from a single rod. Instead, several slender switches whipped into her bottom at once, searing and stinging her naked flesh. Despite the white-hot pain, she gripped the blanket harder with her trembling fingers and bit her lip, determined not to show him how much it hurt.

  Seth had always said she was more stubborn than a mule when she put her mind to it, and as Crawford raised the bundle of switches and whapped them down again, she closed her eyes and concentrated on one thing: her anger. Thinking about her past, about Seth, only intensified her emotions. The pain helped her focus.

  "Am I getting through to you, yet?" Crawford asked, a moment after the third stroke.

  Sapphire sank her teeth even harder into her lower lip and exhaled shakily. Her butt felt as though it was being stung by an entire hive of bees, but she would be damned if she'd show him she was hurting. Nor would she answer him.

  "I'll take that as a no." His next stroke snicked the slender, whippy rods across the backs of Sapphire's thighs, and she was unable to suppress a squeal at the sudden, unexpected sting.

  "Hmm, maybe I should give you the rest of your strokes right there," he mused aloud.

  Her first instinct was to cry out, to beg him not to do so, but she caught herself in time.

  "You sure seem to have felt that one more." He laid the rods once more across her thighs, and she let out a low, anguished growl.

  "Did you know that some people enjoy pain?" His tone was conversational, almost as though they were having a casual talk over coffee. "It arouses them."

  Sapphire was suddenly acutely aware of the heat between her thighs.

  "Then there are those who enjoy inflicting pain… if they know it arouses their partner, all the better, but some people just like to hurt others for their own excitement."

  A particularly vicious stroke wrapped partway around her hip, and she rose up onto her tiptoes with a squeal.

  "Have you ever met anybody like that?" Crawford asked casually, pausing to run his thick, rough fingers down her right buttock, reigniting the burning stripes. "You must have done. I've heard The Red Petticoat caters to patrons of all tastes and fancies."

  It was too much.
Straightening up and spinning around, Sapphire glared at him. "Are you punishing me for taking that horse, or are you doing this because you can't stand what I do for a living? If you can't handle what I do, at least be man enough to admit it instead of making constant hurtful remarks!"

  Without waiting for a reply, she turned back around and once more bent over and placed her hands on the bed.

  "I'm sorry," he said at length. "You're right. I was being rude and I apologize. Of course I don't judge you for… that."

  "Of course not." She was unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  "I can appreciate that it may seem that way."

  "It does."

  "You're young and, as far as I know, without a husband. You're not beholden to anyone. What you do—and where you work—is entirely your choice."

  "Choice didn't have much to do with it," she snapped. "Now, are you going to resume punishing me, or are we going to be here all day?"

  To her astonishment, he chuckled. "You're bent over, naked in a jail cell, with a man twice your size standing behind you holding a bunch of freshly peeled and cut switches, and you still have an attitude! You've got guts, girl, I'll give you that."

  Truth be told, Sapphire no longer knew the difference between up or down, right or wrong. She was absolutely beside herself with the most confusing combination of desire and fury. And as unpleasant as it was, as much as it hurt, a part of her didn't want the punishment to end… because then Crawford would send her back to the Petticoat and she would never see him again. And because a secret place deep inside her was relishing it. It was just as she had suspected when Mr. Gabe had taken the strap to her; the blazing, painful heat of each stroke the deputy delivered was somehow stoking the fire in her loins.

  "Please," she whimpered, not knowing what she was even asking for.

  Without another word, Crawford brought the bundle swishing down across her stinging flesh over and over again; covering her entire bottom and the backs of her thighs with lines of delicious agony.

  The only sounds in the jail cell were the deceptively quiet snick of the rods meeting their target, and Sapphire's increasingly labored breathing as each stroke intensified her helpless, inexplicable desire.