According to Hoyle

by Abigail Roux

  He looked up at Wash and smiled slightly. Wash was watching him intently, his breath short and his face flushed. He slid his fingers through Flynn’s hair.

  “Want me to keep going?” Flynn asked, nearly choking on the nerves that bubbled up.

  Wash nodded, and Flynn pulled down Wash’s pants farther and nuzzled his face against Wash’s abdomen. He inhaled deeply, Wash’s scent bringing back decades of memories between them, then he crawled up Wash’s body to kiss him again.

  “You smell right,” he told his partner in a low voice.

  Wash inhaled through his nose and let out a shaky sigh. “You feel right,” he murmured. “I’m damn glad you got up the nerve.”

  “Wish I’d done it years ago.” Flynn pushed down onto Wash’s body and hummed as he dragged his lips across Wash’s. Wash’s mouth opened under Flynn’s, and he slid his hands up and down Flynn’s body, pressing his knees close, almost wrapped around him.

  Flynn buried his face in Wash’s neck and rocked against him, thinking of all the times he’d wished he could do this without shame, just enjoying the warmth and anticipation. Finally, he rose to his hands and knees and crawled backward, shoving Wash’s trousers down to his thighs as he did so. He pulled them farther, managing to get one leg completely off, then he stood and shucked his own clothing.

  If they were going to be rutting in bed like a couple of dogs, they might as well do it right.

  Wash got rid of the garments he had left, then grabbed for Flynn and pulled him onto the bed. The iron headboard banged against the thin wall accusingly, and Flynn and Wash both snickered as they curled around each other, foreheads pressed together.

  Flynn dragged both hands down Wash’s chest. “C’mon,” he whispered. “You’re the lead bull in this herd.”

  Wash took one of Flynn’s hands and kissed it quickly, then guided it down his body until Flynn’s fingers grasped his dick. He closed his eyes and slowly rocked into Flynn’s hand several times.

  Flynn choked on his breath and shivered. His grip tightened on Wash, the callused pads of his fingers gliding over the contours of his partner. He was just as hard as Flynn was. Flynn shoved his hips closer, taking himself in hand as well, rubbing their dicks together as they both moved.

  Wash groaned against Flynn’s mouth and grasped at him to pull him flush to his chest. He grabbed out for the iron headboard with his other hand, but it was too far away to reach. He kept unconsciously grasping for something, anything, and finally he just let out a plaintive moan and curled his fingers into Flynn’s hair.

  Flynn rutted against him, and Wash’s hips jerked in contrast to his own, sliding with him, shoving him. Flynn loved the way Wash sounded and smelled. The way he tasted. Now that he had a hint of what this could be, he knew he’d need to have it for the rest of his life.

  A gasp from Wash might have been Flynn’s name, but it was difficult to tell through the low moans now dragging out of Wash’s chest as he shifted back and forth against Flynn. He kept trying to roll to his back, then probably remembering that he couldn’t if he wanted to keep in contact with Flynn. He would kiss Flynn with a groan of complaint each time.

  He flicked his tongue and sucked hard on Flynn’s lip. Flynn’s entire body thrummed with the desire to stop and just take Wash hard and dirty right there.

  He picked up the pace with his hand, finally wrenching a blue streak of swearing and labored panting from Wash’s mouth.

  “Jesus fuck, Flynn!”

  Wash’s back arched. His dick was swollen and hard in Flynn’s fingers.

  “Please . . .” he finally whispered against Flynn’s chin.

  Flynn hummed in response. He didn’t think he was capable of speaking.

  He could tell by the sounds Wash made that he was trying desperately not to yell. Then something must have given because Wash bit down on his lip and shuddered hard, and his dick spasmed against Flynn’s. Flynn realized Wash had given in to the insistent pleasure, and he closed his eyes and let go of his own control. His hand was full of Wash’s seed already, and it made the slick pulls on his own dick that much better.

  “Wash,” he gasped, desperate to have Wash as close as he could get. Wash’s hand joined his, swatting him out of the way to take over the job of milking Flynn for every last drop.

  Flynn jerked his head back, pumping his hips into Wash’s hand as their eyes locked. Flynn was hard-pressed not to have his way right here and now. It seemed like every muscle in him was straining, and when he let loose his soft cries of release, they were lost to Wash’s kisses.

  They held on to each other for long minutes, letting their bodies dry in the cold room, keeping warm by wrapping around each other under the scratchy quilt. Both of them were worn out from their ordeal, followed by such unusual exertion.

  “Why the hell ain’t we done this before now?” Wash asked breathlessly. He finally released his hold on Flynn and rolled to his back, shuddering and sighing.

  Flynn merely shook his head, unable to form coherent thought just yet. It would take some tricky figuring, and maybe seeking some embarrassing advice from Rose, but they would figure it out for themselves before long.

  “Rose suggested we use that tonic to . . . make things easier, if we’re so inclined.”

  “Oh yeah? Guess that’s one use they won’t be listing on those medicine peddlers’ wagons,” Wash murmured.

  Flynn rolled his head to look at him, arching an eyebrow. Wash was staring up at the plaster ceiling with a self-satisfied smirk. They found themselves unable to keep their high spirits from becoming laughter, and they lay together in the narrow bed, chuckling, uncaring of the world outside the hotel’s doors for that perfect moment in time.

  Cage sat stiffly in his chair, his ribs giving him a bit of trouble this morning as he and Gabriel enjoyed breakfast together. They’d purchased new clothing as soon as the mercantile opened, and Cage had to admit, Gabriel looked good. He couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to the man, and almost every time they did, he found Gabriel staring right back at him and smiling.

  The world that morning was a bright, friendly place, full of hope and opportunity. Cage knew it wouldn’t stay that way, but he could enjoy it while it lasted.

  It wasn’t long before the two marshals joined them, ordering coffee to drink and bacon and eggs for breakfast. Cage was slightly surprised Flynn and Wash would eat with them, considering they’d ridden into St. Louis less than three days before, hauling them both in handcuffed to a wagon.

  Gabriel smiled warmly at both the marshals and greeted them with his unusual brand of sarcastic class. “Marshals. I trust you’re both well rested this fine morning.”

  Wash merely snorted at him good-naturedly, and Flynn glared for a moment before his lips twisted into a smile he quite obviously couldn’t restrain.

  “Half figured you to be gone this morning,” Flynn told them as he settled into his chair.

  Gabriel offered a broad grin. “I’m waiting for a newspaper. I’m quite interested to see how my death has affected the masses.”

  “And there was much rejoicing in the streets,” Flynn intoned.

  Cage and Wash both rolled their eyes and shared a glance as Wash seated himself next to Cage. “How are you, Cage?” Wash asked him as Flynn and Gabriel continued their affable bickering.

  Cage pointed to his ribs and then made a so-so gesture with his hand.

  “That’s good. Means you can travel easier. You know what you plan to do now?” Wash asked with a nod at Gabriel.

  Cage smiled fondly. Ever the optimist, the good Marshal Washington, always seeing the silver lining and expecting Cage to be able to respond. Of course, he and Gabriel had discussed their plans the night before, and they’d been in agreement over the fact that it might do them both some good to leave the country for a spell. After they retrieved Gabriel’s pocket watch, that is. He gave an elegant shrug and lifted a hand toward Gabriel. And after that, they would go wherever life took them.

  Wash nodded a
s if he’d understood.

  “It’s possible we may find ourselves back in England for a while,” Gabriel told Wash. “To let the news of my death settle around those still trying to kill me, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Good idea,” Flynn said. Cage was under the impression that he merely liked the thought of Gabriel leaving the country.

  “Well, you ever find yourself up by Lincoln way, you just . . . tie Rose to a tree and come on into town and visit us,” Wash told Cage, and he began laughing.

  Cage smiled with him, nodding. He doubted they would ever see the two marshals again, and though he felt a pang of regret over it, he was sure he was the only one of the group that did.

  “You got a second lease on life, Rose,” Wash said as he ate. “But I get the feeling you got something bothering you still. You know what’s in that box, don’t you?”

  Gabriel shifted uneasily and glanced between them. “I have my guesses, yes.”

  “It’s that Indian stone, ain’t it,” Flynn said.

  Gabriel took a deep breath, seeming to come to a decision. “Months ago, the government man Baird ordered me to a meeting with him and Stringer.”

  Cage couldn’t conceal his surprise. He placed his hand over Gabriel’s forearm.

  “I know,” Gabriel said to him. “His threats were real enough, and so I went more out of self-preservation than anything. He wanted us to steal a trinket of some sort from the Army, they were digging it up from the Rosebud Creek.”

  “Why you?” Wash asked.

  “He claimed I had information that would be useful after we acquired it. He didn’t tell me what, but the only thing I could come up with was my knowledge of the native tribes they talk about in those damn dime novels. They’re exaggerated, of course.”

  “Of course,” Wash said wryly. “You’re no master of escape, and you aren’t an ace with the draw, and you sure don’t have a dog who steals keys from lawmen.”

  Gabriel had the good grace to look a little ashamed, but there was still a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

  “And you’re no outlaw,” Flynn added with a smirk.

  “I’m not,” Gabriel insisted.

  Flynn merely smiled at Gabriel, almost fondly. Almost. “What are you, Rose?”

  Gabriel returned the smile and then met Cage’s eyes. He took Cage’s hand in his, not averting his gaze when he spoke. “I’m just me,” he said softly.

  Cage’s chest tightened. He gave a single nod. He didn’t care where Gabriel had picked up his variety of dastardly skills. He didn’t care.

  “Baird wanted me to help him, and I refused. The men I killed in Junction City, they were sent by him. They’d been trailing me since Denver. I shot them,” Gabriel admitted, and he gave Flynn and Wash a defiant jut of his chin. “I goaded them into a fight, and I shot them because they were there to kill me. I took their badges off them before the sheriff arrived on the scene, and I buried them. I . . .” He looked at Cage again apologetically. “It’s not just my pocket watch I was going back for. I was going to go back for the badges.”

  Cage just nodded and smiled gently. He still didn’t care. He’d still go to Junction City with Gabriel, and he’d still follow him to wherever the road may lead.

  “Why’d you stick around to be arrested?” Wash asked.

  “Who better to watch my back than two US Marshals who want to hang me?” Gabriel asked, beginning to snicker.

  “You are something else,” Flynn grumbled. He sipped at his coffee and shook his head, continuing to mutter to himself.

  Gabriel cleared his throat, fighting a smile. “Yes, well . . . at least I’m on your side now, Marshal.”

  “God help me,” Flynn said as he cast his eyes heavenward.

  Gabriel laughed delightedly. Cage squeezed his hand, admiring him. He’d been through quite a thing. So had Cage. But they were together now, and even the marshals were sharing a happy ending. Bat Stringer’s possible escape from the river’s grasp still niggled at the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside. They’d have plenty to keep them busy without buying trouble.

  “You still intend to go after that box?” Wash asked finally. “Never pays to mess with the Secret Service.”

  “Secret Service?” Gabriel said, eyes widening.

  Wash nodded, and Gabriel paled visibly. He cleared his thoat and gave Cage a fond glance. “No, Marshal. I don’t intend to pick a fight with the Secret Service over a box. I have better things to tend to, don’t I?” He squeezed Cage’s hand and winked.

  Cage and Gabriel left New Madrid shortly after breakfast, with newly purchased horses and equipment, and several parcels of new clothing for each of them. They bid farewell to the marshals, assuring them that they would leave the badges, and Gabriel’s pocket watch, in Junction City and were heading for Nashville first, and then probably a port on the East Coast from which to sail. It was quite touching, if not a little painful, to watch Flynn try to thank Gabriel. They ultimately settled on a handshake, and then Flynn and Wash were gone, heading back to Lincoln by way of St. Louis.

  Cage and Gabriel hadn’t ridden more than half a mile before they were joined by Gabriel’s scrappy little mutt, Koda. Cage was shocked to see the animal lope up to them and bark happily, but Gabriel greeted him as if he’d known all along he would find them. Cage told himself right then that his life was about to get far more interesting than it had ever been, and he should start expecting anything and everything.

  “Does it sit right with you, letting that box make its merry way on to wherever they were taking it?” Gabriel asked him as they rode side by side.

  Cage glanced at him with a pointed sigh, but he was smiling.

  Gabriel’s eyes were shining. “I know, it’s the Secret Service. That would prove . . . challenging. And I’m no thief, mind you. But I am curious. Of course, you just say the word and you and I will disappear into the sunset.”

  Cage’s lips twitched as he tried to keep a straight face. Finally, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the small leather booklet and the length of charcoal pencil the marshals had bought for him the previous morning. He wrote his response quickly, then leaned over in the saddle to hand the booklet to his partner.

  Gabriel took it and read it aloud. “The only thing a man ever got from riding off into the sunset was sunshine in his eyes.”

  He barked a laugh and looked up at Cage, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Let’s go find something more substantial than sunshine, then, shall we?”

  “You know they’re going after that box, right?” Flynn asked Wash as they readied the horses rented from the livery that would take them to St. Louis to retrieve their own mounts and the wagon.

  “I know it,” Wash said in a long-suffering tone. He peered over his saddle at Flynn. “You suppose it’s our job to go stop ’em?”

  “If we go according to Hoyle it is,” Flynn said with a crooked grin.

  Wash glared at him for a few moments, then he groaned and looked away. “Damn you and your rules, Flynn.” He pulled himself into his saddle and stared off toward the south, tipping his head sideways so his hat would shield his eyes from the sun rising in the east. “I am a mite curious myself.”

  “Then we better get moving before they have all the fun.”

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  Special thanks to Hugh Wells for his endless historical knowledge and for waiting until after the novel was finished to inform me he possessed a scale model of the steamboat Robert E. Lee in his basement.

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  Abigail Roux was born and raised in North Carolina. A past volleyball star who specializes in sarcasm and painful historical accuracy, she currently spends her time coaching high school volleyball and investigating the mysteries of single motherhood. Any spare time is spent living and dying with every Atlanta Braves and Carolina Panthers game of the year. Abigail has a daughter, Little Roux, who is the light of her life, a boxer, four rescued cats who play an ongoing live-action variation of Call of Duty throughout the house, one evil Ragdoll, a certifiable extended family down the road, and a cast of thousands in her head.