The Boss's Daughter

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I never stay long at Stubs’. By the time I leave, a few regulars have arrived, and Maddy drifts away from the bar to hang around their card table as if hoping they’ll deal her in. I manage to duck out without her seeing me, so she doesn’t get a chance to remind me to send Charlie down for a drink. Even from down the street, I notice his horse is gone, but I don’t know if it’s stabled or if he left town. I don’t care much, either.

The sun has set completely by the time I drift across the dirt road toward Miss Barbour’s. The night is quiet, the only sounds faint laughter from the saloon behind me and a lonesome cry of a train far off in the distance. My thoughts circle back to Miss Lucille, even though I’ve tried not to think about her since I left the ranch. I’ve never seen her alone before. On payday, she sits at a desk in the main house, an open ledger in front of her, and records the wages as Boss Daddy hands out our pay. I’ve tipped my hat at her a time or two, smiled back when she smiled at me, and maybe nodded if I caught sight of her on the porch while I was riding by. But our exchange this evening is the most I’ve said to her, ever. I know of her, of course—everyone does, she’s Boss Daddy’s little girl, though from the way she filled out her dress, I’d hazard to say she isn’t quite so little any more.

But I don’t really know her. Why did she bother to speak to me earlier? It’s just the two of us at the moment, she’d said. What did she mean by that?

Thankfully I slip into Miss Barbour’s boarding house without running into anyone, and when I lock the door to my room behind me, I let out a sigh of relief. I jiggle the door knob to check the lock, the way I always do, then cross the room to pull the curtains shut. In the near darkness, I strike a match and let the flame guide me to the lantern on my dresser, which sits among my effects. The razor I never use. The pipe I like to smoke in the evening. The book of poetry I borrowed from Miss Barbour’s study, a piece of flannel between the pages marking my place. A battered harmonica, a comb with a dozen missing or broken teeth, a handful of change that will be just enough to by me a few meals at Stubs’ before I get paid again.

The mirror above the dresser is cloudy, and it reflects back the lamp light in a yellow haze. Behind the light, I look ghostly in the darkened room. There’s another lantern by the bed, which I’ll light shortly, but for the moment I’m content to stare at my reflection in the dim glow.

Why did Miss Lucille stop to speak with me? Maddy’s casual attention is nothing new—she’s been trying to bed me since I came into town, partly because she beds all the men in Junction and partly because I think I’m the first to ever tell her no. But Miss Lucille isn’t that sort of woman. A lady of her status shouldn’t have any reason to speak to someone like me.

Or, rather, someone she thinks me to be.

I take off my hat and hand it from the bedpost, then shrug out of my light duster jacket. Slowly I unbutton my shirt. I take it off, fold it onto a nearby chair, then unbuckle my dungarees and step out of them. They, too, are folded and set aside. In my underwear, I turn back to face my reflection, and in the faint glow of the lantern, where a man had stood moments before now stands a woman.

My breasts are small and pert, easily hid beneath my baggy shirts. My torso is blocky, my hips narrow, my overall shape androgynous. I pass for a man easily enough. But there’s no bulky c**k straining the front of my dainty panties, and when I pull up my undershirt, twin n*****s stick out at me from atop small mounds of flesh. I cup my breasts in my hands and squeeze, then gasp as I close my eyes against a sudden rush of sensation. The space between my legs grows moist and my clit aches. In my mind’s eye, I see Miss Lucille smiling down at me and I bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning her name.

Nat Allen, indeed. What would Miss Lucille or Maddy have to say if they knew Nat stands for Natalie?