Rugged Daddy (Dark Daddy Doms Book 2) Read online

  Chapter Four

  So maybe he’s a simple bumpkin after all. He’s left his keys in his coat pocket, which was about as smart as leaving money on the bookshelf you told an untrustworthy stranger to check out. I have the same guilty feeling taking the keys that I had when I lifted the hundred-dollar bills now lodged in the pocket of my mud-stiff blue jeans. But I’m not staying. I don’t care if he did save my life. A storm is coming and I could be snowed in here for weeks playing housewife to my chauvinist host. Thanks, but no thanks, pal.

  When he was outside getting the roast, I oiled the hinges of the back door with some WD-40 I found among the cleaning supplies, just to make extra sure it didn’t make noise when I opened it to leave. For two hours I laid awake before rising, and now I’m quiet as I creep through the main room, the pocket of my ripped jacket stuffed with leftover bread for the journey. I wish I had my backpack. Not only did it have my money and ID, but also an extra pair of gloves, an extra hat, and a small tent—all things that would be nice to have if the snow that’s starting to fall gets any heavier. At least my jacket has a hood, and even though it’s not lined, it will keep the wind off my ears. I tie it under my chin and head out the back door, quiet as a mouse.

  The moon is full, which is another positive. It’s my first time outside. I walk around the cabin, looking for the entrance to the logging trail that leads to the rough road beyond. Even in the moonlight, it’s hard to see, but I try not to panic. Finally, I spot a gap in the trees. It’s a straight slope down that rises and curves to the left into the forest. The map showed a single logging trail. If I just stick to that, I’ll be fine.

  The equipment shed is still open. I quietly pull the tarp away from the snowmobile and hold my hand over the little penlight attached to the keychain as I direct my beam at the gas gauge. It’s nearly full. There’s a second snowmobile in the back of the shed. Beside it is a gas can. I take the can and strap it on the back of the one I’m taking. Now to start the thing. I’ll have to get out fast.

  I climb on, wincing at how cold the seat is. I wish I had gloves. My fingers are already starting to feel numb as I begin to test the keys, trying first one and then the other. My anxiety mounts as I work my way around the ring with no success. Then, finally, the second from the last one slides into the ignition and relief floods through me.

  Please don’t be loud, I silently pray, turning the key with a slightly shaking hand. The engine sputters and then comes to life with a surprisingly quiet purr. It’s like the stars are aligned just right for my perfect getaway.

  “Bye-bye, Jed Clampett,” I say, flipping the switch for the headlights. But what I see in their glow causes me to cry out in alarm. Zane Tyler is standing directly in front of the snowmobile, his large frame blocking the narrow exit. I panic, fumbling for the gas pedal as I jerk the steering wheel to the right. My foot finds the gas as I attempt to maneuver the machine past him, but I only succeed in slamming into the shed’s frame, dislodging a shelf and sending its contents showering down behind me. A paint can narrowly misses my head, but I don’t even have time to react before I’m bodily lifted from the seat. Zane’s huge arm is tight around my midsection as he switches off the ignition before tossing me over his shoulder and turning to head back to the cabin.

  I shouldn’t be furious, but I am. I curse my captor as I beat his back with my fists. I have to get out of here. I need to get back to Sharp Top trail to find my backpack. This isn’t fair!

  I don’t realize how cold it is until we’re back in the warmth of the cabin. Zane dumps me on the sofa, where I land with an ‘oomph.’ He stands there with his hands on his hips as I scramble to sitting.

  “You’re damn ungrateful,” he says. “Ungrateful, ill-mannered, and dishonest.” He turns and leaves the room. He’s carrying something when he returns and tosses it beside me. It’s my backpack. I look up at him. I’m busted.

  “Got anything you want to say for yourself, Eva?”

  I don’t immediately answer. I open the pack, looking inside.

  “I’m dishonest? You said you didn’t see a backpack.” I push around the contents. Everything is there except… the opening I’d sewn shut to hide the money is open. Fuck.

  “Where’s the cash?” I ask.

  “You tell me,” he says. “You were the one that took it off my shelf.”

  I stand up, pulling what I took from my pocket with shaking hands. “I was just borrowing it,” I say, my voice strained with anger. I throw the bills at him. “And I’m not talking about your cash. I’m talking about what I had in the pack.”

  “Tell me, young lady,” he says. “Was that borrowed, too? Only somebody with something to hide lies about her name.”

  “Listen,” I say. “I didn’t ask to come here, okay? And even if you saved my life, that doesn’t give you any right to keep me here…”

  “I’m not keeping you here for grins. There’s a goddamn storm coming,” he says.

  “I don’t care!” I know I’m being irrational, but I’m pissed. Pissed at myself, pissed at how completely my plan fell apart, pissed at the snow for falling, but mostly pissed at this man for not just giving me my way. I get to my feet, my fists balled at my sides. “I am not going to stay in your stupid fucking cabin playing housewife, got it?”

  His stance softens, and he sighs, shaking his head as he turns away. Zane is silent for a moment before turning back. “You’re right,” he says. “I can’t treat you like a housewife. A housewife is an adult role. You don’t act like an adult. You act like a spoiled little girl. So that’s how I’m going to treat you.”

  What happens next occurs so quickly I don’t even have time to react. Zane Tyler grabs my arm and sits down, simultaneously jerking me over his lap.

  I’m being assaulted. This is my first thought as I feel him pulling at my blue jeans. I’ve lost weight since arriving, so he doesn’t need to even unbutton them. I feel his huge hand jerking them down, first over one hip and then the other. He pushes them until they are wadded just above my boots. I’m not wearing panties. My ass is bare and still cold from my time outside. I reflexively squeeze my thighs together, sure now that he’s going to push his fingers between them to touch my pussy.

  How wrong I am. The cabin fills with the sound of my scream as his massive hand crashes down in a shockingly painful smack across the crest of my backside. The cold of my skin magnifies the burn.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” The question comes out half-sobbed, half-shouted. But it’s a rhetorical question. I know what he’s doing. He’s spanking me. I’ve never been spanked, and it’s an awful experience made worse by his complete silence.

  The only sound filling the cabin is that of his hard, callused hand striking my soft bottom. Each blow drives heat deep into the skin of my buttocks. There’s no recovery from one punishing spank before the next one falls. At first, they are centered on the crest of my upturned cheeks, but soon he’s targeting the unpunished skin just above the tops of thighs I’d squeezed together when he started. I’m no longer doing that. I’m past modesty, past dignity. I lose count of how many times his huge hand has impacted my bottom. I can only thrash and wail and beg as Zane Tyler methodically reddens a backside now pulsing with hurt. I can feel sweat under my shirt as I expend energy in a fruitless struggle to escape. He’s strong—stronger than I had even imagined. The arm locked around my waist might as well be an iron band. All I can do is wiggle my bottom back and forth and kick my legs to the extent the pants hobbling my shins will allow. I’m literally crying like a baby, my wails helpless and infantile. I try to cover my bottom with his hand, but he catches it as he continues to spank, moving now from my hot, throbbing bottom to launch a painfully cruel finale. Zane Tyler shifts me to the right and tips me forward so that my upper body is no longer supported by the sofa. I’m now hanging face down over his knee, my ass jutting up. I feel his lower leg hook around the backs of my knees. I can’t move my legs. Nor can I shift to avoid the pain of his hand as he begins to targ
et my lower buttocks just where they meet the top of my thighs.

  I thought I was out of tears and cries. I was wrong. I’m blinded by pain. I can’t even kick. I can’t shield myself. I tried that already. So I just pound the floor with my fists, crying, “Please, please, please,” over and over until he stops spanking me, not because he’s taken pity, but because he’s done.

  “Up.” He lifts me to my feet and I sway like a drunk, overwhelmed by pain that seems to radiate from my ass through the rest of my body. When I don’t immediately comply, he rises with a sigh and scoops me into his arms. He takes me to the bedroom—his bedroom—and dumps me on the bed, right on my tender ass. A fresh gale of tears ensues and he ignores them as he unlaces and removes my boots, then my jeans. He unzips my jacket—the hood came off in my struggles—and pulls it off. The shirt comes next. I’m naked and spanked, and I can only lie there as he wordlessly walks out of the room.

  “No,” I say weakly, raising a hand as if I can stop him from where I lay. But I can only watch through the doorway as he throws my clothes into the fireplace. The rubber from the soles of my boots sends a plume of dark smoke up the chimney. Zane stares at the blaze a moment before coming back.

  He kneels beside the bed and pulls out one of the boxes I didn’t explore. He rifles through it and takes out a gown. Like the one I woke up in, it’s old-fashioned and girlish. He lifts me up to sitting, ignoring my protests. I moan pitifully as the gown is slipped over my head. The bed sinks as he sits down beside me.

  “You’re going to sleep now,” he says. “In the morning, we’re going to have a talk about who you are and what you’ve done. I’m not getting into it now. I want you to lie here and think about why you have a sore, spanked ass. You had a chance to act like a responsible grownup. You gave that up. So, for as long as you’re here, you won’t be treated like a grownup. You’re going to be treated like a little girl. That means you’ll be taken care of, and even spoiled a little if you’re good. But if you’re bad, I’ll tear that ass up in ways you never imagined. Understand?”

  I nod, his final threat ringing in my ears. He shuts the door and the room goes dark. I lie down and turn on my side, listening to the sound of my own whimpering and the wind that’s now starting to howl. I hear sleet hitting the sides of the cabin, and in my rational mind I know that if I’d followed through with my foolhardy plan, I’d probably have crashed and died on the trail. I know that Zane Tyler has probably saved my life for the second time.

  What I don’t know is what he has in store for me. Was he speaking literally? I’m cold. I drag myself to sitting, pull back the quilt and huddle under it. Will the man who just spanked me join me in bed to warm me with his body? I close my eyes against the memory of his spanking me, of the helplessness I felt. I fall asleep, exhausted from emotion. Somewhere in the night, I’m aware of warmth, and of feeling sore but safe.

  Chapter Five

  Am I supposed to wait for permission to rise? I smell food. Eggs. Bacon. Outside the sky is gray and the wind is still howling. The bedroom door is open, and the heat from the fire that consumed my clothing is warming the room.

  My ass is killing me. I push the quilts back and get out of bed. I wince as I sit up and moan as I stand. Moving only makes the pain worse. I shuffle away from the doorway, lift my gown, and look back. The swell of my bottom is still an angry pink. I reach back with both hands and rub. The skin is tender and puffy. My face flames at the memory of what Zane Tyler did to me.

  There’s a dress on the chair by the corner, new drawers, and new woolen stockings. It’s a different dress. What the hell? The gown I’m wearing is so thin as to be nearly sheer. I pull on the drawers, the dress, and the woolen stockings. My hair is a tangled mess. I walk over to the dresser where there’s a shaving mirror and a wash bowl. I almost gasp at my appearance. Is this how he sees me? With my unruly curls and wide, red-rimmed eyes, I look more like a chastened little girl than a woman. The dress doesn’t help. I move my fingers to the curved neckline. It’s trimmed in delicate crocheted eyelet. I worry my full lower lip as I regard my stocking-clad toes. I can’t stay in here forever. I turn and force myself to walk out.

  Zane has laid the table with a platter of thick-cut bacon, fried eggs, and biscuits. He obviously means for me to join him. One of the chairs has a pillow in it, marking it as mine, a humiliating reminder that last night’s spanking is as fresh to him as it is to me.

  He glances back at me wordlessly as I pull out the chair and sit down, closing my eyes against the discomfort. The cushion doesn’t help a lot, but it’s better than nothing. And it’s a silent acknowledgement that he knows what he did hurt me.

  He remains taciturn as he doles out the food. Two eggs and three pieces of bacon and a biscuit for me. Twice as much for himself. There’s a pot of butter in the middle of the table, and a jar of honey. I tear apart a biscuit and watch as the butter I spread on one half melts and sinks into the bread. At that moment, there’s a crashing sound outside that makes me jump.

  “Tree down,” he says. “It’s a blizzard. Worst one I’ve seen since coming out here.” He eyes me sternly. “Even some of the animals won’t survive. A human?” He shakes his head. “She’d be a goner.”

  I don’t acknowledge what he says. I just force myself to chew and swallow, wishing I could enjoy the food, which is very good. But the ball of dread in my stomach is keeping me from savoring my breakfast, and I can’t get past the fact that the hands that prepared it are the same ones that bared and spanked me less than six hours ago.

  I’ve stopped eating by the time he’s finished. Not knowing what else to do, I sit in my chair, trying not to move, as he clears the plates and puts the leftovers in containers, which he takes to the porch to keep cold. When he comes back, he sits back down in the chair.

  “I suppose you have questions,” he says, which surprises me. I’d expected an interrogation, so having the tables turned throws me off. I have to think for a moment.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had my backpack?”

  “I would have if the first thing out of your mouth hadn’t been a lie. You told me your name was Mandy. But I’d already looked at your ID, so I knew your name was Eva Sholar. A girl carrying a bunch of cash sewn into her backpack is sketchy enough. But when she gives you a fake name on top of that, she’s obviously got something to hide.” He pauses. “So what are you hiding? And don’t lie to me again unless you want to go back over my knee.”

  “Look,” I say. “I’m not a kid.” But even as I utter those words, my chin begins to wobble and tears prick my eyes. “You can’t just…”

  “Spank you?” He raises a brow. “Actually, I can. And I will. So you’d better start talking, unless…” He raises one brawny forearm, filling me with dread as he unbuttons his cuff and makes a show of rolling up his sleeve.

  “You’re crazy,” I say, but my heart is already starting to pound. He’s rolled his left sleeve up to his elbow, and he pushes his chair back as he starts working on the right sleeve. After last night I can’t take a chance that this is a bluff. I cave when the second sleeve is halfway to his elbow. “All right!” I yell almost desperately. I shake my head, trying to figure where to start. “Look. I’m not a bad person.”

  He leans back, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “Go on.”

  “I’m a good person,” I say. “But I did a bad thing. It was for the right reasons, but it was still a bad thing.”

  “That money in your bag. Is it stolen?”

  I drop my gaze and nod.

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “Are you going to turn me in if I tell you?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But I’ll tan your ass if you don’t.”

  I blink back tears as I begin to recite the story I’d vow to myself I’d never tell. “His name is Ken Workman. He runs Workman Outfitters over in Black Rock. Have you heard of him?”

  Zane’s face goes hard. “Yeah. I know the name. Go on.”

  “I ap
plied to his company as a guide.”

  “A guide, huh?”

  “Yes. I lied about that, too. I’m an experienced hiker. My parents were old hippie activists. My dad even did a stint in Earth First, and almost got arrested several times. I grew up in an RV, going from mountain town to mountain town. When I got older, my parents joked that I was a buzzkill since they were forced to put down roots so I could go to school. They did send me to summer camp. I didn’t lie about that. They sent me to college, too… two years at community, even though they could barely afford it, what with Dad doing odd jobs and my mom running her craft business. I took out student loans to get my university degree. I majored in Physical Education. I thought about teaching, but couldn’t stomach being locked indoors all day. I came out here hoping to do what I loved.

  “I remember getting so impatient with my parents going on and on about Mother Gaia and God’s creatures and whatnot. But I guess I’m more like them than I realized. I wanted to be a nature guide, but Workman offered me a desk job in his office instead with the promise that I could become a guide if a position came open. It never did.”

  “So why did you stay?” Zane asks.

  “Because the pay was good, but I think that was because he figured a fat paycheck would convince me to turn a blind eye to the shady shit he knew I’d see.”

  “What kind of shady shit?”

  “He had two sets of guides. One small group of part-timers he sent out with tourists—all were local hires less qualified than me, of course. The others were these two sketchy guys—Billy and Angus. He had me keeping two separate set of books, one for the regular tours and one for what he called the deluxe packages. Those are the ones Ken or Bill or Angus led, but they weren’t sightseeing. Twice I saw Bill loading guns onto ATVs he claimed they’d use to get to the harder trails. There was other weird stuff, too. My desk was next to Ken’s office, and he sometimes would talk on speakerphone. One afternoon I heard a man thanking Ken for the opportunity to get such a unique mount he’d made. The jewel of his collection, he called it. And then there were the Asian guys…”