The Sister and the Sinner Read online

  He wasn't sorry in the least that he'd spanked her, only that someone else had caused her harm. She found that dichotomy very interesting, and extremely touching, somehow.

  He held her for a long time, and she let him, drowning in the new sensations he created within her. Eventually he let her go. He went to the door and adjusted it, getting it to close in spite of the damaged hinges. "Tell me exactly what happened."

  She told him as much of the conversation as she could recall, mentioning the few names as well. Higgens. Mills. Holt. She noticed the way he startled when she said that last one. "That's you, isn't it? You're Holt."

  "J.D. Holt. John Douglas, after my father and grandfather, but everyone calls me J.D."

  "J.D," she whispered, glad to have something to call him besides her outlaw.

  He seemed irritated with her, though. She felt jittery all over, worrying about whether he meant it when he said he was going to spank her again, dreading yet anticipating it as well.

  "What kinds of tools do you have?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  "There's a hammer in the dairy shed. And it's way past time I milked her. Nana will be suffering soon if I don't."

  "But shouldn't you rest?"

  "And you're going to milk a goat, one-armed?"

  He shook his head. "Together, we make a pair, don't we? I guess, I'll help you with your chores today, and you can help me. How's that sound?"

  He held her arm as they picked their way across the muddy ground to the dairy shed. He gathered up a few tools while she cleaned Nana's stall and fed her, then milked her. He carried the milk pail back to the kitchen then and watched as she strained the milk, poured it into clean jars and put it in the ice box. Then she helped hold the door while he hammered the kinks out of the hinges. From there, they mopped the floors, washed clothes, and set a pot of stew on to simmer.

  Mary Francis got over her irritation at having someone watch her constantly. Instead, she reveled at having a companion with whom she could talk, someone to share her life, if only for a few days. The convent was going to be twice as lonely when he left.

  Late in the afternoon Mother Agnes awoke. She was restless and irritable, which Mary Francis didn't fault her for. Anyone would be, being bedridden as she was. Mary Francis kept a pleasant smile on her face, nodding or shaking her head in response to Mother's complaints. But then JD walked by, and Mother's face transformed into pure joy.

  "There you are, my boy! Come in, come in. Sit and stay a while. Tell me about yourself. Where've you been? Did you marry?"

  J.D. looked uncomfortable, which amused Mary Francis. She went to take his arm and urge him into the room. "Yes, Jake. Do tell us everything?" she teased.

  He perched on the straight chair Mary Francis produced and cracked his knuckles. "Not much to tell, Mother Agnes," he mumbled.

  "Horse feathers! Then open the Good Book and read to me. I just love to hear your voice."

  He lifted the Bible from her nightstand as though it were something poisonous. Mary Francis covered her lips to keep from laughing aloud. He scowled at her, so she must not have been entirely successful. Mother Agnes didn't seem to have heard, though. Instead, she beamed at the outlaw.

  "Where should I begin?" he said, fumbling with the thin pages.

  "It's all good," Mother Agnes sighed. "Read anywhere. Psalms. Proverbs. You decide."

  He flipped through the papers and jabbed his finger in the middle of them arbitrarily. He smoothed the book open, adjusted his position on the chair, and cleared his throat. Then he read.

  "The truly capable woman-- who can find her? She is far beyond the price of pearls. Her husband's heart has confidence in her, from her he will derive no little profit. Advantage and not hurt she brings him all the days of her life. She selects wool and flax, she does her work with eager hands. She is like those merchant vessels, bringing her food from far away."

  He lifted his eyes and gazed at Mary Francis with an unfathomable expression. She smiled at him, then glanced away, embarrassed at the attention. Eventually, he returned to reading, and read until Mother Agnes fell asleep.

  Chapter Four

  "Now sister," J.D. said sternly after she'd cleared away the supper dishes.

  Mary Francis gulped, suspecting what he was referring to, but chose to play innocent. "What, sir?" she asked, opening her eyes wide.

  "There is the matter of your spanking to settle."

  She put her hands behind her, protecting the part in question. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Sir."

  He chuckled, but he didn't look all that amused. He stood, which intimidated her a little. He was so very tall! And his shoulders were far too broad for a mere mortal man. God must have had fun when He'd put this one together! She bit her lower lip to prevent herself from drooling - which seemed a ridiculous thing to do given the circumstance.

  "You have yet to learn obedience, sister. You argued with me more than once today, and while spankings are best when giving immediately, we were rather busy at the time."

  "Spanking me because I hold a difference of opinion seems a bit bullish of you, J.D."

  "If all things were equal, I suppose you could be right, sister," he said. "But we are not equal. I am older than you by far. I've had a lot more experience, and I am a man. You are young, impulsive, naive, and you were warned of the consequences for arguing. So get yourself over the table. Now!"

  She knew it was foolish to needle him, and yet, she did not want to be spanked! She had been under the impression that Mother Agnes's spankings were pretty horrible. She certainly had hated them when she was younger. But those were nothing in comparison to how this man tore up her poor bottom. Perhaps part of it was that he made her feel helpless, something she was not familiar with. Although as a child, and later, a postulant or novice, she had to obey Mother Agnes and the other sisters, it was by choice. She could have left. They did not chain her to her bed at night. With him, there was no choice in the matter at all. He demanded, she obeyed... or else.

  Her stomach felt like butterflies were fluttering around inside, and tingles flooded through her groin, making her feel utterly sinful. Perhaps God had sent this man here to discipline her, because her foolish thoughts, words, and deeds would keep her from being fit to take her vows. Bravely, she took a step towards him, and then another.

  She walked up to the table, then bent over it, dread lodging in her throat even as the hope of forgiveness flooded through her soul.

  He lifted the heavy robe to expose her backside. Before she could plead with him not to undress her, he tugged at her bloomers, as well. "These. Off!"

  "No! Please, sir, no! Mother Agnes never removed my bloomers." She didn't because she didn't believe in going anywhere naked. But then, the wide slit in the bloomers would usually part and expose a good portion of her bottom to the Mother's hearty swat.

  Three quick, hard swats landed on her bottom right over the bloomers. "Obedience, sister!" he barked. Then he grabbed the offending garment and tore it. The fabric fluttered to the floor. Mary Francis reached behind her in a vain attempt to conceal her bottom with her small hand, twisting to try to free herself.

  He had removed his belt and now began to strike her with it. Firmly, accurately, quickly... blow after blow. She shoved a fist in her mouth, not wanting to disturb Mother Agnes's sleep, but how could she refrain from screaming when he was torturing her so? Still, if this was God's plan, then she should accept her punishment.

  She focused on how her Lord had been so cruelly beaten prior to his crucifixion, and joined her suffering with his, however pitiful it was. She knew that God loved her. The verses from Proverbs regarding the rod of correction flooded her thoughts again.

  Wouldn't J.D. grow tired, eventually? Did he even know the meaning of the word? Katie didn't think this spanking was ever going to end, even though she was quite sure that her bottom had been set ablaze long since. The swats he delivered at the very end were at least as painful as the ones he'd given he
r when he started, if not more so! That just wasn't right! It wasn't natural!

  And he didn't just confine himself to her derriere, either. The backs of her thighs suffered in a like manner, until she was sure that her entire backside was all exactly the same angry red color.

  By the time he stopped she was crying hysterically, kicking and screaming and begging him to stop. There was no dignity left in her. She didn't care that every time she kicked he probably got a look at parts of her she really didn't want him to look at, especially if it got him to stop spanking her.

  He helped her to stand, then gathered her into his arms and held her, showing such tenderness after inflicting so much pain that it confused her. She hiccupped, clutching the folds of his shirt in her fist as she hopped from one foot to the other in a useless attempt to ease her suffering.

  "Sh, sister," he whispered. "There, there. This is a hard lesson to learn, but it may save your life one day."

  It already had, she reflected. She'd been feeling lustful thoughts, and now they were gone. All that remained was her suffering. Perhaps one day she would be good enough to be a nun after all.

  He helped her upstairs, then into the same bedroom they had occupied the night before. She was still sobbing too hard to care what happened next. He had spanked her like a naughty child, surely he would not look upon her as a woman now. He removed her belt, scapular, robe, and veil. He looked perplexed when he came to her binding, though, and she hoped that maybe he would let her wear it to bed, but such was not to be.

  "What the hell is this?" he asked, startling her with the near anger in his voice.

  "B - b - bindings, sir," she stammered.

  "What ever for!"

  She didn't answer quickly enough, and he swatted her bottom with his hand.

  "It's what women wear! To support their breasts!" There. She'd said it! She could hope that she embarrassed him at least a fraction as much as he was constantly doing to her.

  "That's ridiculous. It looks uncomfortable, and unhealthy. Take it off."

  She folded her arms in front of her, protectively. "It is far more uncomfortable to go about and let them swing, sir! I have overly large breasts!"

  "I'll be the judge of that," he purred.

  Heat flamed her face. The lustful thoughts returned with a vengeance. She knew she should ask him to spank her yet again, but she couldn't make herself say the words. Then his knife reappeared, slipped from his boot so fast she barely had time to notice it, before he slipped the sharp blade beneath her bindings and sliced it in two. She stared, horrified, as the white linen shredded, the dainty white cross Sister Margaret had embroidered on it torn asunder.

  "You are never to wear anything like that again," he thundered. "Nor bloomers. Got that?"

  She just stared, until a series of hand swats to her bruised bottom elicited an agreement. She stood there, wearing only a thin slip, which she wore even when taking a bath. She had been taught a series of movements that allowed her to pull on a clean slip and remove the soiled one without exposing an inch of skin. It took J.D. less than a heartbeat to rid her of that last thin shield of modesty. And then she was completely naked. In the same room with a man. Standing in front of a man. She wondered that the floorboards didn't part so the gates of hell could swallow her up right then.

  "Get into bed, sister," he said angrily. What he had to be angry about, she was sure she didn't know. Obediently, for shame and suffering had driven all the spirit out of her, she crept into the bed, pulling the covers up over her head in her disgrace.

  Judging by the sounds that seeped under her quilt, he must have plopped down on the floor in front of the doorway, just as he had done the night before. Well, see if she checked his pulse again! He could just die right now! No... no, she knew she didn't wish for that. He was here on God's errand. It was her duty to obey. She would cry herself to sleep, silently saying her prayers.

  * * *

  J.D. had never met a woman quite like Katie. He'd grown up around mining camps all his life. His dad was a miner and all the women around the camps were either wives or prostitutes, and sometimes it was a damned hard thing to tell the difference between the two.

  He'd grown up quickly in places like that - kind of the opposite of how Katie was raised. He'd never seen a woman who was as innocent as Katie was, and he found her very intriguing. He'd had women putting their hands down his pants from the time he was twelve, because by then he was nearly as tall and as broad as his Dad was. By the time he was thirteen he'd already had his first woman - a birthday present from his Dad, and he'd learned he had a taste for what the brothel keepers called a "specialty".

  He enjoyed spanking women - he enjoyed pleasuring them, too, which he thought also ought to earn him credits in his favor. Not that the whoremongers would agree to that in the least, but the whores did, thankfully. He knew he was a lot like his father, in that respect. J.D. had never had a chance to see his father applying that philosophy to a woman's bottom, though. Yellow fever had taken his mother from him when he was a baby. He had no memories of her at all.

  This innocent young girl - a nun to boot - was doing something to him. She had taken over his head, infiltrated his thoughts. If only she were free, he might even be tempted to court her! But she was already married, a bride of the church, and therefore, taken. It was a bleeding waste if ever he saw one, She was too beautiful and responsive, even to the pain of a spanking, too naturally sensual to deserve such a fate.

  She was gorgeously proportioned. When her breasts had tumbled from the inhuman bindings, they revealed a generous share equal to the size and shape of her lovely bottom. She could have been made for him. Perhaps the Almighty was trying to tell him something. That this young nun wasn't made for . . . nunning after all, and perhaps he should settle down?

  He wasn't a spring chicken any more. He was staring down the barrel of thirty-five, and his father had long since given up hope that he might actually see grandchildren.

  It might just be time.

  Maybe.

  Depending on how things turned out here in this bunghole of a place.

  In the mean time, there was this lovely, tantalizing little vixen to tame, and he was just the man to do it.

  * * *

  Her tears tore at him, though. He'd known he'd spanked her quite thoroughly, but shouldn't the immediate pain have faded by now? Why did she continue to suffer? She wasn't doing so on purpose to make him feel badly, for she was doing her best to muffle the sound. He had developed excellent hearing, something that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He felt torn between wanted to comfort her, and doubting that he would be able to leave her untouched if he entered her bed. He struggled with demons of his own as the moonlight slowly marched across the windowpane. Finally, he rose and went to her, slipping between the covers so he could gather her into his arms. She hugged him, her tears trailing down his chest, as she continued to sob her misery.

  She felt heavenly in his arms! Her shorn hair was a wild mane of curls tucked under his chin, and it smelled deliciously of strawberries. Her skin was so smooth and soft, it was like finest velvet. And the way her small hands clutched at him brought out his animal instinct, urging him to protect her, with his life, if necessary. He just couldn't bear to hear her cry another moment. So he silenced her. With a kiss.

  * * *

  Mary Francis knew it was wrong to let him into her bed... and yet, would he spank her if she told him to leave? At first she had wept because of the pain of her spanking, and then because she felt so unworthy. But then her thoughts had turned to all the sisters who had left the convent, and all the settlers who had moved away. Deadwood was nearly a ghost town, and even the church, it seemed, and forsaken her. She feared Father Michael would not be returning. Ever. And Mother Agnes was not long for the world, either. And her outlaw would heal and return to whatever it was that outlaws did. And she would be here, all alone. Forever. Not quite a nun, not quite a woman. Unfulfilled.

  And then,
he kissed her. It was sweet, and slightly salty, she realized with a start, for his tears had fallen and blended with her own. She cupped his cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb, and kissed him. Tenderly. As though he were a small boy in need of a mother's love.

  Oh, dear, Lord Above! She loved him! She had no idea when or how, and he had not stolen it from her. She had given it freely and completely. This was why Mother Agnes had not let her make her vows, the Reverend Mother must have known she was unworthy!

  But then, wasn't the Reverend Mother also guilty? Certainly her mind had wandered, for she often didn't recognize Mary Francis, but she had never really thought something was true that wasn't true. No, it was more like her mind had mixed up certain facts, like she thought it was ten or fifteen years earlier, and therefore she assumed Mary Francis was someone else from her past as well. But when she had seen the outlaw, she had cried out, "My boy!"

  That had to mean that she had given birth! Even though she was a nun, somehow she had known a man, in the biblical sense, and yet, God had forgiven her all the way to a Reverend Mother. Perhaps through her own sin, she had learned humility.

  Maybe God would forgive Mary Francis, as well... for she wanted to know her outlaw! She wanted to know him intimately, even knowing that he was not hers to know. He would leave as soon as he healed. He would take her heart with him, and she would never love another. But at least, she would have this memory, this moment, this gift of hers, for in giving him her heart, perhaps she could give him back his soul. And so she kissed him.

  His hands, empowered by her kiss, grew demanding. They moved up her spine, kneading her tender flesh like a mound of virgin bread dough. His kisses were hungry, matching her in their need.

  Her small hands, emboldened by her lustful decision, journeyed down his chest, down his hips, to timidly caress that part of a male she had never seen before. She knew what shape it must take, for she had seen billy goats and roosters and even dogs mate, but nothing could have prepared her for the fullness, the softness of his firm, hard shaft. A bead of moisture leaked from the tip, and she moistened her palm with it as her grip grew firmer.