She could see him. He was standing right in front of her, his shirt off, his tattoos jumping as his muscles flexed and his hands clenched into fists. Elsie could see the desire, the painful need etched across his too handsome features. He wanted her. And she wanted him. Suddenly she was standing there, right next to him, and they were both completely naked.
Skin against skin, the friction stoked a fire between them that raged out of control, but she didn’t care. She had exactly what she needed, exactly what she wanted. As far as she was concerned, the rest could all burn away if she could just get a taste of the pleasure she knew he could show her.
He reached out with one hand, touching her and sliding his fingers across her soft skin as she opened her mouth to moan in ecstasy. This. This was what she needed. Just the two of them, together, driving both of their bodies up and over the edge. And then she blinked, and everything was gone. Hatchet was gone. The pleasure was gone.
Suddenly she could feel the soft mattress beneath her and the warm sunlight on the backs of her eyelids.
It was morning.
Elsie woke slowly, lazily. It took her a long moment to remember where she was. And then it all came crashing back. Tracking the missing cattle. Getting thrown from Goat’s saddle and being caught by the handsome stranger. Being kidnapped by the handsome stranger and subsequently aiding him, riding with him to his house.
And then, of course, being seduced by the handsome stranger.
She flushed bright red at the memory and, as she moved, the evidence that it had really happened was there in the new soreness between her legs. It had been real. It hadn’t been a dream after all.
She must have been out of her mind. She must have completely lost it. It was the only reason Elsie could think of for acting so out of character the previous night, but even as she thought about it, she knew she’d do it all over again without changing a single thing. Something indelible had changed inside her. And she couldn’t make herself care.
Reluctantly, Elsie blinked open her sleepy eyelids and nearly gasped when she looked beside her and saw him there. A part of her had still secretly wanted to believe that it had all been a dream. A hallucination brought on by the fall from Goat’s saddle. Or maybe she’d never left her room at all and the whole thing had just been one big fantasy. But fantasy could never look that good.
Elsie grinned to herself at the thought and blushed prettily when Hatchet turned his head, catching her mischievous expression.
“What’s got you in such a good mood this morning, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice still gruff and hoarse.
The sound sent shivers of memory tingling across her skin. His drawl was thick enough to swim through and it made her smile, picturing him as some modern cowboy who was at ease, whether he rode his motorcycle or his horse
“Maybe I had something to with it?” he asked, his brown eyes shining as he met her gaze.
As he turned towards her, Elsie could only stare up at him as the sunlight caught on his tanned skin and cast shadows across his sharp features.
“Maybe,” Elsie said softly, that smile back hovering around her lips. She couldn’t help it. She felt… happy. Free somehow, in a way that she hadn’t felt in a long time. That’s real ironic, considering you were kidnapped last night! But she just pushed the irritating voice of old Elsie to the back of her mind, focusing only on this new, carefree Elsie that she’d become.
Old Elsie would never have asked someone she didn’t know a personal question. Old Elsie also wouldn’t have slept with someone she didn’t know, either. But this was new Elsie. Brave Elsie.
“So how did you get the name Hatchet, anyway?” Elsie's voice was still husky with sleep and the remnants of her dream. “I’m assuming that’s not the name your parents gave you.”
“No,” Hatchet let out a small, cynical laugh. “Definitely not. Harold and Lynn Shaw were stand up, good Christian citizens. They came from a small town…”
“Like Mayville?” Elsie interrupted, thinking of the small town she’d lived in for the past ten years. Hatchet paused, thinking, and then nodded slowly.
“A lot like Mayville, actually.” He sighed, rolling onto his back, but as he spoke his voice was easy, his cadence even. “Lincoln.”
Elsie tilted her head, so she could hear him better. “What was that?”
“My name. My real name I mean. Lincoln Shaw of Fort Charles, South Carolina.”
“So,” Elsie said with another mischievous grin. “That’s where you get your drawl from.”
“Hah! Look who’s talking,” Hatchet exclaimed, looking over at her in mock effrontery, but she could read the laughter in his dark eyes. “You’ve got a drawl so heavy I can practically see it when you talk.”
“No. You’ve got a drawl,” Elsie explained, “I’ve got twang. There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh.” There was a note of disbelief in his voice, but Elsie chose to ignore it.
“But that still doesn’t answer my question.”
“And what question is that?” Hatchet snaked one arm out and around her still naked waist, drawing her close to him and distracting them both.
“I, uh, I asked about your nickname. Hatchet. How’d you get it?” she repeated her question, forcing her eyes to stay on his face instead of wandering further south.
She could feel that he was just as naked as she was under the light blanket and it turned her mind to mush. Thankfully for her mental faculties, Hatchet pulled back after a moment, putting a few much-needed inches between them as he flopped back onto his back. She had a feeling he didn’t want to look at her as he spoke, and she wondered why for a moment. But then he started speaking.
“My childhood wasn’t… great,” he said softly, “After high school I knew I had to get away any way I could, so I did the only thing I could think of. I enlisted.”
“Army?” Elsie prompted when he went silent.
“Marines.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly and she waited for him. “I served two tours in Afghanistan. When I was in boot camp, though, my DI put me on barber duty. Needless to say, I wasn’t very good at the job and I lasted for about two days before they bitched enough to have me reassigned. After that, everyone started calling me Hatchet and it just… well, it just stuck.”
“So, they called you Hatchet because… you gave everyone bad haircuts?” Elsie asked, shifting around her opinion of this man who was much more complicated than she’d first assumed.
“I resent that. I gave terrible haircuts,” Hatchet laughed. “But yeah, that’s how I got it.”
“And what about now? With, uh, what did you call him, Jackrabbit?” Elsie asked, watching him closely. “Another funny name.”
“Well, that story is Rabbit’s to tell. He served with me, back in Afghanistan, and now…” He trailed off, finishing with a shrug, but Elsie wasn’t content with that.
“And now what?”
“And now we run together, okay? After I got back things were… different.” Hatchet spit out the words, and Elsie could see the deep-rooted pain they still caused him, “It was hard for me to get a job, and then… well.” He paused to give her a sideways look, “Well, I lost the job. And then it was damned impossible for me to work anywhere else. Rabbit helped me out. Introduced me to some people.”
“Some people, huh?” she asked softly.
“You sure do ask a lot of questions, baby,” Hatchet said, turning to her with a well-worn smile, “I can think of a few other things you could do with that mouth.”
“That’s not my name, you know,” Elsie said icily.
“What’s not?”
“‘Baby.’” She snorted again for good measure. “Neither is ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’ or ‘sugar’ or anything else you might’ve learned from the Marines.”
Hatchet laughed, leaning down to kiss her lips, getting distracted along the way as he trialed soft kisses across her cheek, her ear, her neck.
“Oh yeah?” he whispered, and his hot breath tickled against her. “Then what should I call you? Because honestly, I’m not too picky.”
“I bet you aren’t.” Elsie fought to keep the smile from her face as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Hatchet continued to leave lines of kisses on all the parts of exposed skin he could reach, and her interest in talking started to wane as the same desire from the night before sparked back to life, just as strong, just as intense as it had been.
Finally, she said. “My name is Elsie. Elsie Grace McLaurel.”
She had barely gotten the words out before she felt Hatchet stiffen in her arms. It was as if she’d said some magic words that had turned him into a stone statue. Elsie tried to turn her head to look at him, to ask him what the hell was going on, but she was trapped by his muscular frame.
“McLaurel?” He whispered her name, repeating it over and over, so soft she could barely hear it.
“Hatchet? What’s going on?” she started to ask but jerked back with a gasp as he turned his head sharply to look at her, his dark eyes intense and burning into her own.
“Please tell me your daddy isn’t Mark McLaurel? The owner of Gold Creek Ranch?” There was a note in his voice that she hadn’t heard before, not even when he had been tying her up and threatening to take her with him. It was harsh and brittle as if the slightest breeze could make it shatter into a thousand pieces. A part of her was scared by it. By him. But that was the old Elsie. The new Elsie tilted up her chin, met him stare for stare and refused to back down.
“He is,” she said on a nod, “Mark McLaurel is my daddy. But what does that have to do with anything…?”
“Just stop. Stop talking.” Hatchet ground out the words as he leapt from the bed and hastily threw on a shirt and a pair of jeans that had been draped over the chair in the corner.
“Hatchet. I don’t understand…” But before she could even finish speaking he held up a hand, cutting off her words.
“Just stay here, alright? Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere.” Hatchet shot her an angry look from beneath furrowed brows before stalking from the room and slamming the door behind him.
***
No. No, no, no. It was impossible. It was fucking impossible. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be Elsie fucking McLaurel. But he knew it was true and the enormity of the pile of shit he’d just landed in hit him straight in the chest.
He realized with a start, then, why she seemed vaguely familiar. He’d actually seen her once before, although he doubted she’d recognize him. She’d been young at the time, Well, younger anyway. All knees and scrawny legs. It had been when her father had swindled the previous owner out of the farm and had come down to do the dirty work of firing everybody himself.
Jesus, that had to have been eight or nine years ago now. Which made her, what, nineteen? Twenty at most?
He shook his head, trying to get a handle on his thoughts, but they were flying around as if caught in a storm and all he could do was hold on or be swept away right along with the rest of his honor and what little dignity he had left.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” Hatchet cursed as he leaned against the door he’d just slammed.
Why him? Why the fuck did this kind of shit always have to happen to him? With another curse, he ran his fingers angrily through his hair as he tried to decide what to do. It had been one thing when she was just a stranger, just a farm hand. But now she was Mark Fucking McLaurel’s fucking daughter. The only child of the man that Hatchet hated and stole from.
Shit, I basically stole her! The thought echoed in his head and an odd mix of anger and guilt flooded through him. He’d taken a hell of a lot more than just a few head of cattle last night, that was for damn sure. But he hadn’t known it was her! He hadn’t known, and now he would have to pay the price for his ignorance.
Before he could let himself think twice, Hatchet charged towards the living room and grabbed his cell from the coffee table where he’d left it the night before. He dialed the first number on speed dial and sighed in relief when it was answered on the second ring.
“Hatchet? What’s up, man?”
“Rabbit. Thank god.” Hatchet let himself drop like a lead weight on the couch but immediately stood up again as memories of what had happened flooded back.
“What’s up? You sound shaken.”
“That’s because I am fucking shaken,” Hatchet shot back and then took a deep breath, trying to get a rein on his out-of-control emotions. “Listen, I need you to come over here.”
“Why?”
“Because we have a problem.”
“We? What’s this ‘we’?”
“Just listen, Rabbit. You know that girl who was with me yesterday?”
“The hot blonde?” Rabbit said with a lascivious tone in his voice that had Hatchet’s hackles rising. “Yeah. What about her?”
“Well, I brought her home last night…”
“Hatch, I’m really not in the mood to hear about your exploits, okay? You know I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell. You don’t have to rub it in.”
“No! That’s not why I’m… Jesus, Jackrabbit, you are such a pain in my ass sometimes.” Hatchet ground out the words. His friend was compounding his frustration, but he knew it was more at himself than at anyone else. “She’s Elsie fucking McLaurel, Rabbit.”
Jackrabbit was quiet for so long that Hatchet was afraid the call had been disconnected, but finally a long whistle came over the line.
“Damn, man. Elsie McLaurel? As in Mark McLaurel’s daughter? As in the man we robbed, the man that you hate more than…?”
“Yeah. That’s the one, Rabbit.”
“And she’s… that’s his daughter?” Rabbit sounded incredulous and Hatchet could swear he even picked up an edge of humor there as well.
“I swear to god, Rabbit, if you laugh…”
“I won’t. I won’t! I swear.” Hatchet rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics and realized there was a small grin drawing across his face. That was the one thing he could always say about Rabbit. The man knew how to make people feel better.
“Are you gonna help me or not, Jack?”
“Of course I am!” That was another thing about the man. If you needed help, all you had to do was ask and he’d be the first one to lend you a hand. “Look, just sit tight. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Make it ten, alright?” Hatchet said, staring up at the ceiling. He knew his bedroom, and Elsie, was right above him.
“You got it, Hatch. We’ll figure this out.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, but he was talking to himself. Rabbit had already hung up.
True to his word, nine and half minutes later, a black pickup truck slowed to a stop in front of his house. Hatchet nearly rolled his eyes in frustration when not one, but two men stepped out, Jackrabbit and the president of the Roadburners crew, Arnold “Mad Dog” Barns.
Hatchet opened the door just in time for them to both walk inside.
“What the hell, Rabbit?” Hatchet asked quietly as Mad Dog looked around. He was older, his head bald and shiny with it. With his ruddy complexion and round cheeks, he almost looked jolly. But that impression lasted only until he spoke.
“Where the fuck is the girl, Hatchet?” Mad Dog’s tone was one that brooked no disrespect, real or imagined, courtesy of years of cigars and whiskey, as he laid out his demand, a tone that brooked no disrespect, real or imagined. “Take me to her.”
Hatchet spared a single glare for Rabbit before turning with a sigh and leading the small group up the stairs. When they got to the door, Hatchet stopped to face them.
“You can wait here,” he said, more gruffly than he should have, but he was pissed and at the end of his patience. “I’ll go get her.”
“Open the door, Hatchet,” Mad Dog ordered. “Now.”
Hatchet met his gaze, stare for stare. “No.”
Rabbit’s gaze shifted uneasily between the two men as the tension in the hallway thickened between them.