Scarred Cowboy: Filthy, Dirty,

Small-Town Love Khloe Summers

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 Scarred Cowboy
Waylon Family Ranch (Rugged Mountain Ink)

Khloe Summers

Summer to Winter Publishing

 Copyright © 2023 Summer to Winter Publishing

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not
intended by the author.

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Cover design by: RebecaCvrs

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 Chapter One
Boone

There’s something about a woman in black that does it for me. I’m talking head to toe darkness. A
short black dress, long dark hair, black nail polish, a natural face, and a line of freckles that dot her
nose.
Brushing a hand down over my beard, I turn toward the man to the left of the table. He’s a young
bus boy, maybe sixteen, with buzzed red hair and braces. “That’s Ella Winters, right?”
He nods and twists in the direction of the door. “That’s her. Rodeo queen, two years running. You
know her?” The kid's eyes light up like she’s the Queen of England, not a small-town rodeo.
I swallow hard, glancing down at the paper placemat on the table. Maybe I’ve misjudged my
choice in restaurants. Then again, I’m not sure what other choices we had. It was this, the pizza shop,
or the bar.
The kid disappears from my peripheral vision, and I stand to greet the woman in black who’s
making her way toward me. It’s my first attempt at impressing her, and though it goes smoothly,
everything after that falls apart pretty quick. She’s smiling, but no one’s talked for a few beats too
long.
“We should go. I can take you to another place. This is—”
“Are you kidding?” A grin as wide as the Colorado River lights her face. “I love this place. They
have the best peach pie! I’ve been thinking about it all day!”
She’s gorgeous, and she’s down to Earth. This is doomed from the start. No woman like her
would ever be interested in me… nor should she be.
“So,” she tucks into the booth and stares at me to join her, “I hear you were in the military. What
did you do?” She pauses, taking a sip of water from the glass on the table, leaving behind a dark red
lipstick stain. Her tone is so innocent it nearly punches me in the gut.
Fuck.
This is a problem. I only agreed to go out on this date to get Waylon and Troy off my back.
Technically speaking, I’m not ready to date, and I’m sure as hell not ready to feel anything. It’s
already bad enough she’s hot. She can’t have an innocent little voice, too. I’ll crack.
“Yeah. That’s me… military,” I grumble, rolling my eyes toward the older waitress chatting with
her friends in the corner. I realize this is a small-town and we’re on small-town time, but for the love
of God, can we get moving? I’m guessing I have thirty to forty minutes before I’m professing my love
and acting like an idiot in front of this woman. Maybe I can blame it on being messed up from years in
the sand box.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says, twisting her finger around a lock of her hair as she
studies the menu. Her skin is tight and creamy, and her breasts bubble up out of her dress, presenting
themselves on the table like the first course.
I look away and will myself to focus on her face. But as she moves her lips again, all I can see is
the plump, kissable mouth that’s parted as she reads over the specials.
I clear my throat as panic surges through my limbs. I’m not ready for conversations and small talk.
I thought this would be a quick date, and nothing real. Can’t this just be a dinner?
I thought I’d get the guys off my case and get back to what really matters… the renovations on
the cabin and the case of beer in the fridge that’s getting too heavy for the shelf. Now, I’m sweating
like a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair store, and I can’t think straight.
 “What do you do?” I manage, slugging back the sweet tea the waitress set on the table back when
she was doing her job.
Ella grins. “I’m a psychic.”
My face must do something telling because she grins wider and laughs.
“Let me guess? You don’t believe in psychics, and you think the whole thing is some hocus pocus
designed to trick the innocent into throwing their money away.”
I tip my head to the side and try to keep a straight face. I should be able to. I spent years learning
how to manage my body language around people who couldn’t speak English. Hiding my emotions
was part of the job description. “No. It’s not that… It’s just... I’m surprised, is all. I guess I took you
for a…” When my pause results in no words, she laughs.
“A preschool teacher? I know. I get that all the time. I think it’s my colorful wardrobe.” She looks
up at the waitress, who’s now standing at our table. “I’ll have the chicken fried steak, french fries,
and a coke. No, wait, a strawberry shake.” She smiles as she says, “Scratch that. Just the coke. I want
to save room for that peach pie later.”
A smart-ass mouth and she’ll have the peach pie with me. My chest tightens. I really need to get
the hell out of here if I don’t want to get pulled in by her amazingness.
“I’ll take the same.” I hand the woman our menus and turn my attention back toward Ella, who’s
now tapping her pretty black nails against the sugar packets at the end of the table. “How does one go
from Rodeo Queen to psychic? Seems like a conflict of interest. Did you know you were going to
win?”
Her cheeks pink and her dark gaze draws up toward me. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know about
the rodeo thing.”
“Why?”
She shrugs her delicate shoulders and goes back to twisting her hair. “I don’t know. It’s
embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing to be the queen of the biggest event in town… but not the town psychic?”
When her eyes widen, I figure I’ve said the wrong thing.
Her brows narrow, and that innocence in her tone leaves as she says, “Why would being a
psychic be embarrassing?”
“It’s not. I’m sorry.” I hold back a grin. “I’ve lived a very sheltered life and I—”
“You have trouble with your knees, right?”
I stare at her, wondering for a second how she knows my knees are in pain. I haven’t told anyone,
and this is the first we’ve met.
“That’s an easy one. I’m tall. Tall men have problems with their knees. I’ve also recently been in
combat. That comes with the territory.”
“Yeah, but you fell on something. You were trying to protect them… weren’t you?” She stares
straight through me. Dark emerald green eyes scan my soul like two hungry eagles who have no
mercy.
My chest tightens and sweat begins to drip. “Aren’t you supposed to get permission before you go
rattling things off like that?”
Her grin is crooked. “Technically,” she shrugs, “but people like you always need a push.”
My heart slams against my chest and I flashback to the moment my knees hit the ground outside of
the little market near Fallujah. There were civilians everywhere, including two children who got
caught in the blast zone. Dust flew everywhere, screaming ensued, and the sound of the bombs rang in
my ears for what seemed like an eternity. We were the target of the bombing, but no care was taken
for the civilians. I may have some difficulty picking things up from the ground now, but many in that
market weren’t so lucky.
My throat closes and my pulse shoots up. I was wrong to think, that for even a second, I was ready
for even a casual dinner, let alone one with a party-trick seer. “I should go.” I stand from the booth
and toss down whatever I have. “This should cover dinner. Please let me know you’ve made it home
okay.”
“Wait,” she says, standing from the table. Her hand lands on my shoulder. From this angle, she’s
even more beautiful. Beautiful and young, which is harder to hide two feet from her face. “I was out
of line. I’m sorry. I get so much shit for not being ‘real’ that I… sometimes… get defensive, and I do
anything to prove myself. I was out of line. Will you finish dinner with me?”
I stare at her, my heart slamming against my chest. So, she’s beautiful and innocent, yet has a smart
enough mouth to keep me entertained and still knows when to apologize for her actions. I should
definitely keep walking. I’m only going to complicate this night even further if I stay.
“Everything okay?” the waitress says, settling our plates on the table.
I keep my gaze on Ella. “If I stay, I’m not sure I’m going to be the civilized man you’re hoping
for.”
She grins and slides back into the booth. “I think we both just learned I’m not the least bit
civilized, so we’re on the same field.”
I hold back a grin. “Okay, but you’ve got to turn off that… spy shit.”
She holds up three fingers as though she’s a cute little, round eyed, girl scout, giving me her honor,
though we both know it’s a lie. “I’ll do my best.”
I groan low in my throat and slide back into the booth, staring down at the meal steaming up in
front of me. It’s been a while since I’ve been out like this. It’s kind of nice to have someone else
cooking for a change. Truthfully, I haven’t had ‘real food’ in months. I’ve been living off soup and
saltines for the most part.
“I guess I owe you something about me,” she says, taking a bite of her steak with a soft moan.
I adjust in my seat, ignoring the sounds of pleasure as best I can. “Okay, let’s have it then, and it
needs to be something equally as private as your vision about me.”
Her eyes squint and she looks toward me with unease. “Are you sure? My most private thing is
very private. I mean, most of my stories are town knowledge because I have this blog and I write
about my life and everything in between. I can’t think of anything people don’t already know about
me.” Her cheeks turn pink. “Except for one thing.”
I shake my head, taking another bite of steak. “That’s what I want to know then. The one thing no
one else does.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
I have a feeling this isn’t going to be as shocking as she thinks it will. I’ve seen my share of crazy.
I’m forty-two years old. I can’t imagine what she’d say that would shock me. “I’m sure.”
She swallows hard and sips her coke before speaking. “Okay. Well… I…” she bites her bottom
lip and looks away before turning back and leaning in toward me. Her voice is low, nearly a whisper
as she says, “I have this thing where I… I like to…” She bites her lips again.
Fuck. Whatever she’s about to say has me on edge.
“I’m a virgin,” she whispers, “but… I’m also really into the thought of this thing called primal
play.”
I freeze. I wasn’t expecting that. I swallow hard and lean back in the booth, trying not to look
shocked. I asked for a deep secret, and I got one. The hot psychic is a virgin. A young, kinky virgin.
 Of course she is. That makes complete sense.
My cock attempts to rise, but I stop it.
“What’s primal play?” I ask before I think about its consequences.
Ella relaxes, popping a french fry into her mouth. “Oh, it’s different for everyone, but I like the
aspects of how animalistic it is. Some people like to be chased and wrestled. Others like the hair
pulling and the nipping. For some it’s a growl.” She shrugs and smiles. “And now, you know that I’m
strange, too. You’re welcome.”
I contemplate asking how she knows she likes these things if she hasn’t tried them, but I refrain for
the sake of my threatening dick. I haven’t had Ella Winters, but all I have to do is think about it, and
there’s not a doubt in my mind that I’d love every second of it.
 Chapter Two
Ella

What the hell am I saying? I could’ve made up anything. I could’ve lied. I could’ve said I
jumped from a plane or that I stole a candy bar from the general store when I was ten. I could’ve told
him about the time my mom found me smearing expensive lipstick on my face at the pharmacy when I
was six. The owner made her pay for the makeup and I got a lecture all the way home. No one knows
that, and it’s endearing. Instead, I choose to share the most sexual secrets I have, to a man I barely
know.
Seems about right.
Boone looks toward me like a deer in headlights. He’s a big, tall man with a scruffy beard and
big, strong biceps. His hair is shoulder length and tucked behind his ears. He reminds me of Keanu
Reeves in one of those John Wick movies, except on steroids. His eyes are dark, and he seems to
have a permanent scowl sewed to his face. The one thing I know for sure about the man is he’s a
loner, and he has been since he got back from his tour. I’m sure meeting a psychic rodeo queen was
enough information for one night. Add in a virgin who’s into animalistic sex and, well… I’ve just
given this newly appointed cowboy a whole education on civilian life that I’m not sure he was ready
for.
With my ribs aching, I stare toward him, my face scrunched. “Are you okay?” I pause and sigh.
“You’re embarrassed. I shouldn’t have—”
“You were honest and open. I like that.” He sips his sweet tea and stares off behind me
somewhere.
I can’t help but laugh. “You most certainly are not okay.”
“Is that your psychic energy coming back again, or is this a guess?”
I squint. “Sorry. It’s impossible to stop. It’s been something that’s passed on between the women
in my family since my great grandmother. So… here I am, four generations of psychics later.”
“So, when you said you could shut it off,” he nods, “you can’t?”
“Not consistently. It’s like trying to put a kink in a hose attached to a fire hydrant. I can slow it
down momentarily, but never stop it entirely.”
He slides a french fry into his mouth. “So, you know everything then? You can see what’s going to
happen minute to minute?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I read energy and you’re… traumatic event… it’s pretty heavy on
you. I could see it right away. It plays out like a movie when I look at people.”
He shifts in the booth, uncomfortable with what I’ve told him… which isn’t uncommon. This is
my life. I’ve lost boyfriends and some family over it. People either love me or hate me.
“You can’t see anything else about me? Is the bombing on a loop that’s all around me, or can
you see past it?”
“I only see the movie once, but I usually have to process it before I can move on.”
“Wow. That’s… interesting. What about the future? Are you limited to only someone’s tragedies?”
“The future is harder to tell. I usually need a really quiet space and direct questions, but it’s not as
clear as the past.”
He looks at me with downturned brows as he chews another bite of his steak. He believes me, but
he can’t figure how I’m doing it. He needs the how.
“I wish I knew how all this worked. My mom had a bunch of neurological work done with the
University of Colorado when she was young. They made a little test subject out of her.” I bite into a
fry. “The best they could come up with after a few MRI’s was that the parietal cortex of her brain lit
brighter than normal folks. They came to the conclusion that it was hereditary and here I am.”
He nods slowly, studying me. He likes the rationale of it all, the science. “That makes sense. It’s
like those people who have an overactive hippocampus. They’re subject to increased risk of
hallucinations and delusions. That might be something that you should look into.” He laughs. “Just
kidding, of course.”
“Yeah.” I hold back a smile, not wanting to encourage him. “Anyway, it’s made a good career for
me and I’m even opening a shop downtown.”
“You have enough clients in this small town for a psychic shop?”
“Don’t say it so sarcastically!” I snarl playfully. “And yes, I’ll give readings and sell all the
metaphysical things like crystals and candles that help bring people closer to their center. I just have
to open first.”
“You can’t use your abilities to see when you’re going to be open?”
The way he says abilities, it sounds sarcastic again. “I can’t see anything about myself,” I
continue. “It’s so annoying. I could’ve avoided so much heartache.”
“How so?”
“You really don’t follow my blog, do you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t do anything with the computer or the phones. I work, I go home, and
then I work some more.”
“Well, my pathetic dating life is a depressing story that has captivated the area for a while now.” I
smile like I’m posing for a cover shoot. “It’s a compelling read to know why a psychic can’t find
love. It’s kind of in line with our talk about seeing the future. I pick up on the energies given off by
people. So, a young gentleman suitor who wants to go out on a date has a much different energy than
he does once he’s settled into a relationship.”
Boone smiles and nods. I’m going to have to speed this up, as I get further away from the
science, if I don’t want to lose my audience.
“Basically, the future is a multiverse of possibilities when it comes to energies. Some things
are almost certain to happen while others are a lot more… loose. So… my dating life is more of a
study into the future multiverse than a quest for romantic conquest.”
Boone chuckles under his breath. “I have to say, you’re definitely the most intriguing person
I’ve met in a long time.”
“Thank you. But one thing I know that’s in both of our futures that can’t be changed, is that we
have to eat peach pie right now.” I flag the waitress and hold up two fingers as though she’ll know
exactly what I want. She will. I’m in here all the time and peach pie and I were separated at birth.
“Can I talk about more things I see about you?” I bite the inside of my cheek as I stare at him.
“Once visions start popping, it’s hard to stop them.”
“No more comments on war,” he says, his face straight.
“Okay. No more of that.” I take in the scent of pine and cedar on his skin, and study the soft
wrinkles by his eyes and the calluses on his hands. He’s defined by his work, but that’s not enough.
“You’ve never been married, but you’re lonely.” I swallow hard. “You wish you’d have found
someone years ago because you’re worried that starting a family this late in life will be exhausting.”
He leans back as the waitress settles two slices of warm peach pie in front of us with whipped
cream on top and two clean spoons.
My mouth waters.
 “Okay,” he says, slicing into the pie, “but that could be any guy my age who’s put his career first.”
“You haven’t dated much, except for one woman… that was with you before you went on tour.
You cared about her, but you both wanted different things.”
He slides the peach pie into his mouth, leaving behind the whipped cream. “That was oddly
accurate. Except I did try dating again shortly after I got back from a second tour. That woman wanted
to move to New York, and I’m a country boy. So, I couldn’t do that, and definitely not for a woman
who prized shoes and purses over everything else.”
I nod. “Okay. So, I was close.”
“What about you? Why are you all alone?”
No one has ever described me as ‘all alone’ before. It stings.
“I’m not all alone. I’m alone… which is fine.”
“Now, I’m psychic,” he smiles widely for the first time all night, “because I know that’s a lie.”
“Okay, so alone sucks… but I’m fine. I mean, guys my age are really fucking stupid, and I’d never
considered older guys before. No offense.”
Another grin lifts his face. “I used to be a guy your age.”
“Yeah, how’d that go for you?”
He shrugs. “Don’t remember much of it. I was too busy working.”
“Guys my age aren’t like that anymore. They don’t subscribe to the hard work thing, or the
gentleman thing. I mean, I like to think I’m pretty tough. I have my own place, I fix things, I throw back
whiskey, and I drive a truck.” I lick the whipped cream off the back of my spoon. “You’d think I was a
catch. So, imagine my surprise when I’ve told the boys I’ve dated that I’ve got this annoying neighbor
who won’t leave me alone… and nothing.”
Boone shifts his weight in his seat and rolls his shoulders slightly.
“You see, I’ve been trying to fix the gate on my property for months and it just won’t stay shut.
So, my neighbor sees a broken gate as an open invitation and wanders in whenever he pleases.”
Boone straightens and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing dark ink tattoos. My throat goes
dry. I didn’t think he could get hotter.
“What do you mean? What does he do when he wanders in?”
I try to read this new stance he’s taken, but suddenly, there’s a block that I can’t see through.
“I think most people would call him a peeping Tom. It isn’t constant, but I don’t want him out
there… ever.”
Boone’s jaw locks as he stares toward me. “What the fuck? You mean he’s watching you? And
you’ve told this to people, and no one has done anything about it?”
“I’ve gotten curtains and whatever, but last week the guy freaked me out worse than usual. I was
in the garden and when I looked up, he was there, staring not thirty feet from me.”
Boone shovels the rest of the pie into his mouth. “Well, we’re going to take care of this.”
I narrow my gaze. “What? Like now?”
“Like now.” His voice has twisted and a new version of him has taken over. It’s a protective
version that’s overwhelmingly archaic. Archaic in a way that’s insanely sexy. A version I can’t read
at all.
“While it’s annoying, I don’t want to go too far. I’m like every person in Rugged Mountain, so
I’ve got a gun. I just don’t think it’s come to that. He’s creepy and I need help, but I don’t need him
killed.”
Boone’s gaze dials in on mine. He leans in toward me. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight worrying
that you’ve told me this, and I didn’t do what I could’ve to help. You’re doing me a favor by letting
me fix the gate.”
“Really, though, it’s amazing enough that you want to help. That’s all I want in a man. I made this
problem by not finishing the gate when I should have.” I eat the last bite of peach pie, savoring the
tangy sweetness as I try to quell the urges thumping between my legs. I’ve never felt anything so
organic before. We’ve only just met, but there’s an exchange happening on a level I can’t fully
understand. It’s like our bodies are speaking, creating chemistry and symmetry where there had been
none before.
“You didn’t create this problem. This asshole did,” he grumbles. “You ready?” There’s urgency in
his tone as he holds his hand out toward me. His gaze looks extra dark in this light, and his biceps
bulge as he impatiently waits for me to stand. Usually, at this point, I’d have read someone’s
intentions. But, for the first time in my life, a man’s possible paths are completely blank to me. I don’t
know what he’s thinking, I don’t know what he’s feeling, and this wall he’s put up… is turning me on.
For the first time in my life, I finally get to earn someone’s trust. I get to break down all their walls
myself. I can be surprised by a touch. I can be taken off guard by a kiss.
A kiss.
I stare at Boone, glancing from his lips to his dark gaze. For the love of all that’s holy, I hope
this man kisses me tonight.
 Chapter Three
Boone

“Can you hand me a few screws from that top box?”

Ella fumbles through the toolbox on the back of my truck, shining her light down as she searches.
She’s bent over, her round ass facing toward me as she looks. “Sorry. I can’t see very well in the
dark.”
I’m tempted to make a joke about her psychic abilities and why they aren’t drawing her toward
the screw, but I figure I’ll get a lecture about emotions and vibrations that I’m not ready for.
“Ah.” She stands, disappointing my inner fifteen-year-old, who’s desperate to see more of her
skin. “Found some!” She hops from the bed of the truck and strides toward me, proud of her find.
They’re too long and not at all what I was looking for, but she’s so proud of herself, I can’t hurt her
feelings. Besides, extra-long screws in a gate will only keep that asshole from kicking it in. They still
won’t keep him from climbing over it, though.
“Perfect.” I grab the screws from her, our hands brushing against one another as we work. “So,
where is this guy tonight?” I ask, working the drill as she shines the light on the latch.
“I think he’s at the bar.” She laughs. “No psychic powers needed there. I just know that’s where he
spends most of his nights.”
I nod, taking the other screw from her hand. She’s cold. Fuck. I’m an idiot. Of course, she’s cold.
It’s forty-five degrees out and her legs and arms are exposed to the elements. I slide off my flannel
and wrap it over her shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that sooner. I’m bad at all this.”
“You’re fixing my gate after ten in the evening. I don’t think you’re bad at this.” She grins, tucking
a strand of hair behind her ear. “I could go start you some coffee. At the very least, I should warm you
up a little before you leave.”
I glance toward her, still drilling the final screw into place. Lord knows coffee wouldn’t be what
I went inside for. My mind is on everything but coffee, and I’m not proud of any of it. It’s on her lips,
her hips, her thighs, and how cute she looked up in that truck digging around in my toolbox. For a
second, my mind wanders to an image of me behind her, thrusting into her tight little pussy as she
moans.
Fuck.
Maybe I’d fit right into her animal play. I’m a god-damn monster.
“Coffee sounds good,” I lie, latching the gate closed. “You should let me set some redneck traps
in the morning. That way, you’d really keep this guy away. Right now, he could climb right over that
gate if he wanted to.”
She grins as we walk side by side up the steps toward the cabin door. “Redneck traps?”
“Sorry. That’s what my dad always called nails in a board. You’d be surprised what a few sharp
objects will stop.”
“What about the wildlife? I don’t want a bear getting hurt because of something I put out.”
“A bear’s gonna walk right past that thing. Trust me, they’re way smarter than people.”
She laughs and makes her way into the little kitchen to the left side of the cabin. “Make yourself at
home. I’ll get the coffee started. Do you like french vanilla?”
“Sure. Anything’s good. Do you need help?” I kick off my boots and wander her small cabin,
noticing the locks on the windows are old, and the windowpanes are made of real glass. Nowadays,
you can buy those shatterproof ones rather inexpensively. “You really should update these windows.”
 “You’re that guy, huh?”
“Who’s that guy?”
“The dad.”
Oh, God. Did she just compare me to her father? Fuck. This isn't a date anymore. To her, I’m the
old guy reminding her to fix things and keep a shotgun by her bed at night. I think that’s a territory one
would want to steer clear of.
“Sorry.”
She giggles, filling a tray with fresh ground coffee. “Don’t be sorry. I like it. What kind of
windows do you think I need?”
“You know, I think my cousin Waylon has a bunch of windows behind his barn. They’re
shatterproof. I could bring some by and see if they work.”
She wanders toward me, our shoulders touch, and there’s a steady brush of our bodies against one
another as we stare at the window. I’m not sure anyone has ever given a window this much attention,
but I’m pretty sure I’m never moving.
“If you’re worried that guy is going to break in,” she sips her coffee, “I think he would’ve
already.”
“You never know. I think assholes like him are unpredictable. Would you know if he was going to
break in? Psychic wise, I mean.”
She nods her head. “In the past, I’ve aways felt his presence around, but something as traumatic as
a break-in, I’d pick that up rather quickly.” The coffee starts to drip, and the warm scent of vanilla
bean fills the small space. “Anyway,” she works back toward the kitchen, pulling two chipped mugs
down from the cupboard, “I’ve been good here. I doubt he’d do anything that crazy.” She purses her
lips as though she’s thinking through something. “He seems… more lonely than anything. I bet he’s just
searching for connection.”
“You talk about it like it’s normal.”
“It is,” she laughs. “People lose their minds after they come back from war. You know how it goes
better than anyone, I’m sure.”
“Are you saying I’ve lost my mind?” I laugh, standing to help her with the coffee.
“Maybe. Time will tell.”
“Ha. You can’t tell that in your crystal ball?”
She looks away and sucks in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “Nope. Guess not.
Anyway, this guy has been doing this for years. I’m sure it’s all—”
“Years?” Shit. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are your parents or family? They should have
been able to help you. Have you contacted the police?”
“My parents are out of the country. Since they retired, they’re traveling the world looking for
more river rapids to kayak down. My brother is a coal miner in West Virginia.” She smiles softly.
“That’s all the family I have. Besides, they left me with everything a girl needs. I have a shotgun, a
lock on my door, and psychic powers.” She laughs at her joke and her nose crinkles in the cutest way.
I realize she can take care of herself. But for some reason, I’m getting the overwhelming urge to
do it for her. She deserves to have someone here that’s watching, and making sure that sweet body of
hers remains untouched.
“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me then.” I offer her my best smile. “Do you have any open
positions?”
“I’ll let you know,” she snorts, before sipping her coffee. It’s a subtle sound, but it’s sweet and
innocent and I want it on replay.
 We talk like this for hours, back and forth in easy conversation that swallows up the time. She
tells me about her parents’ ranch and the little house her grandmother had up on the hill by the river. I
tell her about my family and the horses we raised in Utah. We joke about the way Waylon runs the
rodeo with an iron fist, then laugh about the rich having all the power. It’s light, relaxing, and when I
feel the night nearing an end, sadness swells in my chest. I haven’t talked to anyone like this since I
was a boy. The few women I dated were never this open or real. Truthfully, I hadn’t been either. It’s a
little scary, mostly because I’m not sure what any of this means. I’m into her, but I don’t know how to
be in a relationship.
“That stuff I said earlier,” she blushes, “at the restaurant… about the animal sex and being a
virgin… that was weird. I’m sorry.” She sets her mug on the coffee table and curls her legs beneath
her as she leans her head against the back of the couch. “That’s embarrassing and I should have been a
little cooler on a first date.”
The move is soft, innocent, sweet, and sexy. It’s exhausting to be in her presence without touching
her.
“Nah.” My heart picks up a few beats and my cock lifts, attempting to cross a line again. I readjust
on the couch. “You’re good.”
“I hope I didn’t make myself sound like a weirdo or something. I mean, I’ve never even had sex,
so it’s not something I know I like or not, but the idea of being, I don’t know, taken over like that,
it’s… really sexy to think about. What about you? What are you into?”
For a second, I freeze. I can’t remember the last time I’ve talked about sex this openly.
Never. I’ve never talked about sex this openly.
In the barracks, the guys would go on about women and they’d ramble about how lonely they
were, and how much they missed pussy, but that was different. That was the barracks. This is real.
This is me, staring at a woman. A young woman. A young woman with pert tits and nipples that break
through cotton. A young woman with a scent of flowers on her that’s driving me mad. A young woman
with a tight, virgin pussy, a smart-ass mouth, and the biggest, prettiest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen.
Fuck. My cock lifts again.
“Sorry. That was weird of me to ask.” She smiles. “I really need to learn more manners.” She
stands from the couch and attempts to return the mugs to the kitchen, but I stop her, holding her arm
gently.
She sits back in place, setting the cups back on the table.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. My body is reacting to her, and I’m losing control of it.
“I can answer your question.” My tone is lower than usual. “I’ve never thought about sex like you
have. Nothing crazy, anyway.”
“Really? So, you’ve never spanked anyone, or played with wax, or…”
I shake my head. “Never. I’d guess you’d have to trust someone to play like that. I’ve never been
that close to anybody.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Me either.”
Worried that I sound inexperienced, I keep talking. “I could see the point you’re making about the
primal thing, though. I don’t know anything about it, but it seems natural. Is the point to act on
impulse?”
She nods, biting her lower lip as she leans in slightly. “Yeah,” she whispers, her gaze on mine
with a look I haven’t seen in ages. It’s dark and beautiful. “Like… if you have any urges, you just act
on them. It’s supposed to be raw and natural.”
We linger in this moment for a while before her gaze drifts to my cock, which is clearly hard and
riddled with the uncontrollable urges she’s speaking of.
Her gaze draws upward to mine before she stands and bends her round ass toward me. She’s
playing coy, reaching for the mugs, but it’s purposeful. She’s giving me permission. She’s inviting me
in. She hasn’t pulled her skirt down since she was sitting. Her white lace panties hug the swell of her
ass, and her plump cheeks spill out below the lace.
Dark, dirty thoughts of squeezing her, licking her, touching her, and fucking her enter my brain. My
throat goes dry, and my mind runs a mile a minute. We’ve just met, and she’s young. Not only that, but
saying I’m not fucked in the head would be an understatement. I’m working through piles of mental
shit that this innocent young woman doesn’t need in her life.
Then again, the conversation is easy, and the chemistry is undeniable.
Ella stays bent forward, collecting every piece of clutter on the table, biding her time as though
she’s desperate for me to grab her.
My chest aches as dark hunger gnaws inside of me, aching to release itself, desperate to grip her
hips and thump her against me. My mind tries to grasp the cliff of rationalization, but she turns before
I find it, pulling her skirt back into place.
“Do you want another cup?” Her tone is sweet, and those girl scout eyes are back again.
I shut my eyes and hold my breath before letting it out slowly. If I’m here a second longer, I’m
going to do bad things to that girl. There’ll be no stopping me.
 Chapter Four
Ella

I don’t know how much more ‘on the nose’ I could be. I’m practically throwing myself at
Boone. There’s something about him. He’s caring and protective, but he’s also rough and a little harsh
in the way he talks.
I like it. He reminds me of a man’s-man. A man who’s lived a life of pain and heartache. A
man who works hard and doesn’t stop to think about himself or his emotions, except for when they’re
overwhelming him.
He stands from the couch and looks toward me. His gaze is dark and ominous. Usually, I’d be
able to tell his intentions, but whatever state he’s in, I’m still blocked. The entire night he told me
stories I was hearing for the first time. Stories that I couldn’t see coming. Everything was a surprise. I
love it.
Like the time he fell off his horse riding to the ice cream store when he was a kid. He broke his
ankle and his wrist. He spent all summer in a cast and couldn’t do anything with his friends. That’s the
summer he learned to love reading. If my abilities were working, I’d have seen all of that three
minutes before the words left his mouth… but I didn’t. I didn’t see a thing, and right now, as he stalks
toward me, I have no idea why he’s coming.
I can guess, though. He has to be turned on after I was bending over in front of him. My pussy
aches at the thought of doing it again. This time, I imagine he grabs me. I imagine his big, rough hand
on my skin, squeezing my ass and growling… biting… licking.
My breath hitches and my heart swells as his hand touches my face. “I’m not sure you know what
you’re asking for when you say you want a man to let his urges run freely.” His voice is dark and low
when he talks.
My clit throbs. I don’t speak.
He leans into my ear. The warmth of his breath sends a tickle down my spine and into my groin.
“If you keep saying that, girl, I’m going to lose control. Then what are you going to do?”
I bite my bottom lip and stare up at him.
His nostrils are flaring, and his gaze is narrowed. “I’m going to become that animal, Ella. Do
you even know what that means?” He’s talking as though he’s a different man, as though his mind has
entered a space where hormones have taken the lead. He’s a midnight wolf, howling at the moon.
God, I want him to fuck me. I’ve never wanted anything more.
“I told you,” I moan, “I want you to lose control.”
He grins, looks away, then back again, dragging his dark gaze up my frame like a crazed beast,
hungry and impatient. “You don’t even know what that means.”
I stand taller, a little insulted by his statement. “I do!”
“You don’t, girl. You really don’t.”
“What does it mean then?”
He grins. “Once I tip over this edge, I’d chase you down, and I’d get to you by any means
necessary.” Images of him biting, pulling at my hair, and growling come to mind. “And once I have
you,” he groans, “I wouldn’t waste my time. I’d tear off your clothes and I’d fuck that tight little pussy
like I own it, and I’d never let you forget who the fuck it belonged to.”
Every hair on my body stands on end as Boone stares back at me. I’m alive in ways I never
thought possible and there isn’t a cell inside of me that isn’t aching to be taken by the big, scarred
cowboy.
He grips my chin in his hand and drags it down to my throat, guiding me against the back wall.
“Consider this a warning, baby girl. Stay away unless you want to lick your come off my cock.
Otherwise, I’ll be back tomorrow with new windows.” His lips graze mine in a whisper. One
wouldn’t have to be psychic to know that he’s holding back because he’s afraid of what letting go
means.
Truthfully, I’m glad he’s holding back. I don’t know if I can handle him. I thought I wanted a
big, rough man, but he’s extra big and extra rough, and not being able to see any of that coming is a
complete mind fuck. In the restaurant, Boone came off as a quiet, wounded soldier, unsure of himself
and his future. Here, with his blood all rearranged, he’s intense, wild, and everything I’ve ever
wanted. He turns toward the door handle, unlocks it, and closes it behind him, leaving me in a puddle
of my own desire. There’s no way I’ll get through the night without coming. My panties are already a
sopping wet mess.
With the doors locked, I shut off the lights in the house, and make my way back to the bedroom,
pulling my vibrator from the bedside table. Usually, I turn to porn or read some dirty book. Tonight,
though, I have something far better.
Closing my eyes, I imagine Boone chasing me through the field. Even with his bad knees, he’d
catch up with me in seconds. I’m a terrible runner. Besides that, I want to be caught. He pulls at my
clothes, tearing them off me as his teeth sink into my neck lightly.
Growl after growl leaves his throat as he kisses and nips at my skin. The soil beneath us scrubs at
my back and a stick pokes at my shoulder. Every sensation is a match striking against my skin.
Boone yanks down his jeans and presses inside of me. It’s not careful or timed. It’s needy and
desperate.
I twist the vibrator back and forth over my clit, moaning and sighing as the pulsations work their
way over my groin.
I’d give anything to feel him inside of me. Anything to make him feel good. Anything to feel his
weight on my body, and his rough hands against my skin.
Aching sighs turn into an orgasm as I remember the words he’d said earlier. ‘Stop right now
unless you want to be tasting your come on my cock.’
I sigh and let out a holler so loud, I’m sure the folks down on Main have heard me. My body
relaxes and I’m brought back to Earth, as movement in the window catches my eye.
My heart stops and my gaze is drawn toward the man staring back at me. His mouth is open, and
his eyes are wide. He’s holding a cell phone.
Oh my God! How did I not remember to shut the shades before I laid down? A gnawing ache
takes over as my stomach turns. I grab my shotgun and slide from the bed, holding my sheet in place. I
need his phone. Who the hell knows what he’d do with that video, pictures, or whatever he was
doing?
Swinging open the front door, I step onto the porch, and stare out into the dark night. There’re
trees everywhere. There’s no way I’d find him.
“I can sue you!” I shout out the threat, like some rich girl from the city who doesn’t have a gun in
her hand. No one around here cares about being sued or calling the cops.
A branch snaps and I hear the sound of my neighbor jumping the fence. I aim toward the field and
let out a warning shot, then step back inside, locking the cabin door for the night, my heart slamming
against my chest. I’ve never wished for a man before, but tonight, I wish the man playing wolf a few
minutes ago, was still here next to me.
 Chapter Five
Boone

“Stealing my windows now, huh?” Waylon laughs as he makes his way toward me. He’s a big guy
with dark features and tattoos covering most of his available skin. I like ink, but I’m not sure anyone
likes it as much as Waylon.
“Ah, figured you wouldn’t mind. There’s a girl up on Elk Ridge that needs something sturdier than
what she’s got now. I know these have been lying around for a while. I think a few will fit.”
Waylon’s brows raise as though the conversation just got more interesting. “Good to hear. You’re
talking to someone? Who is she?”
I refocus on the white framed windows. “Ella Winters, but I’m sure you know the Rodeo Queen.
Anyway, she’s got a peeping Tom. I just want to make sure she’s safe.”
Waylon’s eyes widen. “The fuck? Who the hell is bothering her?”
“I think it’s Nick Andrews. I checked the mailbox on my way off the mountain last night, then
looked him up online. He’s got a few prior arres—”
“Back up, back up, back up.” Waylon holds up a hand. Cousins and all, I know the man pretty
well, and I was thankful that he gave me a job out here after Iraq, but I’m not interested in answering
the questions I know are coming. “You were at her house last night? A little young for you, don’t ya
think?”
“Don’t read into it, man. It was nothing.”
His brows wrinkle. “Must have been something if you thought enough to Google a man
afterwards. I wasn’t even aware you knew how to use that feature on your phone.” He laughs because
everyone gets a kick out of my lack of technological knowledge.
“We had a date, and she mentioned a broken gate, and a peeping Tom. So, I went to help her and
noticed more things needed to be fixed. That’s all. Nothing else.”
I’ve never been a good liar, and this is no exception. Even as I say the words, I’m thinking about
her round ass in my face again.
Waylon tips his head back slowly, laughing to himself as he helps me with the last of the
windows. “I’m happy for you, man. It’s good to see you out and about. She know what a handful she’s
getting?”
I know he’s talking about the mental health issues I’ve been managing, but instead of wondering
how I’d fix them, my mind goes to the vulgar things I said last night before I left Ella’s house. I’ve
never even thought of saying things like that before, but something about her brought me to life in a
way I’ve never been. I want that feeling again. I need it. She may as well be heroin because after one
hit, I’m addicted.
I’m sure there was a question Waylon asked, but I don’t remember what it was. I open the truck
door. “You need anything from Nichols? I have to stop for weather stripping.”
Waylon shakes his head and lifts the tailgate to the truck back in place, knocking twice on the back
to let me know I’m safe to go.
I’m thankful for his help, and I know we need to spend more time catching up, but I’ve been
thinking about Ella nonstop since last night and the thought of wasting another second away from her
is damn near excruciating.
The way she felt in my hands. The way our bodies felt pressed against one another. Fuck.
It was just a light brush, but I was on fire all night, desperate to touch her again. I wonder if she
felt the same way. I wonder if she tucked into her bed and touched herself to the thought of us the same
way I did.
My cock goes hard at the thought of her rubbing that innocent, swollen clit to us.
Us. God, I need help. There is no us. She doesn’t even know I’m on my way. She could’ve been
repulsed by what happened last night. She could’ve thought she wanted something, then realized when
it was happening how terrifying it was. More than likely, that’s the reality.
I lose myself in this pattern of sick perversion and real talk the whole drive, until she’s staring
back at me with a smile.
She’s more relaxed than yesterday, wearing a short blue skirt and an oversized sweater. Her legs
are long and bare, and so are her feet. Her toes are painted black to match her nails. If I were acting
on instinct right now, I’d already be on top of her.
“I figured you’d be hungry,” she says, inviting me in. “I hope you like spaghetti. I made garlic
bread, too.”
“It’s my favorite. My mom used to make it every Sunday growing up. She’d call it our family
recipe, but I’m pretty sure it came off the side of a tomato can.”
Ella snorts and my heart warms the same way it had last night when I’d first heard the noise.
“Well, this is a recipe from my buddy, Mr. Ragu, so I hope you love it. I’m not the greatest chef. In
fact, I don’t usually cook at all. Boiling water is, ten out of ten, the best I can do.”
I laugh. “You’re so connected to everything. I pictured you as the type to sniff all your ingredients
and layer them accordingly.”
She shakes her head. “Uh, no! I think the closest I get to sniffing ingredients is making sure the
milk hasn’t gone bad.”
I sit at the small oak table and stare toward the woman I want to skip dinner for and devour.
“Anything new going on? You any closer to getting your shop open?”
“Well,” she sighs, “the shop is ready to go. I think we’re going to open on Friday. That’s the good
news. The bad news… Nick, my neighbor, he came back last night shortly after you left. He has a
video of me now that I’d like to get back, though he’s not answering his door.”
My chest tightens and my jaw locks. “A video? Of what?”
She twists her dark hair into her index finger and glances away, biting into her garlic bread before
looking back again. “It’s private.”
“He has you showering?”
She shakes her head. “No. Worse.”
“Worse than one with you fully nude with soap all over? What’s worse?”
A deep breath releases from her lungs. “He… I… this is only going to make you feel weird
again.”
“I should know what I’m going after.”
“You don’t have to go after anything.” She reaches toward my hand. “That’s not why I was
telling you. I just—”
“I’m going after him. What does he have?”
Her eyes dart around the room, then settle back on mine with a downturned expression. “I was
masturbating, and he has it on video.”
Every alarm system in my body goes off at once. For one, she was masturbating to the thought of
us together. She had to have been. Immediate possession takes over my thoughts. It’s irrational and not
at all a modern way of thinking, but for the first time in my life, my body doesn’t ask for justification.
It’s hooked on Ella, and no one else can have her. No one else can think of her. And no one else can
see her like that… ever!
This thought, however, undoubtedly leads to the next set of alarms. She’s got a fucking asshole
probably jerking off to her right now, and I can’t let that happen.
I push back from the table and look toward her. “Thank you for dinner. It’s lovely, but I can’t sit
here knowing that guy has a video of you.” I slide my boots back on and head out the front door, jump
in my truck, and drive toward the asshole’s house, trying to manage the blood popping beneath my
veins. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this turned up.
Ella follows behind on foot. The houses are only a few hundred feet apart, but I’m in a hurry. This
son of a bitch isn’t getting away with this shit any longer. End of story.
I expect to break his door down, but he leaves the house before I’ve even knocked. The irony of
his posture over my trespassing has me laughing. His shoulders are wide, and his gun is drawn. “Who
the fuck are you?”
I pull my gun from its holster, and he jumps back. It’s an aggressive move because technically I’m
on his land. If he wants to shoot, he’d be within his rights. But this asshole needs to know I’m serious,
and if that means a shootout right here and now, that’s what it means.
“You have a video of me,” Ella shouts from down the drive. “I want it back!”
His eyes are on her, hungry, like a dog. An unstable, fucked up dog that needs to be put down.
I’m sick to my stomach as I think of him staring at her.
“Give me your phone!” she barks, holding her hand out toward him as she arrives next to us.
He laughs, looking toward me with the pointed gun, and then Ella. “Whatever.” He hands her the
phone.
She erases the video then tucks the phone into her pocket. “I’m taking it to Sheriff Woods, and
he’ll have Detective Arrows dig through every inch of it. You’re not getting away with this.”
Nick rolls his eyes. “Seriously, you’re going to get fucking Arrows? I took a video. I didn’t kill
someone.”
He’s a skinny guy with buzzed hair and tattoos on his forearms. His teeth are so yellow, they
trigger me to slow down.
“Where do you work?” I bark. He handed over his phone too easily. He’s doing something else
with those photos.
He narrows his gaze and shakes his head. “Get the fuck out of here, the both of you, or I’ll call the
damn sheriff myself.”
I stare at Nick a moment longer, then twist back toward the truck, reaching for Ella’s hand. I don’t
want her walking back without me. I want to know she’s where I can see her.
I’ve seen men like Nick before. Men who’ve had a rough time at war. They come home in pieces
and turn to drugs to heal them. It’s not ideal, but it fixes a problem quick… by creating another one.
“I don’t get what his problem is.” Ella buckles herself in and stares toward me. “He’s a psycho.
I’ve never seen him act like this. I mean, sure, he’d pop over and stare, but I’ve never seen him take
video, or get that agitated. How the hell am I going to sleep here alone?”
“You’re not going to.” I reach my hand out toward her, squeezing her shoulder tight.
“I can’t ask you to do that for me, Boone. We just met. You don’t owe me anything.”
I stay quiet until I’ve pulled the truck back to her lot and we’re officially in the warmth of her
cabin. When the door’s closed behind us, I step forward and put my hand back on her throat where it
belongs. Against my thumb, her heart is beating rapidly.
My teeth scrape against her shoulder. “We’re all animals, protecting what’s ours.” I breathe her
in. “I’m here protecting what I want.” The statement is aggressive and over the top… but it feels right.
 “Okay,” she whispers, squeezing her thighs together for reasons I hope to God mean this turns her
on.
“Good.” I bite the lobe of her ear gently and grab my phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to call
Sheriff Woods and get him in on this. Maybe they can scare Nick off before he does something stupid.
In the meantime, why don’t you look through the search history on his phone and make sure he hasn’t
shared any of those videos he took.”
Her gaze widens before she leans into my chest. “Why can’t I see any of this? My visions, they’re
blank. I thought it was you, but it’s everyone. When I was with Nick today, I didn’t get a reading from
him at all.”
“It’s about you, though. You said when something has to do with you, it’s harder to see.”
She pauses for a long moment, breathing slow against my chest as she whispers, “I’m so glad
you’re here.”
I brush my hand down over the back of her head, losing my fingers in the silk of her hair. “I am
too, baby girl. I am, too.”
 Chapter Six
Ella

If I was a prisoner of war, receiving brutal torture, I don’t think I’d be sharing as much info as
I do with Boone. It’s embarrassing how loose lipped I am with this man. He knows everything. He
knows every detail of my life from birth to now. He knows I get off on caveman-like energy and he
knows I was masturbating to him last night. What else is there to know?
I sigh, staring down at Nick’s phone as Boone pulls out my bedroom window. We’re still waiting
for Sheriff Woods. His car has been parked at Nick’s for the better part of an hour.
An hour!
What is there to say for an hour? You’d think it would be a very simple request. Don’t video
tape your neighbor. That’s pretty straight forward.
“Can you hand me that caulk?” Boone hollers from the back room.
I stand and make my way into the bedroom, handing him the caulk gun through the open window.
It’s nearly dark, but the man seems to like fixing things under moonlight.
“What did you find on his phone?”
“Just a bunch of texts. Nothing important. His search history was cleared.”
“Did you check the trash can? Sometimes the history stores there.”
“Look at you, knowing things about phones and the internet.” I grin, and scroll through Nick’s
phone looking for the trash can.
“I don’t use the phone, but I know how it works,” Boone grumbles under his breath as he knocks
the window into place. As he does, the front doorbell rings, and our gaze matches one another.
“Whatever he says, we’ve got this. Okay?” Boone flashes me a smile. “I’m going to caulk this
quick. I’ll meet you up front.”
I nod and suck in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I make my way to the door. Sheriff Woods
stands on the porch in tight blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and a Stetson with a star in the center.
He’s a thick man with what I’d call a ‘dad belly.’
“Ma’am.”
He’s barely gotten the words from his mouth before Boone is standing with us. My heart swells
and contentment washes over me knowing he’s there.
“Well,” Sheriff Woods says, taking off his Stetson, “Detective Arrows searched the man’s
computer, and it’s confirmed that he has videos of Ms. Winters in… compromising poses.” The
sheriff looks away again, darting his gaze everywhere but toward me.
My face flames and my cheeks burn at the thought of the detective seeing that video, at the thought
of anyone seeing that video!
“Wait? Did you say videos, as in more than one?”
“I’m afraid he’s been watching and recording for a while, ma’am. I’ve taken the hard drive from
his computer and I’m sending it into the city for someone to analyze. Mr. Andrews is in the truck now.
I’m going to hold him until we can get a hearing.”
“What? So, are the videos online or were they just for him?”
The sheriff looks down. “Thankfully, they look to be more of a personal collection, but we’ll do
some further research and get back to you with a confirmation on that.”
I nod slowly, trying to process the invasion of privacy. How did I not know this was happening?
What has he seen?
 My stomach turns and Boone pulls me in, holding me tight against his chest. “Can we expect to
hear from you tomorrow?”
Sheriff Woods nods, brushing his big hand down over his beard. “Tomorrow evening we should
know more. I’ll keep you both up to date.”
With my mind rocketing a hundred miles an hour, I pull away from Boone and pace back and forth,
unsure what to think, what to do, how to act.
“You need a cup of tea and a movie. No… a book,” Boone says, helping me into the house. “Start
the kettle. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I just want to check the gate behind the detective.”
I nod and head inside, thankful that Boone is here, and that he knows what to say, and when to say
it. If I didn’t have his support right now, I’d be a basket case, trying to will myself out of the corner.
My phone rings in my back pocket. It’s Junie. We met at a farmers’ market in Whiskey Falls a few
years back and we’ve been friends ever since. I already know why she’s calling. She wants to wish
me luck tomorrow with the shop opening. I should answer. It’s nice of her to call and I need the
distraction.
“Hey,” I say, running warm water into a kettle, “what’s up with you?”
“I just had the strangest day. Do you have time for a quick reading?”
I was off about what she wanted. Maybe I’m losing my ability all together. I’ll be the one Winters
woman that has no psychic talent whatsoever. Great time for that considering I owe the bank every
other part of me.
“Sure,” I lie. “What’s up?”
“I just put in an application to a mail order mountain man website.”
“Okay…”
“Well, I feel supremely dumb now. Like one, what if I’m not matched with anyone? Two, who gets
a mail order groom? Three, can you see me being with anyone, or getting married, or anything?”
I love Junie, I really do, but I’m not sure I can handle this right now. Sweat drips from my
forehead and my heart bounces against my chest. I lean against the counter and focus on my breathing,
but even the drip of water in the kettle is overstimulating. Every breath is labored, and my ribs hurt.
“Ella!” Junie laughs. “Are you there?” Her voice is like nails against a chalkboard and I snap.
“I can’t do this! I’m sorry.” I hang up the phone and slide down to the ground, holding my knees to
my chest as I stare at the bottom of my vintage refrigerator. It’s wide, dented, curved, and bent. I
follow the slope over and over again.
How did my mother do this? Why did I agree to do this? How am I ever going to maintain a
career giving people readings day in and day out when I can’t find the answers? Hell, I didn’t even
see the man who was stalking me. I didn’t see why Junie was calling. I couldn’t see anything about
what Detective Arrows would find, and I can’t see anything about Boone.
Honestly, this isn’t about Boone or anyone else. This is about me. I’ve lost my gift, and
tomorrow morning at nine, I’m screwed.
 Chapter Seven
Boone

I’ve seen too many breakdowns not to know what one looks like. The tears, the inaudible
mumbling, the shaking limbs, the racing heart. Ella is in a classic meltdown.
I lift her from the ground and carry her to the bedroom, resting her on the bed, before grabbing a
washcloth from the closet. She keeps a stack of them neatly folded next to a few bottles of soap that
have pictures of various flowers on the label.
“You’re okay,” I finish, wetting the cloth with cold water. “This will pass.”
She shakes her head, as tears fall. “I don’t think it will. I think I’m stuck like this. I can’t see
things anymore. I can’t see them happening. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Fuck. I’d give the world to help her with her problems, but I’m not versed in psychic abilities and
have no idea what to tell her.
I place the washcloth on her forehead. “Let’s start from the beginning. Has this happened before?”
“No.”
“Okay. Well, you know for sure the abilities are connected to an overactive part of your brain. We
also know that structurally speaking, your brain did not get damaged. We agree that physically your
brain is the same, right?”
She sucks in a deep breath and nods. I get the sense that she likes the rationale, so I continue.
“It stands to reason that without a physical change, you’re dealing with a self-made block.”
She nods again.
“When did this start?”
Her teeth sink into her lower lip. “Somewhere around mid-dinner last night. We were talking and
around the same time I told you about the primal thing… I just… I lost it. At first, I thought it was you
blocking me somehow, then it wasn’t working at all.”
“You knew Nick was on the property before. You said you felt it.”
“But not last night. I didn’t feel anything.”
“Okay, what about meditating? You said that helped you before.”
She nods and closes her eyes, sucking in a series of deep breaths before letting them out slowly. I
lay beside her and follow her lead, letting the soft sound of her breath soothe us both.
Her hand slides into mine and I hold her safe as she does her reflection. Many service men and
women use meditation in both combat and post combat healing. I’ve tried it more than a few times
myself, but I don’t have the patience to wait, and always get frustrated that some work isn’t getting
done.
After ten minutes, she opens her eyes and stares toward me. “Think about something. Something
strange.”
First thing that comes to mind are her soft lips, but I refocus and shift my energy toward a tree I’ve
been growing on my property. It sits in a field with the horses. They love the shade, but lately it’s
been losing leaves and I can’t figure why.
Her gaze holds mine for a long while, but she says nothing.
“What do you see?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she sighs. “I told you I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken.” I squeeze her hand and grab my phone off the table, pulling up the search tab
I’ve never used before. ‘How to clear your mind for psychic energy.’
 “Google is going to make a joke out of you. It’s times like this, I wish my mom was easier to
reach.”
Scrolling down the page, there are two options. Meditation and chakra clearing. “It says here that
your energetic skin can collect debris, just like your actual skin. When was the last time you did a salt
scrub?”
“A salt scrub?” Her brows turn down as though she’s never heard of it.
I nod. “It says here, you should use a salt based scrub to cleanse your skin, and make way for new
energy.”
“That’s it? Just soak in salt?”
“Not just soak. It says you should scrub. Areas of importance are the neck, back, heart, throat, and
bottoms of your feet.”
“Okay.” She hops from the bed with renewed vigor, looking beneath the sink for what I assume is
salt scrub. “Do you think Epsom salt will work? It’s rose quartz.” She sets the giant bottle up on the
counter and starts the tub. “I bought this when it was on sale and I haven’t even used it yet.”
“I think that’s perfect.” I lean into her head, kissing her gently before turning away. “I’ll give you a
few minutes to get scrubbed. If you need me, just yell.”
“I need you,” she says immediately. “I was hoping you’d help… unless it’s weird. I mean, it’s not
your—”
“I want to help,” I say, reaching for the washcloth.
“Okay. I’ll put my bathing suit on, and we can do this right.”
The thought of Ella in a bathing suit has my cock going stiff again, but I ignore it, and stay focused
on the task at hand. She’s got a big opening tomorrow, and I know she’s relying on this scrub to work.
I’m not sure how salt clears an invisible skin, but I’m all for the placebo effect. Out on tour, if a man
needed Tylenol and we didn’t have any, we’d give him a Vitamin C drop, and his headache would go
away every time. Last I checked, Vitamin C has little to do with caring for migraines.
Ella disappears to another room as I fill the tub with warm water and salt, stirring the bath
periodically to release the purities inside the tiny crystals.
“I’m really sorry about all this,” she says, stepping back into the room in a black two piece that
has my heart doing cartwheels.
Fuck.
“I’m pretty sure any guy in his right mind, would take this job willingly.”
“Your flattery is appreciated, but not necessary,” she says, bending forward to test the water, the
bottom of her bathing suit, swallowed up as her ass cheeks plump outward.
Fuck me. My mind travels back to the dark, carnal parts of myself that are in line with hers, and
for a second, I wonder if a good hard fuck would bring her abilities back.
I swallow hard and watch as her tits go buoyant in the water.
Focus, man! I’ve been flipped on my back, waterboarded, and kept more focus than this.
I dip the washcloth into the tub and work circles at her neck, then down her back to the very base
of her spine.
Moan after moan escapes her lips as the soft, warm salts work over her skin.
Her eyes close and her head tips back instinctually. I rub her throat and let the water drip down
her chest as I scrub the cloth in small circles over her shoulders, her stomach, and then her thighs,
slowly polishing my way to the bottoms of her feet.
The touch of her creamy skin against my palm is surreal. I’m desperate for more.
“Should I rinse now?” She tilts her gaze back toward me, splashing water up onto her shoulders.
 I nod and stare for a second too long before grabbing my phone off the nearby counter. “Right.” I
scroll down. “It says you should rinse with cool water, then root yourself back to the Earth.”
She narrows her brows. “Root myself back to the Earth? How do I do that?”
I scroll down more fully until I’m at the bottom of the page where the comments live. The first
few are ridiculous reviews of the article.
‘I scrubbed my aura, but the devil is still following me. Now what?’
‘Where’s the spell for realignment? I’ve been dizzy since my scrub.’
The third comment is something more useful. “This person says they ground by,” I clear my
throat, “standing nude in the garden and planting their feet in soil for ten minutes.” My chest squeezes
at the thought of that very scenario.
“Okay.” She stands from the tub and turns on the spray, quickly rinsing the salts off her skin
before reaching for the towel I’ve hung on the rack. “Let’s go.”
“You want me to go? What about the nude thing? Besides that, what if that asshole has more
cameras around here? It’s too dark for me to go looking right now.”
Her eyes widen as she looks toward me. “My shop opens tomorrow. I don’t have a choice.
We can look for the cameras in the morning and delete whatever they caught. Right now, I need to be
rooted, and I don’t want to go out there alone.”
I nod, watching her breasts bounce as she steps from the tub. “And I’m not sure I can see you
naked and not howl at the moon, baby girl.”
She turns back toward me and grins. “Maybe that’s what I’m going for.”
 Chapter Eight
Ella

Well, this is a first. I never thought I’d be standing naked in the garden with my feet tucked under
the soil like a scarecrow. Maybe I’ve officially lost my mind. I should be happy if someone is video
taping this. I could go viral and pay off the loan I owe to the bank when my shop inevitably flops
tomorrow.
“You can turn around. You don’t have to look away.” I stand shamelessly uncovered, airing my
every flaw to the universe as I beg for my visions to return. Something tells me, this isn’t going to
work.
“You sure you’re ready for what happens if I turn around?” Boone stands ten feet away as
though I’m diseased. He faces the cabin, his big arms crossed over one another. He’s fighting with
himself. He has been since I put on the bathing suit and got in the tub. I like it. I like the struggle on his
face as he watched my body move, knowing he couldn’t maul me the way he wanted to.
I’d be lying if I said my clit weren’t throbbing. It has been since last night. Even with the
drama, I’m still thinking about what Boone’s weight would feel like against me. It’s nearly all
consuming.
“I am,” I whisper, wondering what box I’ve just unlocked. The way he acted yesterday, the
words he said… could he mean them? Could he be that guy? Right now, I can’t imagine it. He’s too
protective, too nice, too…
His rough hand grips my jaw from behind, and his hot breath is low in my ear. “Say it louder
so I can hear you. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
My breath hitches and I begin to pant as his strong arms hold me in place. His cock is already
hard and pressed against my back. “Touch me,” I beg. “Yes. I want you to touch me. I want you inside
of me. Raw with nothing between us.” It’s a risk to let him inside without a condom, but I don’t want
some packaged version of him. I want to feel every inch of him inside of me. I want to feel every
degree of his heat.
He lets out a heavy breath along the side of my neck and nibbles the lobe of my ear. “You’re
sure?”
I nod and twist toward him, burying myself against the warmth of his skin. In my head, I’d
imagined him chasing me, tearing off my clothes, and pummeling me to the ground. Now, I don’t want
him to leave my side.
A low growl rumbles in his throat as he stares down at me. “You’re mine after this.
Understood?” There’s no room for wavering, only compliance, and I like that. I want him to own and
possess me.
Take me, Boone. I want everything you’ve got. The rough, the possessive, the gentle, the
aggressive… I want it all.
My fingers weave through his dark hair. “Gladly.”
He grumbles low again and snarls his lip up as he tears off his shirt and tugs at his jeans.
I stand in awe of him, watching as the crescent moon above highlights his large frame. The
night is cool, but I’ve lost all sense of temperature when I’m against his body. There’s no other
reality.
He’s not poetic or careful with his touch. He’s rough and hard, squeezing my waist, pinching
my nipples, tasting my lips. Groaning and growling, he paws over me, raking a tingly trail of heat
across my skin and between my legs.
His touch takes me out of my head, and I love every aching second of it.
I rock against his frame and grip my hand over his long, thick cock. He’s huge. It’s so big, that
I stop for a second and wonder how I’ll ever take it all inside, but before I can figure the angles, I’m
on my back in the dirt, and his head is between my legs.
His fingers slide inside of me, thrusting hard as he growls into my pussy. Heavy and hard, he
licks me up, nibbling on my outer folds as he flicks my clit. The soil is cool and a few stray roots
scrape at my back as he works his tongue up and over the throbbing center of my pussy.
He’s magic.
My toes curl, my eyes squeeze shut, and I scream out in desperation. “I need to come! I need
to come… now!”
“You’re really ready for this cock?” His voice is low and deep as he looks up at me, his thick
fingers still inside exploring.
Truthfully, I’m not sure I’d ever be ready for a cock the size of Boone’s. “I’m ready,” I pant,
thrusting up toward him.
A dangerous grin lifts onto his face and he pulls his fingers out slowly, licking them clean
before he strokes his big cock.
I’m not sure what to do. I’m new to this. Should I kneel? Should I suck his dick? Should I
stay where I am and wait?
He doesn’t keep me wondering. He takes the lead and lifts my leg onto his shoulder, twisting
my body to the side as he nudges his cock inside of me.
I know this is going to hurt, but I don’t care. I refuse to scream out in pain. I refuse to give him
a reason to stop. I want him to fuck me so hard in this dirt that when I stand it’s dripping down my
legs.
Boone’s face turns dark as he thrusts inside of me. “Fuck… you’re so fucking tight.” He grips
my hips and pumps, slapping his large frame against me like an out-of-control animal.
My clit swells and my lips draw open as the pain sets in.
I really thought it wouldn’t be this bad, but it is. He’s so big, and I’m so small.
“You okay?” He slows for a second, his face changing from wild to concerned. I don’t want
that. I want the wild.
“I’m fine,” I whine. “Really… don’t stop! Go harder!”
“You’re in pain. I’m going to stop.”
I grip his arm, and hold him in place, my eyes on his. “Fuck me, Boone! Don’t stop!” I must
look as serious as I sound, because Boone drives into my body with a fervor he’s been holding back.
He lands his thumb on my clit and twists in circles as he presses inside of me.
In between his thrusts, I can see the soil starting to accumulate on his arms and legs as he tears
us through the garden. I don’t remember what was planted here before, but Lord knows it’s not going
to hold up to Boone.
Between the cool dirt pressing against my back, the wild stars above, and the sound rumbling
in Boone’s chest as he thumps, I’m not sure I’ll make it either. “I’m going to come,” I whimper, lifting
my hips instinctually toward him. “I’m going to come so hard, Boone.”
“Come for me, baby girl. Let me have it. Come hard on this cock so you can lick it off.”
There it is again. Those words. Those dirty, filthy, delicious words.
Boone’s jaw tightens as he rubs my clit faster, thumping against me with speed. His thick cock
spreads me wide and the racing pulse between my legs explodes.
 He’s ruthless, as I come hard. My body clamps down on him, tightening the already tiny hole.
“Fuck!” His growl sends a shock wave through me that’s natural and open.
My body stiffens and convulses beneath him as my toes curl into the soil under me. Heat
floods my skin and all at once I fall apart, dragging my limp arms down his and into the dirt.
His hand lands on my face. “You look so fucking good when you come.” He’s panting as he
thrusts, and his eyes are desperate.
“I can’t wait to lick me off you,” I say, holding his rough hand as he continues to explore my
depths.
Again and again, we move together against the rough dirt. My hair is covered, my fingernails
are filled, and I’m sure I’ll be scrubbing the Earth off me for days, but watching Boone rock back and
forth against me in the moonlight, is an image I’ll never forget.
His expression is raw and wild, and I’m an electric wire, desperate for his current. I never
want it to end. I’ve finally found a big, sweet, rough man and I’m not letting go.
His weight presses against me harder, burying me in the dirt, before all at once he fists into my
hair and growls.
It’s loud and unabridged… feral and free… blissful and hard.
“Fuck,” he groans, thumping against me slower now that he’s released. We stay like this for a
long moment before he settles beside me in the garden, still breathing hard. “You okay?” He kisses my
head gently. “I lost myself there. I—”
“It was perfect.” I roll into his shoulder and twist the hair on his chest with the tip of my
finger, dragging my body to his freshly enjoyed cock.
“Oh, baby girl, you don’t have to. I was—”
I dip onto his dick, forcing him to choke on the end of his sentence. His hand digs into my hair
as I bob and lick, gagging on his length, devouring what we’ve created.
Thick sounds of approval gather in his throat as I lick his dick clean.
“Fuck me, baby. What the hell?” He pulls me on top of him, moaning before kissing my wet
lips.
“Maybe this is awful, but I hope this is on video. I want the recording for myself.” I smile and
lay against his strong chest. We’re sweaty and sticky despite the cool air and I’m pretty sure we’ve
turned the soil enough for spring planting.
He laughs and kisses my forehead. “Can you tell I was thinking the same thing?”
I suck in a deep breath of night air and stare down at the man I’m most certainly in love with.
“I see everything.” I grin. “Also, you’re wishing you had a ring for me. If you did, you’d ask me right
now. Do you know what I’m thinking?”
He smiles and brushes my hair from my face. “You’re thinking I don’t need one. That if I ask,
you’d say yes.”
I can’t help but grin. “Maybe I should get you a job in the shop, too. We could be a team.”
Leaning up from the garden dirt, he holds me in his arms, then lowers to one knee, still nude in
the light of the moon. “A few days ago, you were a stranger. Today, I can’t live without you. I don’t
know how that works, which as you know, is incredibly frustrating to me, but I do know I’m willing
to spend the rest of my life figuring it out. Will you marry me, Ella?”
He’s not a poet and the timing could be better, but I see past all that. I see what he’s thinking…
what he’s feeling. This man loves me. He genuinely, truly loves me. He’d do anything for me. He
wants to protect me, hold me, and savor me. He wants to buy me a ring and have a family. He wants
love, and he wants to grow a garden, right here where we stand.
 Tears fall from my eyes and my hand shakes as Boone holds me close. “Yes, yes, yes!” I fall
into his arms, and he presses a kiss into my neck.
My heart squeezes and my clit throbs again as his hand wanders to my lower back. I know where
he’s going with this, and the future never looked so good.
 Epilogue
Boone
Six Months Later

Junie and Ella sit beside the garden, pulling weeds. They’ve been talking about some mail order
mountain man for the last hour or more. Apparently, Junie has had a number of bad dates and she’s
wondering if there’s a good one coming anytime soon.
“I see a guy,” Ella says, yanking up a dandelion, “but he’s a lot older than you, and he’s got a
past.”
“Oh, great!” Junie rolls her eyes. “The last thing I need is another man with a past.”
“I get the feeling this one works out, though,” Ella says, drawing her attention to the spinach.
“Give this one time to develop.”
The sour look on Junie’s face says she doesn’t believe the advice Ella’s giving her. I never
realized how complicated being a psychic would be.
“Be careful with those eye rolls,” Ella says playfully, “or the big guy will kick you out. He’s got a
reputation now, ya know.”
Junie laughs and stands from the dirt, dusting off her bottom. “I hear.” She looks toward me.
“Sorry, boss. I’ll keep it in line.”
Ella snorts and blows a strand of hair from her face. “It’s not a joke. He’s brutal. I was giving a
guy a reading a few months ago, and the man went berserk because he didn’t like my answers. Boone
went full-on maniac and kicked the guy out. If he hadn’t been there, I don’t know what the psycho
would’ve done.”
“A local?” Junie asks, staring down at Ella who's kneeling next to the garden.
“No, some out-of-towner. No local would act like that, at least not on Main Street.” She sighs.
“Anyway, that’s nothing compared to the whole Nick thing. We just finally got all that settled.”
“Oh yeah?” Junie says, fluffing back her hair. She doesn’t seem to be the gardener that Ella is.
Junie would rather do something less dirty and more refined. “What happened with all that?”
“He got six months in jail and two years of probation. We found cameras all over the property.”
“Which we took the footage from,” I add, helping my girl up from the garden. “It was a mess, but
he moved to Colorado Springs. So, we bought his property. We’re tearing down the house and
building a barn so we can move all my horses here. Right now, we’re back and forth everyday taking
care of them.”
Junie twists her ginger hair to her shoulder. “Did he share the videos anywhere or…”
“Nope. They were just for him.” Ella twists her lips. “So weird.”
“Well,” Junie sighs, “at least you don’t have to worry about any of that now. But in a few months,
you’ll be nothing but worries when the new baby comes.”
Ella smiles gently and leans into my chest. She fits perfectly there, like she was made for me.
“Well, all your love is making me jealous, so I’m going to go.” Junie laughs. “Wish me luck with
this mail order man thing. I think I’m going to need it.”
“You won’t need luck.” Ella smiles gently. “This one is good. Trust me.”
Junie smiles as she makes her way back to the car, but I can tell she’s not convinced this meeting
is going to go well. I’m not sure I blame her. A mail order anything sounds sketchy. I have a hard time
trusting mail order catalogues, let alone a mail order spouse.
“You think she’ll be okay?” Ella snuggles into me. Her little round belly has popped recently. I
rub my hand over the top of it. It’s funny how fast this has become one of my favorite things.
I stare down at her dark gaze, watching the pitch-black strands of her hair blow in the breeze.
“She’ll be great, and you know it… literally.” I laugh.
“I know, but sometimes people get their own way and the future changes. I worry she’s one of
those people.”
I kiss her forehead. “Right now, I’m wondering what you see for our baby. You said you knew the
sex, right? Care to spill?”
She nods. “A girl. I’m sure of it.” Ella’s face lights as she says it.
“Okay, so… that means she needs a name.” A shot of excitement shivers through me at the thought
of having a little Ella to raise. I imagine her telling us the thoughts of all her schoolmates and reading
my mind before bed to trick me into one more bedtime story.
“You want to name her Mabel, right? I like that!” Ella grins and kisses my lips gently.
At first, I thought this whole psychic thing was a downfall. I had trauma I hadn’t resolved, I
wasn’t ready for love, and civilian life was a complicated maze I didn’t have the energy to work
through.
Then, I met Ella. A raven-haired woman whose visions showed me a future I couldn’t resist. Ten
days after we met, I married her beneath an oak tree, next to a creek on a cool spring day. It was a day
that me, Ella, and the garden will never forget.
Thank you for reading! Check out Junie’s story next!
 Khloe Summers is the author of over one hundred short and steamy romance titles. Her books are
written in many different tropes, but always contain growly older alphas, curvy women, and lots of
steam.

Khloe lives with her husband, (who she affectionately calls Daddy) in sunny Florida. They spend
most of their free time sinking their toes in the sand, eating too many pizzas, and hollering obscenities
at the TV on football Sunday. (At least he does. She sits on the sidelines and quietly orders nonsense
off Amazon.)

Before this life is over, Khloe would like to check everything off her sexy bucket list and visit
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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 BYRON AND WORDSWORTH

The London Weekly Review.]

[April 5, 1828.

I am much surprised at Lord Byron’s haste to return a volume of

Spenser, which was lent him by Mr. Hunt, and at his apparent
indifference to the progress and (if he pleased) advancement of
poetry up to the present day. Did he really think that all genius was
concentred in his own time, or in his own bosom? With his pride of
ancestry, had he no curiosity to explore the heraldry of intellect? or
did he regard the Muse as an upstart—a mere modern bluestocking
and fine lady? I am afraid that high birth and station, instead of
being (as Mr. Burke predicates,) ‘a cure for a narrow and selfish
mind,’ only make a man more full of himself, and, instead of
enlarging and refining his views, impatient of any but the most
inordinate and immediate stimulus. I do not recollect, in all Lord
Byron’s writings, a single recurrence to a feeling or object that had
ever excited an interest before; there is no display of natural affection
—no twining of the heart round any object: all is the restless and
disjointed effect of first impressions, of novelty, contrast, surprise,
grotesque costume, or sullen grandeur. His beauties are the houris of
Paradise, the favourites of a seraglio, the changing visions of a
feverish dream. His poetry, it is true, is stately and dazzling, arched
like a rainbow, of bright and lovely hues, painted on the cloud of his
own gloomy temper—perhaps to disappear as soon! It is easy to
account for the antipathy between him and Mr. Wordsworth. Mr.
Wordsworth’s poetical mistress is a Pamela; Lord Byron’s an Eastern
princess or a Moorish maid. It is the extrinsic, the uncommon that
captivates him, and all the rest he holds in sovereign contempt. This
is the obvious result of pampered luxury and high-born sentiments.
The mind, like the palace in which it has been brought up, admits
none but new and costly furniture. From a scorn of homely
simplicity, and a surfeit of the artificial, it has but one resource left in
exotic manners and preternatural effect. So we see in novels, written
by ladies of quality, all the marvellous allurements of a fairy tale,
jewels, quarries of diamonds, giants, magicians, condors and ogres.
[55]
The author of the Lyrical Ballads describes the lichen on the rock,
the withered fern, with some peculiar feeling that he has about them:
the author of Childe Harold describes the stately cypress, or the
fallen column, with the feeling that every schoolboy has about them.
The world is a grown schoolboy, and relishes the latter most. When
Rousseau called out—‘Ah! voila de la pervenche!’ in a transport of
joy at sight of the periwinkle, because he had first seen this little blue
flower in company with Madame Warens thirty years before, I
cannot help thinking, that any astonishment expressed at the sight of
a palm-tree, or even of Pompey’s Pillar, is vulgar compared to this!
Lord Byron, when he does not saunter down Bond-street, goes into
the East: when he is not occupied with the passing topic, he goes
back two thousand years, at one poetic, gigantic stride! But instead of
the sweeping mutations of empire, and the vast lapses of duration,
shrunk up into an antithesis, commend me to the ‘slow and creeping
foot of time,’ in the commencement of Ivanhoe, where the jester and
the swine-herd watch the sun going down behind the low-stunted
trees of the forest, and their loitering and impatience make the
summer’s day seem so long, that we wonder how we have ever got to
the end of the six hundred years that have passed since! That where
the face of nature has changed, time should have rolled on its course,
is but a common-place discovery; but that where all seems the same,
(the long rank grass, and the stunted oaks, and the innocent pastoral
landscape,) all should have changed—this is to me the burthen and
the mystery. The ruined pile is a memento and a monument to him
that reared it—oblivion has here done but half its work; but what
yearnings, what vain conflicts with its fate come over the soul in the
other case, which makes man seem like a grasshopper—an insect of
the hour, and all that he is, or that others have been—nothing!
 ON CANT AND HYPOCRISY

A Fragment
The London Weekly Review.]
[December 6, 1828.
‘If to do were as easy as to teach others what were good to be done, chapels had
been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces.’

Mr. Addison, it is said, was fond of tippling; and Curl, it is added,

when he called on him in the morning, used to ask as a particular
favour for a glass of Canary, by way of ingratiating himself, and that
the other might have a pretence to join him and finish the bottle. He
fell a martyr to this habit, and yet (some persons more nice than wise
exclaim,) he desired that the young Earl of Warwick might attend
him on his death-bed, ‘to see how a Christian could die!’ I see no
inconsistency nor hypocrisy in this. A man may be a good Christian,
a sound believer, and a sincere lover of virtue, and have,
notwithstanding, one or more failings. If he had recommended it to
others to get drunk, then I should have said he was a hypocrite, and
that his pretended veneration for the Christian religion was a mere
cloak put on to suit the purposes of fashion or convenience. His
doing what it condemned was no proof of any such thing: ‘The spirit
was willing, but the flesh was weak.’ He is a hypocrite who professes
what he does not believe; not he who does not practice all he wishes
or approves. It might on the same ground be argued, that a man is a
hypocrite who admires Raphael or Shakespeare, because he cannot
paint like the one, or write like the other. If any one really despised
what he affected outwardly to admire, this would be hypocrisy. If he
affected to admire it a great deal more than he really did, this would
be cant. Sincerity has to do with the connexion between our words
and thoughts, and not between our belief and actions. The last
constantly belie the strongest convictions and resolutions in the best
of men; it is only the base and dishonest who give themselves credit
with their tongue, for sentiments and opinions which in their hearts
they disown.
I do not therefore think that the old theological maxim—‘The
greater the sinner, the greater the saint’—is so utterly unfounded.
There is some mixture of truth in it. For as long as man is composed
of two parts, body and soul; and while these are allowed to pull
different ways, I see no reason why, in proportion to the length the
one goes, the opposition or reaction of the other should not be more
violent. It is certain, for example, that no one makes such good
resolutions as the sot and the gambler in their moments of
repentance, or can be more impressed with the horrors of their
situation;—should this disposition, instead of a transient, idle pang,
by chance become lasting, who can be supposed to feel the beauty of
temperance and economy more, or to look back with greater
gratitude to their escape from the trammels of vice and passion?
Would the ingenious and elegant author of the Spectator feel less
regard for the Scriptures, because they denounced in pointed terms
the infirmity that ‘most easily beset him,’ that was the torment of his
life, and the cause of his death? Such reasoning would be true, if man
was a simple animal or a logical machine, and all his faculties and
impulses were in strict unison; instead of which they are eternally at
variance, and no one hates or takes part against himself more
heartily or heroically than does the same individual. Does he not pass
sentence on his own conduct? Is not his conscience both judge and
accuser? What else is the meaning of all our resolutions against
ourselves, as well as of our exhortations to others? Video meliora
proboque, deteriora sequor, is not the language of hypocrisy, but of
human nature.
The hypocrisy of priests has been a butt for ridicule in all ages; but
I am not sure that there has not been more wit than philosophy in it.
A priest, it is true, is obliged to affect a greater degree of sanctity than
ordinary men, and probably more than he possesses; and this is so
far, I am willing to allow, hypocrisy and solemn grimace. But I
cannot admit, that though he may exaggerate, or even make an
ostentatious display of religion and virtue through habit and spiritual
pride, that this is a proof he has not these sentiments in his heart, or
that his whole behaviour is the mere acting of a part. His character,
his motives, are not altogether pure and sincere: are they therefore
all false and hollow? No such thing. It is contrary to all our
observation and experience so to interpret it. We all wear some
disguise—make some professions—use some artifice to set ourselves
off as being better than we are; and yet it is not denied that we have
some good intentions and praiseworthy qualities at bottom, though
we may endeavour to keep some others that we think less to our
credit as much as possible in the back-ground:—why then should we
not extend the same favourable construction to monks and friars,
who may be sometimes caught tripping as well as other men—with
less excuse, no doubt; but if it is also with greater remorse of
conscience, which probably often happens, their pretensions are not
all downright, barefaced imposture. Their sincerity, compared with
that of other men, can only be judged of by the proportion between
the degree of virtue they profess, and that which they practice, or at
least carefully seek to realise. To conceive it otherwise, is to insist
that characters must be all perfect, or all vicious—neither of which
suppositions is even possible. If a clergyman is notoriously a
drunkard, a debauchee, a glutton, or a scoffer, then for him to lay
claim at the same time to extraordinary inspirations of faith or grace,
is both scandalous and ridiculous. The scene between the Abbot and
the poor brother in the ‘Duenna’ is an admirable exposure of this
double-faced dealing. But because a parson has a relish for the good
things of this life, or what is commonly called a liquorish tooth in his
head, (beyond what he would have it supposed by others, or even by
himself,) that he has therefore no fear or belief of the next, I hold for
a crude and vulgar prejudice. If a poor half-starved parish priest pays
his court to an olla podrida, or a venison pasty, with uncommon
gusto, shall we say that he has no other sentiments in offering his
devotions to a crucifix, or in counting his beads? I see no more
ground for such an inference, than for affirming that Handel was not
in earnest when he sat down to compose a Symphony, because he
had at the same time perhaps a bottle of cordials in his cupboard; or
that Raphael was not entitled to the epithet of divine, because he was
attached to the Fornarina! Everything has its turn in this chequered
scene of things, unless we prevent it from taking its turn by over-
rigid conditions, or drive men to despair or the most callous
effrontery, by erecting a standard of perfection, to which no one can
conform in reality! Thomson, in his ‘Castle of Indolence,’ (a subject
on which his pen ran riot,) has indulged in rather a free description
of ‘a little round, fat, oily man of God—
‘Who shone all glittering with ungodly dew,
If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by;
Which, when observed, he shrunk into his mew,
And straight would recollect his piety anew.’

Now, was the piety in this case the less real, because it had been
forgotten for a moment? Or even if this motive should not prove the
strongest in the end, would this therefore show that it was none,
which is necessary to the argument here combated, or to make out
our little plump priest a very knave! A priest may be honest, and yet
err; as a woman may be modest, and yet half-inclined to be a rake. So
the virtue of prudes may be suspected, though not their sincerity.
The strength of their passions may make them more conscious of
their weakness, and more cautious of exposing themselves; but not
more to blind others than as a guard upon themselves. Again,
suppose a clergyman hazards a jest upon sacred subjects, does it
follow that he does not believe a word of the matter? Put the case
that any one else, encouraged by his example, takes up the banter or
levity, and see what effect it will have upon the reverend divine. He
will turn round like a serpent trod upon, with all the vehemence and
asperity of the most bigoted orthodoxy. Is this dictatorial and
exclusive spirit then put on merely as a mask and to browbeat
others? No; but he thinks he is privileged to trifle with the subject
safely himself, from the store of evidence he has in reserve, and from
the nature of his functions; but he is afraid of serious consequences
being drawn from what others might say, or from his seeming to
countenance it; and the moment the Church is in danger, or his own
faith brought in question, his attachment to each becomes as visible
as his hatred to those who dare to impugn either the one or the other.
A woman’s attachment to her husband is not to be suspected, if she
will allow no one to abuse him but herself! It has been remarked,
that with the spread of liberal opinions, or a more general scepticism
on articles of faith, the clergy and religious persons in general have
become more squeamish and jealous of any objections to their
favourite doctrines: but this is what must follow in the natural course
of things—the resistance being always in proportion to the danger;
and arguments and books that were formerly allowed to pass
unheeded, because it was supposed impossible they could do any
mischief, are now denounced or prohibited with the most zealous
vigilance, from a knowledge of the contagious nature of their
influence and contents. So in morals, it is obvious that the greatest
nicety of expression and allusion must be observed, where the
manners are the most corrupt, and the imagination most easily
excited, not out of mere affectation, but as a dictate of common sense
and decency.
One of the finest remarks that has been made in modern times, is
that of Lord Shaftesbury, that there is no such thing as a perfect
Theist, or an absolute Atheist; that whatever may be the general
conviction entertained on the subject, the evidence is not and cannot
be at all times equally present to the mind; that even if it were, we
are not in the same humour to receive it: a fit of the gout, a shower of
rain shakes our best-established conclusions; and according to
circumstances and the frame of mind we are in, our belief varies
from the most sanguine enthusiasm to lukewarm indifference, or the
most gloomy despair. There is a point of conceivable faith which
might prevent any lapse from virtue, and reconcile all contrarieties
between theory and practice; but this is not to be looked for in the
ordinary course of nature, and is reserved for the abodes of the blest.
Here, ‘upon this bank and shoal of time,’ the utmost we can hope to
attain is, a strong habitual belief in the excellence of virtue, or the
dispensations of Providence; and the conflict of the passions, and
their occasional mastery over us, far from disproving or destroying
this general, rational conviction, often fling us back more forcibly
upon it, and like other infidelities and misunderstandings, produce
all the alternate remorse and raptures of repentance and
reconciliation.
It has been frequently remarked that the most obstinate heretic or
confirmed sceptic, witnessing the service of the Roman Catholic
church, the elevation of the host amidst the sounds of music, the
pomp of ceremonies, the embellishments of art, feels himself spell-
bound: and is almost persuaded to become a renegade to his reason
or his religion. Even in hearing a vespers chaunted on the stage, or in
reading an account of a torch-light procession in a romance, a
superstitious awe creeps over the frame, and we are momentarily
charmed out of ourselves. When such is the obvious and involuntary
influence of circumstances on the imagination, shall we say that a
monkish recluse surrounded from his childhood by all this pomp, a
stranger to any other faith, who has breathed no other atmosphere,
and all whose meditations are bent on this one subject both by
interest and habit and duty, is to be set down as a rank and heartless
mountebank in the professions he makes of belief in it, because his
thoughts may sometimes wander to forbidden subjects, or his feet
stumble on forbidden ground? Or shall not the deep shadows of the
woods in Vallombrosa enhance the solemnity of this feeling, or the
icy horrors of the Grand Chartreux add to its elevation and its purity?
To argue otherwise is to misdeem of human nature, and to limit its
capacities for good or evil by some narrow-minded standard of our
own. Man is neither a God nor a brute; but there is a prosaic and a
poetical side to everything concerning him, and it is as impossible
absolutely and for a constancy to exclude either one or the other
from the mind, as to make him live without air or food. The ideal, the
empire of thought and aspiration after truth and good, is inseparable
from the nature of an intellectual being—what right have we then to
catch at every strife which in the mortified professors of religion the
spirit wages with the flesh as grossly vicious, or at every doubt, the
bare suggestion of which fills them with consternation and despair,
as a proof of the most glaring hypocrisy? The grossnesses of religion
and its stickling for mere forms as its essence, have given a handle,
and a just one, to its impugners. At the feast of Ramadan (says
Voltaire) the Mussulmans wash and pray five times a day, and then
fall to cutting one another’s throats again with the greatest
deliberation and good-will. The two things, I grant, are sufficiently at
variance; but they are, I contend, equally sincere in both. The
Mahometans are savages, but they are not the less true believers—
they hate their enemies as heartily as they revere the Koran. This,
instead of showing the fallacy of the ideal principle, shows its
universality and indestructible essence. Let a man be as bad as he
will, as little refined as possible, and indulge whatever hurtful
passions or gross vices he thinks proper, these cannot occupy the
whole of his time; and in the intervals between one scoundrel action
and another he may and must have better thoughts, and may have
recourse to those of religion (true or false) among the number,
without in this being guilty of hypocrisy or of making a jest of what is
considered as sacred. This, I take it, is the whole secret of
Methodism, which is a sort of modern vent for the ebullitions of the
spirit through the gaps of unrighteousness.
We often see that a person condemns in another the very thing he
is guilty of himself. Is this hypocrisy? It may, or it may not. If he
really feels none of the disgust and abhorrence he expresses, this is
quackery and impudence. But if he really expresses what he feels,
(and he easily may, for it is the abstract idea he contemplates in the
case of another, and the immediate temptation to which he yields in
his own, so that he probably is not even conscious of the identity or
connexion between the two,) then this is not hypocrisy, but want of
strength and keeping in the moral sense. All morality consists in
squaring our actions and sentiments to our ideas of what is fit and
proper; and it is the incessant struggle and alternate triumph of the
two principles, the ideal and the physical, that keeps up this ‘mighty
coil and pudder’ about vice and virtue, and is one great source of all
the good and evil in the world. The mind of man is like a clock that is
always running down, and requires to be as constantly wound up.
The ideal principle is the master-key that winds it up, and without
which it would come to a stand: the sensual and selfish feelings are
the dead weights that pull it down to the gross and grovelling. Till the
intellectual faculty is destroyed, (so that the mind sees nothing
beyond itself, or the present moment,) it is impossible to have all
brutal depravity: till the material and physical are done away with,
(so that it shall contemplate everything from a purely spiritual and
disinterested point of view,) it is impossible to have all virtue. There
must be a mixture of the two, as long as man is compounded of
opposite materials, a contradiction and an eternal competition for
the mastery. I by no means think a single bad action condemns a
man, for he probably condemns it as much as you do; nor a single
bad habit, for he is probably trying all his life to get rid of it. A man is
only thoroughly profligate when he has lost the sense of right and
wrong; or a thorough hypocrite, when he has not even the wish to be
what he appears. The greatest offence against virtue is to speak ill of
it. To recommend certain things is worse than to practise them.
There may be an excuse for the last in the frailty of passion; but the
former can arise from nothing but an utter depravity of disposition.
Any one may yield to temptation, and yet feel a sincere love and
aspiration after virtue: but he who maintains vice in theory, has not
even the conception or capacity for virtue in his mind. Men err:
fiends only make a mock at goodness.
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED

The London Weekly Review.]

[December 13, 1828.

We sometimes deceive ourselves, and think worse of human

nature than it deserves, in consequence of judging of character from
names, and classes, and modes of life. No one is simply and
absolutely any one thing, though he may be branded with it as a
name. Some persons have expected to see his crimes written in the
face of a murderer, and have been disappointed because they did not,
as if this impeached the distinction between virtue and vice. Not at
all. The circumstance only showed that the man was other things,
and had other feelings besides those of a murderer. If he had nothing
else,—if he had fed on nothing else,—if he had dreamt of nothing
else, but schemes of murder, his features would have expressed
nothing else: but this perfection in vice is not to be expected from the
contradictory and mixed nature of our motives. Humanity is to be
met with in a den of robbers; nay, modesty in a brothel. Even among
the most abandoned of the other sex, there is not unfrequently found
to exist (contrary to all that is generally supposed) one strong and
individual attachment, which remains unshaken to the last. Virtue
may be said to steal, like a guilty thing, into the secret haunts of vice
and infamy; it clings to their devoted victim, and will not be driven
quite away. Nothing can destroy the human heart. Again, there is a
heroism in crime, as well as in virtue. Vice and infamy have also their
altars and their religion. This makes nothing in their favour, but is a
proof of the heroical disinterestedness of man’s nature, and that
whatever he does, he must fling a dash of romance and sublimity into
it; just as some grave biographer has said of Shakespeare, that ‘even
when he killed a calf, he made a speech and did it in a great style.’
 It is then impossible to get rid of this original distinction and
contradictory bias, and to reduce everything to the system of French
levity and Epicurean indifference. Wherever there is a capacity of
conceiving of things as different from what they are, there must be a
principle of taste and selection—a disposition to make them better,
and a power to make them worse. Ask a Parisian milliner if she does
not think one bonnet more becoming than another—a Parisian
dancing-master if French grace is not better than English
awkwardness—a French cook if all sauces are alike—a French
blacklegs if all throws are equal on the dice? It is curious that the
French nation restrict rigid rules and fixed principles to cookery and
the drama, and maintain that the great drama of human life is
entirely a matter of caprice and fancy. No one will assert that
Raphael’s histories, that Claude’s landscapes are not better than a
daub: but if the expression in one of Raphael’s faces is better than
the most mean and vulgar, how resist the consequence that the
feeling so expressed is better also? It does not appear to me that all
faces or all actions are alike. If goodness were only a theory, it were a
pity it should be lost to the world. There are a number of things, the
idea of which is a clear gain to the mind. Let people, for instance, rail
at friendship, genius, freedom, as long as they will—the very names
of these despised qualities are better than anything else that could be
substituted for them, and embalm even the most envenomed satire
against them. It is no small consideration that the mind is capable
even of feigning such things. So I would contend against that
reasoning which would have it thought that if religion is not true,
there is no difference between mankind and the beasts that perish;—
I should say, that this distinction is equally proved, if religion is
supposed to be a mere fabrication of the human mind; the capacity
to conceive it makes the difference. The idea alone of an over-ruling
Providence, or of a future state, is as much a distinctive mark of a
superiority of nature, as the invention of the mathematics, which are
true,—or of poetry, which is a fable. Whatever the truth or falsehood
of our speculations, the power to make them is peculiar to ourselves.
The contrariety and warfare of different faculties and dispositions
within us has not only given birth to the Manichean and Gnostic
heresies, and to other superstitions of the East, but will account for
many of the mummeries and dogmas both of Popery and Calvinism,
—confession, absolution, justification by faith, &c.; which, in the
hopelessness of attaining perfection, and our dissatisfaction with
ourselves for falling short of it, are all substitutes for actual virtue,
and an attempt to throw the burthen of a task, to which we are
unequal or only half disposed, on the merits of others, or on outward
forms, ceremonies, and professions of faith. Hence the crowd of
‘Eremites and friars,
White, black, and grey, with all their trumpery.’

If we do not conform to the law, we at least acknowledge the

jurisdiction of the court. A person does wrong; he is sorry for it; and
as he still feels himself liable to error, he is desirous to make
atonement as well as he can, by ablutions, by tithes, by penance, by
sacrifices, or other voluntary demonstrations of obedience, which are
in his power, though his passions are not, and which prove that his
will is not refractory, and that his understanding is right towards
God. The stricter tenets of Calvinism, which allow of no medium
between grace and reprobation, and doom man to eternal
punishment for every breach of the moral law, as an equal offence
against infinite truth and justice, proceed (like the paradoxical
doctrine of the Stoics) from taking a half-view of this subject, and
considering man as amenable only to the dictates of his
understanding and his conscience, and not excusable from the
temptations and frailty of human ignorance and passion. The mixing
up of religion and morality together, or the making us accountable
for every word, thought, or action, under no less a responsibility than
our everlasting future welfare or misery, has also added incalculably
to the difficulties of self-knowledge, has superinduced a violent and
spurious state of feeling, and made it almost impossible to
distinguish the boundaries between the true and false, in judging of
human conduct and motives. A religious man is afraid of looking into
the state of his soul, lest at the same time he should reveal it to
Heaven; and tries to persuade himself that by shutting his eyes to his
true character and feelings, they will remain a profound secret both
here and hereafter. This is a strong engine and irresistible
inducement to self-deception; and the more zealous any one is in his
convictions of the truth of religion, the more we may suspect the
sincerity of his pretensions to piety and morality.
 Thus, though I think there is very little downright hypocrisy in the
world, I do think there is a great deal of cant—‘cant religious, cant
political, cant literary,’ &c. as Lord Byron said. Though few people
have the face to set up for the very thing they in their hearts despise,
we almost all want to be thought better than we are, and affect a
greater admiration or abhorrence of certain things than we really
feel. Indeed, some degree of affectation is as necessary to the mind as
dress is to the body; we must overact our part in some measure, in
order to produce any effect at all. There was formerly the two hours’
sermon, the long-winded grace, the nasal drawl, the uplifted hands
and eyes; all which, though accompanied with some corresponding
emotion, expressed more than was really felt, and were in fact
intended to make up for the conscious deficiency. As our interest in
anything wears out with time and habit, we exaggerate the outward
symptoms of zeal as mechanical helps to devotion, dwell the longer
on our words as they are less felt, and hence the very origin of the
term, cant. The cant of sentimentality has succeeded to that of
religion. There is a cant of humanity, of patriotism and loyalty—not
that people do not feel these emotions, but they make too great a fuss
about them, and drawl out the expression of them till they tire
themselves and others. There is a cant about Shakespeare. There is a
cant about Political Economy just now. In short, there is and must be
a cant about everything that excites a considerable degree of
attention and interest, and that people would be thought to know
and care rather more about than they actually do. Cant is the
voluntary overcharging or prolongation of a real sentiment;
hypocrisy is the setting up a pretension to a feeling you never had
and have no wish for. Mr. Coleridge is made up of cant, that is, of
mawkish affectation and sensibility; but he has not sincerity enough
to be a hypocrite, that is, he has not hearty dislike or contempt
enough for anything, to give the lie to his puling professions of
admiration and esteem for it. The fuss that Mr. Liberal Snake makes
about Political Economy is not cant, but what Mr. Theodore Hook
politely calls humbug; he himself is hardly the dupe of his own
pompous reasoning, but he wishes to make it the stalking-horse of
his ambition or interest to sneak into a place and curry favour with
the Government....
 POETRY

The Atlas.]
[March 8, 1829.

As there are two kinds of rhyme, one that is rhyme to the ear, and
another to the eye only; so there may be said to be two kinds of
poetry, one that is a description of objects to those who have never
seen or but slightly studied them; the other is a description of objects
addressed to those who have seen and are intimately acquainted with
them, and expressing the feeling which is the result of such
knowledge. It is needless to add that the first kind of poetry is
comparatively superficial and common-place; the last profound,
lofty, nay often divine. Take an example (one out of a thousand) from
Shakspeare. In enumerating the wished-for contents of her basket of
flowers, Perdita in the Winter’s Tale mentions among others——
‘Daffodils
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes
Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses
That die unmarried ere they can behold
Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids.’

This passage which knocks down John Bull with its perfumed and
melting softness, and savours of ‘that fine madness which our first
poets had,’ is a mystery, an untranslateable language, to all France:
Racine could not have conceived what it was about—the stupidest
Englishman feels a certain pride and pleasure in it. What a privilege
(if that were all) to be born on this the cloudy and poetical side of the
Channel! We may in part clear up this contradiction in tastes by the
clue above given. The French are more apt at taking the patterns of
their ideas from words; we, who are slower and heavier, are obliged
to look closer at things before we can pronounce upon them at all,
which in the end perhaps opens a larger field both of observation and
fancy. Thus the phrase ‘violets dim,’ to those who have never seen
the object, or who, having paid no attention to it, refer to the
description for their notion of it, seems to convey a slur rather than a
compliment, dimness being no beauty in itself; so this part of the
story would not have been ventured upon in French or tinsel poetry.
But to those who have seen, and been as it were enamoured of the
little hedge-row candidate for applause, looking at it again and again
(as misers contemplate their gold—as fine ladies hang over their
jewels), till its image has sunk into the soul, what other word is there
that (far from putting the reader out of conceit with it) so well recals
its deep purple glow, its retired modesty, its sullen, conscious
beauty? Those who have not seen the flower cannot form an idea of
its character, nor understand the line without it. Its aspect is dull,
obtuse, faint, absorbed; but at the same time soft, luxurious, proud,
and full of meaning. People who look at nature without being
sensible to these distinctions and contrarieties of feeling, had better
(instead of the flower) look only at the label on the stalk.
Connoisseurs in French wines pretend to know all these depths and
refinements of taste, though connoisseurs in French poetry pretend
to know them not. To return to our text——
‘Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes
Or Cytherea’s breath.’

How bizarre! cries one hypercritic. What far-fetched metaphors!

exclaims another. We shall not dwell on the allusion to ‘Cytherea’s
breath,’ it is obvious enough: but how can the violet’s smell be said to
be ‘sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes?’ Oh! honeyed words, how ill
understood! And is there no true and rooted analogy between our
different sensations, as well as a positive and literal identity? Is there
not a sugared, melting, half-sleepy look in some eyelids, like the
luscious, languid smell of flowers? How otherwise express that air of
scorn and tenderness which breathes from them? Is there not a
balmy dew upon them which one would kiss off? Speak, ye lovers! if
any such remain in these degenerate days to take the part of genuine
poetry against cold, barren criticism; for poetry is nothing but an
intellectual love——Nature is the poet’s mistress, and the heart in his
case lends words and harmonious utterance to the tongue.——Again,
how full of truth and pity is the turn which is given to the description
of the pale and faded primrose, watching for the sun’s approach as
for the torch of Hymen! Milton has imitated this not so well in
‘cowslips wan that hang the pensive head.’ Cowslips are of a gold
colour, rather than wan. In speaking of the daffodils, it seems as if
our poet had been struck with these ‘lowly children of the ground’ on
their first appearance, and seeing what bright and unexpected guests
they were at that cold, comfortless season, wondered how ‘they came
before the swallow (the harbinger of summer) dared,’ and being the
only lovely thing in nature, fancied the winds of March were taken
with them, and tamed their fury at the sight. No one but a poet who
has spent his youth in the company of nature could so describe it, as
no reader who has not experienced the same elementary sensations,
their combinations and contrasts, can properly enter into it when so
described. The finest poetry, then, is not a paradox nor a trite
paraphrase; but a bold and happy enunciation of truths and feelings
deeply implanted in the mind——Apollo, the god of poetry and day,
evolving the thoughts of the breast, as he does the seed from the
frozen earth, or enables the flower to burst its folds. Poetry is,
indeed, a fanciful structure; but a fanciful structure raised on the
ground-work of the strongest and most intimate associations of our
ideas: otherwise, it is good for nothing, vox et preterea nihil. A literal
description goes for nothing in poetry, a pure fiction is of as little
worth; but it is the extreme beauty and power of an impression with
all its accompaniments, or the very intensity and truth of feeling, that
pushes the poet over the verge of matter-of-fact, and justifies him in
resorting to the licence of fiction to express what without his ‘winged
words’ must have remained for ever untold. Thus the feeling of the
contrast between the roughness and bleakness of the winds of March
and the tenderness and beauty of the flowers of spring is already in
the reader’s mind, if he be an observer of nature: the poet, to show
the utmost extent and conceivable effect of this contrast, feigns that
the winds themselves are sensible of it and smit with the beauty on
which they commit such rude assaults. Lord Byron, whose
imagination was not of this compound character, and more wilful
than natural, produced splendid exaggerations. Mr. Shelley, who felt
the want of originality without the power to supply it, distorted every
thing from what it was, and his pen produced only abortions. The
one would say that the sun was a ‘ball of dazzling fire;’ the other, not
knowing what to say, but determined ‘to elevate and surprize,’ would
swear that it was black. This latter class of poetry may be
denominated the Apocalyptical.
 ENGLISH GRAMMAR

The Atlas.]
[March 15, 1829.

This is one of those subjects on which the human understanding

has played the fool, almost as egregiously, though with less dire
consequences, than on many others; or rather one on which it has
not chosen to exert itself at all, being hoodwinked and led blindfold
by mere precedent and authority. Scholars who have made and
taught from English grammars were previously and systematically
initiated in the Greek and Latin tongues, so that they have, without
deigning to notice the difference, taken the rules of the latter and
applied them indiscriminately and dogmatically to the former. As
well might they pretend that there is a dual number in the Latin
language because there is one in the Greek.
The Definitions alone are able to corrupt a whole generation of
ingenuous youth. They seem calculated for no other purpose than to
mystify and stultify the understanding, and to inoculate it betimes
with a due portion of credulity and verbal sophistry. After repeating
them by rote, to maintain that two and two makes five is easy, and a
thing of course. What appears most extraordinary is that
notwithstanding the complete exposure of their fallacy and nonsense
by Horne Tooke and others, the same system and method of
instruction should be persisted in; and that grammar succeeds
grammar and edition edition, re-echoing the same point-blank
contradictions and shallow terms. Establishments and endowments
of learning (which subsist on a ‘foregone conclusion’) may have
something to do with it; independently of which, and for each
person’s individual solace, the more senseless the absurdity and the
longer kept up, the more reluctant does the mind seem to part with
it, whether in the greatest things or mere trifles and technicalities;
for in the latter, as the retracting an error could produce no startling
sensation, and be accompanied with no redeeming enthusiasm, its
detection must be a pure loss and pitiful mortification. One might
suppose, that out of so many persons as have their attention directed
to this subject, some few would find out their mistake and protest
against the common practice; but the greater the number of
professional labourers in the vineyard, who seek not truth but a
livelihood, and can pay with words more currently than with things,
the less chance must there be of this, since the majority will always
set their faces against it, and insist upon the old Mumpsimus in
preference to the new Sumpsimus. A schoolmaster who should go so
far out of his way as to take the Diversions of Purley for a text-book,
would be regarded by his brethren of the rod as ‘a man of Ind,’ and
would soon have the dogs of the village bark at him. It is said without
blushing, by both masters and ushers who do not chuse to be ‘wise
above what is written,’ that a noun is the name of a thing, i.e.
substance, as if love, honour, colour, were the names of substances.
An adjective is defined to be the name of a quality; and yet in the
expressions, a gold snuff-box, a wooden spoon, an iron chest, &c.,
the words gold, wooden, iron, are allowed by all these profound
writers, grammarians, and logicians, to be essentially adjectives. A
verb is likewise defined to be a word denoting being, action, or
suffering; and yet the words being, action, suffering (or passion), are
all substantives; so that these words cannot be supposed to have any
reference to the things whose names they bear, if it be the peculiar
and sole office of the verb to denote them. If a system were made in
burlesque and purposely to call into question and expose its own
nakedness, it could not go beyond this, which is gravely taught in all
seminaries, and patiently learnt by all school-boys as an exercise and
discipline of the intellectual faculties. Again, it is roundly asserted
that there are six cases (why not seven?) in the English language;
and a case is defined to be a peculiar termination or inflection added
to a noun to show its position in the sentence. Now in the Latin
language there are no doubt a number of cases, inasmuch as there
are a number of inflections;[56] and for the same reason (if words
have a meaning) in the English Language there are none, or only one,
the genitive; because if we except this, there is no inflection or
variety whatever in the terminations. Thus to instance in the present