by Tinnean
Steve’s hat dangled down his back, and Sharps slid his fingers into Steve’s hair, causing him to moan around the prick in his mouth. Steve had always found the sensation of fingers massaging his scalp arousing, and while it was odd, he’d never questioned it, had just enjoyed it on those occasions when it happened. Now, however, with Sharps dragging his fingertips against Steve’s scalp, he knew he had no chance of lasting for long, not when his own prick felt like it was going to explode. He couldn’t prevent a small groan, and he had no choice but to release Sharps’s balls, open his trousers, and stroke his hard, burning length.
And all the while, Sharps continued to moan softly, the sounds buried in the side of Steve’s neck. The warm breath, the moisture…Steve pumped and sucked, and Sharps gave a final shudder and gasp and began spilling himself down Steve’s throat.
Steve swallowed greedily, then licked the softening prick clean as he let it slip from his mouth, avoiding the sensitive crown. He caught up the stray drops that dribbled from the corner of his mouth, tucked his face against his lover’s thigh, and with one last, frantic stroke, climaxed, spilling himself on the ground between his feet.
It took a while for him to catch his breath.
“You were right,” Sharps murmured, finally able to catch his own breath.
“Oh?”
“Years ago, you told me it’s more enjoyable when both parties agree to it and care for each other.”
“And you enjoyed it?”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
“And you…you care for me?”
“I love you, Captain.”
Steve smiled, although he didn’t raise his head. “Don’t call me captain when you tell me you love me.”
“No, sir.” There was a smile in his lover’s voice.
“I love you, too, Sharps.” He paused for a moment. “Are you going to tell me not to call you Sharps when I say I love you?”
“No, Étienne. It’s the name you gave me.”
Steve felt a burning behind his eyes, and he tugged Sharps’s head down so their lips met. He’d always been considered lucky, surviving battles during the late War where so many men hadn’t, finding a decent job afterward, when again so many were unable to. But that was just chance. He’d never really considered himself lucky until this day.
“Let’s get back to camp.” He tucked Sharps’s prick away in his drawers and buttoned his pants, then took care of his own trousers.
“May I…may I ride back to camp on Bella with you?”
“Of course.” He caught up Twilight’s reins and handed them to Sharps, then swung up onto the mare’s back and pulled his lover onto his lap. “You know we can’t do anything once we get back to camp.” He smiled into those sleepy blue eyes.
“But we will do something eventually?” Sharps sounded hopeful.
“You bet your boots we will.”
“What are we going to tell them when we ride into camp?” Sharps asked.
“About?”
“Us riding double. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. Perhaps I should get back into Twilight’s saddle?”
“No.”
“Ride behind you?”
“No,” Steve said again, and he tightened his hold on the sturdy body in his arms and rubbed his cheek against his lover’s dark hair. “I like you right where you are. And if anyone should ask, we’ll just tell them Twilight threw a shoe.” Although if anyone cared enough to look, they’d see the gray stallion’s shoes were all in place.
“Okay.” Sharps gave a happy sigh and rested his head against Steve’s shoulder.
Steve touched his heels to Bella’s sides, nudging her into an easy, rocking canter. The stallion loped along, apparently pleased to be beside her.
They didn’t have to hurry back to the wagons, although once they got there…He’d noticed his boy didn’t have a sugan—a quilt filled with feathers to place his bedroll on. Steve was a big man, easily topping six feet, so his sugan was a large one. It would fit two bedrolls with no trouble at all.
Steve couldn’t tell his lover the truth about the Pettigrew siblings, not yet, but once they arrived at Hummingbird Valley, he’d talk it over with Georgie and see how he felt about it. And if Georgie wasn’t comfortable with having the situation revealed, Steve just might head west with Sharps. There was some mighty pretty country out there.
Chapter 24
Sharps kept his emotions under wraps, but inside he was giddy as a boy on Christmas Day. He and Steve had to be cautious, even though the people they traveled with were nice enough—he’d learned not to trust too easily—but no one seemed to mind that they were sharing Steve’s sugan when they bedded down.
That first week on the road had set the tone, and they continued to push the mules as much as they dared. Every few days they’d find a place to hole up where they could water and grain their animals, and where everyone else could rest, hunt, and make whatever repairs were necessary to their equipment or the wagons.
Sharps had asked Frank to swap watches with him on a permanent basis, and in the evening, when Steve rode out for a final check of the area, Sharps would go with his partner. Once Steve was certain the campsite remained safe, he and Sharps would find a secluded spot where they could kiss and bring each other to climax with their hands or mouths. Sharps loved Steve’s taste. He was also curious as to what it would feel like to slide his prick into his lover’s body, to have his lover make love to him in the same way, but it would have to wait until they reached their destination.
“Are you happy?” Steve asked him as they made a final circuit of the area before returning to camp.
“I am.” Sharps reached across, caught Steve’s hand, and squeezed it. “I haven’t been this happy since before the War.”
He was ever happier when Steve squeezed his hand in return, and they walked the horses back to camp with their fingers entwined. His hand felt cold when Steve had to let it go, but there was always the next night to look forward to.
* * * *
About three weeks after they’d left Willow Crick, they rolled into Woody Draw. It was a warm day, and the townsfolk strolled along in clothing suitable to the weather.
Woody Draw was a pretty little town with maturing oak and chestnut trees along the main street, and it seemed to be a thriving community. Along with the usual businesses—bank, general store, hotel, livery stable, and two saloons—there were two houses of worship to balance out the saloons, as well as a telegraph office, a laundry, a bathhouse, and the town newspaper. And of course, the jail.
A sawmill at the far end of town appeared to be Woody Draw’s chief form of employment, and Sharps noted that seemed to please Bart.
“This is great, Georgie,” he enthused. “We can get the wood for our house milled here.” He’d spoken a few times around the campfire of the house he planned to build for his wife. It would be a big, sprawling two-story building with plenty of bedrooms and the intriguing addition of indoor plumbing. He even spoke of the possibility of having gas lighting at some point down the road. “I’ll go talk to the foreman and see what I can arrange.”
She smiled at her husband. “Whatever you say, querido.”
Sharps thought it was interesting that Mrs. Hall would use a Spanish endearment—how had an Eastern woman learned Spanish?—but he never said anything about it, figuring it wasn’t his business.
They drew the wagons to a halt in front of the general store.
“We need to stock up on supplies,” Mrs. Hall said.
An older man whose dark hair was peppered with gray swept the boardwalk in front of the store. He was in shirt sleeves and had an apron knotted around his waist. He paused in his sweeping and leaned on his broom.
“You can’t wear your guns in town,” he informed them. “Sheriff’s rules.”
“All right, boys,” Steve said. “You heard the man.”
They’d all taken to wearing pistols tied down to their thighs. Bart and Frank removed theirs and put them in the jockey box
below their wagon’s seat.
Sharps unbuckled his holster, took Steve’s, and tucked them both away in the jockey box of the Fox wagon. He wasn’t worried about being unarmed, though. In his boot, he still carried the little derringer Steve had given him all those years before.
As for Steve, he slung the banjo case over his shoulder and shifted to make sure its position was comfortable.
“Georgie,” Bart said. “I’m gonna send Ma a telegram to let her know we’ve arrived and we’re all safe.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“And then I think I’ll pay that visit to the sawmill and see what there is to see. The foreman will probably know where I can find a good crew of carpenters to help get our house built.”
His wife smiled at him. “That’s an even better idea.”
Bart reached for her hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm. Her lips parted and she seemed breathless. “I live to please you,” Bart told her.
“And you do that so well.” Her voice was warm and husky.
Sharps was glad to see the couple so happy. At one time he would have been filled with regret to see love where it would never come his way. Now…He sent a glance toward the man he loved and who said loved him in return. Fate sure did have a way of working things out.
“I’ll stay with Georgie and the boys,” Frank told Bart, and his friend gripped his shoulder.
“Okay, I’ll see you all shortly.” Bart headed for the telegraph office.
“Will you join us, Steve?” Mrs. Hall asked.
“But you’ve got Frank for protection.” The three of them laughed, although Sharps was puzzled as to what they found so amusing. “Yes, I’ll stay.”
Mrs. Hall turned to her brothers. “Stay close, boys.”
The older boys snickered but nodded in agreement, scrambled off their horses—Charlie had asked if he could ride Sorrowful, and Sharps agreed, since the pinto could use the mild exercise. The boys looped the reins through a wagon wheel, while the littlest one threw himself off the wagon seat and into Mrs. Hall’s arms. She caught him easily, swung him to the boardwalk, and set him down.
“Behave, you scamp.”
“Yes, Georgie.”
“Will we be in town long enough to visit the bathhouse?” Sharps asked. Just the idea of a hot bath made his skin itch to be clean.
“Georgie?”
“I’m sorry. I’d like nothing better myself, but I’m really anxious to get home. We can come back in a week or so. There was a…a lovely stream in the valley.”
“All right.” Steve smiled at Sharps. “I reckon a hot bath will have to wait.”
“Whatever you say, Cap.” For a second he allowed himself to get lost in the image of sharing a tin bathtub with the big man, of leaning back against the warm metal of the tub, his legs sprawled over the sides to make a space for the man he loved. He shifted when his prick began to swell, and he had to think of cold winter nights in a prison camp to get it to behave.
“If you folks are needing supplies, my boy’ll be happy to help you,” the man sweeping the boardwalk said. “Come along into the store.” He set the broom against the wall and walked into the mercantile. Mrs. Hall and her brothers followed him.
“Anything you want?” Steve asked him.
He shook his head, and before the captain could say anything, Mrs. Fox poked her head out of her family’s wagon.
“Mr. Browne? Would you help me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He helped Mrs. Fox down from her wagon, and she looked around.
“I’d like to stretch my legs, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all, ma’am.” Sharps glanced at Steve, who smiled and gave a slight nod, and Sharps held out his left arm.
“Albert, stay in the wagon and watch your sisters,” she instructed her son.
“But—Yes, Mama.”
She’s holding onto the boy too tightly, Sharps thought, and he worried about the problems this would cause when Bert broke loose, because of course one day he would. Sharps had seen similar things happen in Brooklyn, back before the War, as well as during those years afterward. He knew Mrs. Fox tolerated him more than the people she and her husband had traveled with because she blamed them for her husband’s death, while Sharps hadn’t arrived on the scene until after it happened. Might she listen to a word from him?
Sharps and Mrs. Fox walked slowly down the wooden boardwalk. “I hate this,” she said in a low voice. “I hate having to raise my children without my husband.” She rested a hand on her belly. “Having this baby without him.”
“The Halls will help. So will the captain and—”
“I don’t want their help. It’s their fault Albert is dead.”
Sharps didn’t bother trying to talk her out of that notion. He’d learned that sometimes it just wasn’t possible.
She looked around and sniffed in disdain. “Two saloons. How vulgar. Please walk me across the street.”
Sharps made sure it was safe, that no horses or vehicles were approaching, then led her to the other side of the street and gave her his right arm. “There are two churches.” He hoped that would appease her, but it didn’t seem to. After giving the saloon a wide berth—and because the second saloon was just a little farther down the street—they returned to that side of the road. Once again, Sharps offered his left arm, and they continued their walk.
A few streets away from the general store was the sheriff’s office. The door opened, and a tall, rugged man with a star on his vest stepped out. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Fox.
“Ma’am.”
“Sheriff.”
“I do believe you’re new in town.”
“Yes. We’ve just arrived.” She gestured back toward the wagons.
“I’m Wain Cottyn.”
“This is Mrs. Fox, Sheriff. I’m Sharps Browne.”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“The lady’s escort.”
“Escort? You? You’re nothing more than a boy.”
Sharps just gave a lazy grin, and Cottyn cleared his throat.
“Yes, well…I see.” He nodded and turned back to the widow. “I hope you’ll be staying with us for a while.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to. I just lost my husband, you see, and I have children…”
“Mr. Fox was taking his family to a farm a few miles out of town,” Sharps told him.
“Fox you say? Hmm. Would you be related to the boys who’ve taken over William Fox’s farm that’s just northwest of Woody Draw?”
“They’re already here?” Her shoulders slumped. “I had no desire to—but Albert so hoped we’d arrive before his brothers.”
“Sorry, ma’am. They’ve been here a few months now.”
She leaned against Sharps. “Someone lied to him then, or betrayed him. My husband should have come ahead of us, but he insisted we travel together.”
“Mr. Fox was killed in Willow Crick,” Sharps explained.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Willow Crick doesn’t have a good reputation. We’ve heard about it, even up here.”
“It’s that widely known?” Sharps knew Steve would never have stopped near that town if he’d been aware.
“It is. And I have to say I’m surprised no one warned your wagon master.”
“So am I.” Sharps was worried. Between Mrs. Fox’s concern that her husband had been lied to and Steve never being informed of the dangers the town promised, this sounded suspicious. Maybe he’d send a telegram himself. Colonel Sebring would either know what was behind that or know someone who would.
Mrs. Fox gazed farther down the street. “Is that a schoolhouse?”
“It is,” the sheriff said proudly. “We have a good many families with children in town and on the outskirts.” He frowned. “Problem is, just now we don’t have someone to teach them.”
“I was a schoolteacher before I married Mr. Fox.”
“Well, now, isn’t that a lucky coincidence? Might I persuade you to meet with the town
council? I’m sure they’d be interested in offering you the position.”
“I’m sure you’ll want to see my credentials.”
“Frankly, ma’am, if you can read, write, and tally up a column of numbers, the job would pretty much be yours.”
“We’re just passing through, sheriff,” Sharps said.
“You are,” Mrs. Fox said curtly. “Farming was Albert’s dream, not mine. And with that land no longer being an option, I need to find a way to support my family.”
“Why don’t you tour our little town—”
“Hardy little,” Sharps muttered. He wanted to talk to Steve about this, but he couldn’t leave Mrs. Fox on her own. He’d known she was unhappy—well, obviously, with the death of her husband, and learning the farm was no longer likely to be hers or her children’s—but they’d have been looked after by the rest of the party. He hadn’t expected her to end her journey here rather than go on with them to Hummingbird Valley.
The sheriff ignored him. “—while I round up the mayor and the rest of the town council?”
“Thank you, Mr. Cottyn. You’re very kind.”
“Not at all. You might want to see the site where our railway depot will be built.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. We were promised we’d have it within a year or so.”
“Very cosmopolitan. Mr. Browne, shall we proceed?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sheriff.” He gave a brief nod, which the other man returned, along with an interested glance, no doubt questioning how someone with Sharps’s boyish face could be responsible for such a pretty woman.
Sharps and the widow continued their walk toward the end of town.
“Mrs. Fox, is becoming this town’s schoolmarm a good idea?”
“Perhaps not, but it’s the best I can come up with at the moment.” She paused, forcing Sharps to stop as well, and gazed into his eyes. They were almost the same height. “I haven’t been well—I’m expecting a baby, and I’ve had difficult times with each birth—I’ll need the presence of a doctor. And as you can see…” She gestured, and he realized she’d stopped before a building with a sign hanging out front that read Francis Hale, M.D. Another sign, this one in the window beside the door said At a council meeting, you know where to find me.
