Susan Forecastle was halfway to the gully and the promise of safety when the lasso expertly fell over her, looping tightly beneath her breasts and arresting her flight in an instant. “No!” the reporter shouted in dismay, a strong tug sending her falling onto her back, the impact kicking up dust to stain her blue cotton blouse and formal black pants. Panting in exertion, she looked up in time to see her captor’s shadow blot out the sun, tall cowboy boots and a black cattleman’s hat making him look like he’d stepped out of a Wild West movie, and panic intensified her struggles. “Please, you don’t need to do this, you don’t—mmmpppggghhh!”
A balled-up bandanna thrust into her mouth forestalled any further protests. “Course I do, missy, ‘cause that’s what I do to dirty rotten trespassers,” insisted a rough drawl, and a second bandanna was produced and tied over her mouth to keep the gag in place. From a rough leather satchel, coils of rope were produced, and Susan grunted as she was turned onto her belly, the first lengths behind her wrists behind her back. Desperately, her long booted legs kicked out, and she was rewarded for her defiance by a rough hand smacking her buttocks. “Now don’t you be like that. Shoulda known comin’ onto my ranch without permission was askin’ for trouble. Now stay still and don’t cause a fuss.”
“Mmmmpppggghhh!” Susan cried out, blue eyes wide with fright behind her glasses. As the junior reporter for the Desert Wind Times, getting left with the worst assignments was a common occurrence for her, and more often than not, any hopes the pretty redhead had of doing some hard-hitting, incisive journalism were thwarted as she was stuck writing about identity politics and human interest stories and other such drivel. Today, she’d been assigned to interview one Mr. Wyatt Brody, a local crackpot who seemed to think he was still living in the days of the Wild West. Unfortunately for her, her editor had not thought to consider that a man who strolled about town in cowboy getup with a revolver on his hip might not care much for the freedom of the press, and now she was paying the price, more coil fitting tight around her ankles and thighs. A final rope, and Susan grunted as she was pulled into a stringent hogtie, leaving her squirming helplessly in the dirt. “MMMPPPGGGHHHH!”
“Think I’ll keep you locked up at the ranch for now. Ain’t no call to be bringin’ the law onto my property, what with their new-fangled radios and horseless carriages and all. You just sit tight, darlin’, while I grab my trusty horse. I’ll figure out what brought a pretty little thang like you this far out west, never you fear…”