“To your late husband,” he said.
“He was a hard man to live with,” she said.
“Okay then,” he said, “to you.”
“What for?”
“For successfully having two businesses going,” Clint said.
“Not like I could do it without—”
“Just drink.”
“Yeah okay.”
They sipped whiskey.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess the answer to your last question is yes, you’re making me uncomfortable, and not just a little nervous.”
“Why?”
“You have a reputation,” she said. “And you’re the Gunsmith. And we’re in my gun shop, such as it is.”
“I understand your husband was a gunsmith?”
“Yes, he knew a lot about guns,” she said. “I just sell’em, don’t know that much about them.”
“That’s gun oil on your hand—and cheek, by the way.”
“Oh.” She swiped at her face, just managed to smear it even further. “I was moving some gun oil in the back.”
She tried to wipe her hands on her jeans, then used her sleeve to try to clean her face.
“Forget it,” Clint said, laughing. “You can do it in front of a mirror later.”
She sipped her drink and said, “Why don’t you tell me what you think you have on Cantrell?”
He did. Took a sip of his own drink, then launched into his explanation, starting when he found the dead people in their camp.
“Children?” she asked. “They killed children?”
Clint nodded. “Is that something you can see Harry Cantrell doing?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Harry will do anything if he thinks he can make a profit from it.”
“That’s what the sheriff told me,” Clint said. “So what I have to figure is how he benefits from killing those families.”
“Why would three families come out West like that, with everything they own?”
“To settle,” he said.
“And what would they need in order to settle?”
He could tell from the look on her face that she was just throwing out questions, without knowing the answers. Clint thought a moment, then said, “Land.”
“Yes!” she said. “Most of Harry’s holdings are land.”
Clint sat forward excitedly. “What if those families came out here to settle, and already had their land.”
“Deeds in hand,” she said.
“They talked in Roswell to Cantrell and his partner Sutcliffe.”
“They would have gone to them with their deeds,” she said, “wanting to take possession of their property.”
“And what if Cantrell wanted that property?”
“So he offers to buy it from them.”
“They refused.”
“So he decided to kill them.”
“The doctor in Hondo thinks they were poisoned,” Clint said. “He can’t prove it until he gets the results of some tests from Santa Fe.”
“How do you poison eleven people?” she asked.
“You put it in their food, or water supply,” Clint said.
“He has plenty of men working for him who’d do it, too,” she said.
Clint had put his empty glass down on the desk. Lisa leaned forward and poured more whiskey into his glass, then into her own.
“That sonofabitch!” she hissed. “If we could prove this I could get out from under him.”
“That’s what I’m going to try to do,” Clint said, “prove it.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help,” she said.
“Now all we have to do is figure out what that would be.”
TWENTY-SIX
“How do you get along with Cantrell?”
“I force myself to,” she said. “I hate him, but it wouldn’t do me any good to let him see that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” she said, squirming in her seat, “whenever I’m in the same room with him I feel like he’s looking right through my clothes. It makes me feel . . . dirty.”
“I understand he’s married?”
“Oh, now there’s a winner,” she said. “His wife is a pig, in more ways than one. She’s supposed to be very talented.”
“In what way?”
“You know.” She squirmed again. “I mean . . . sex.”
“And you know this how?”
“She’s had other men in town besides her husband,” Lisa said, “and they talk.”
“So she’s not an attractive woman?”
“No,” Lisa said, “but I’ve heard that men have said that doesn’t matter once you are in bed with her.”
Clint himself had been with women, who, while not gorgeous, had been very good in bed, but he had to admit he had not been with a woman who simply was not attractive. Maybe he’d been missing something all these years.
Lisa had some more whiskey, and when she spoke he thought he could detect a slur of her words.
“If Cantrell’s getting such good sex at home, why’s he always leering at me?” she wondered.
“I can understand that,” Clint said. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
“Ha,” she said. “If I wasn’t a widow, folks would be callin’ me an old maid.”
“There’s nothing old maidish about you, believe me, Lisa. Can I call you Lisa?”
“Sure, you can,” she said. “Old maidish?” She giggled. “Is that even a word?”
“Maybe I made it up,” he said.
She finished her drink, and reached for the bottle. Clint quickly grabbed it before she could.
“I think we’ve had enough whiskey,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I get the feeling you don’t drink all that much, Lisa.”
“Once in a while,” she admitted.
“Listen,” he said, “why don’t we go someplace and get some coffee?”
“And some food?” she asked, eyes widening. “I’m really hungry.”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s time for dinner anyway, right?”
She slapped her desk with her palms and said, “Let’s go. There’s a place right down the street.”
Add one more to the countless small cafes Clint had been to, in towns all over the West. It was much the same, too. Great smells, a small amount of tables, a waiter and a waitress hustling around the room carrying plates.
“Come on,” Lisa said, grabbing his sleeve, “they always keep a table open for me. I eat here all the time.”
She tugged him across the room to an empty table. Luckily, it was in the back and he was able to sit against a wall.
“Hey, Lisa,” the waitress said. She was about Lisa’s age, but looked older. She had probably been waiting tables for years. “Who’s your friend?”
“Meet, Clint Adams, Milly,” Lisa said. “He’s gonna help me get—”
“—some good guns for her store,” Clint said, cutting her off.
“Oh, well that’s good,” the waitress said. “What’ll you folks have?”
“Can I order?” Lisa asked Clint.
“Sure, why not? It’s your town.”
“Two beef stew specials, Milly.”
“Comin’ up.”
“And coffee,” I said.
“Right away.”
She went away to place their orders, then came back with a big pot and two cups. She poured each a cup, then left the pot.
Clint hoped that the food and coffee would help Lisa Mason sober up. He also hoped the woman wouldn’t feel too embarrassed about having gotten herself drunk.
“Thank you,” she said, then.
“For what?”
“For taking the whiskey bottle away,” she said. “For taking me out to eat something. For keeping me from making a fool of myself.”
Clint didn’t know quite that to say, so he just said, “You’re welcome.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
When they were finished, Lisa didn’t want to go to the Gun Shop or the
mercantile. She asked Clint if he would walk her home.
She lived in a residential section of the town, with neighbors close on either side as well as across the street.
“I lived in this house with my husband for ten years,” she said. “Now I’ve been here three years without him.”
As they entered the house, he could see it had a distinct feminine feel to it.
“I changed a lot after he died,” she said. “He was . . . overbearing, wouldn’t let me do anything with the house. So after he died I just changed everything.”
“It’s nice,” Clint said. “It feels homey.”
“Thank you. I can make coffee if you want to keep talking? About Cantrell, I mean?”
“Uh, sure, why not?” He had the feeling she didn’t want him to leave. Maybe there was something she’d been wanting to tell him, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I’ll make the coffee and bring it out here.”
Clint sat on the sofa and continued to look around at the living room. Everything reflected Lisa’s taste which, while feminine, was not girly.
He soon became impatient, realizing that he should have been out taking some sort of action rather than just sitting here. He was about to go into the kitchen to tell her he had to leave when she appeared with a tray bearing a coffeepot and cups.
“I don’t have many people here to the house,” she said, putting the tray down on the table in front of the sofa. “This will be nice.”
“Yes,” he said, “it will.”
He didn’t have the heart to leave now so he allowed her to pour, and then she sat next to him.
This was the closest he had been to her all afternoon and he realized he could smell her. It was a heady scent and it was all hers, nothing artificial. As she turned to smile at him he saw something else. Her eyes seemed to be on fire, and her nostrils were flaring.
She was in heat, and the smell of her was starting to arouse him.
She wasn’t drunk, though. The food and coffee had taken care of that. If anything happened, he wouldn’t feel he was taking advantage of her.
It was getting late in the day; there wasn’t much time to do anything else. He decided to sit back, enjoy the coffee and the company.
They started talking about her business. “Actually, since my husband died, my businesses have been doing pretty well,” she said.
“Maybe that’s why Harry Cantrell wants to keep his piece,” Clint said.
“I don’t know why Andy—my husband—even went to Cantrell for help. I think he just panicked when things got kind of rough. I told him we could ride it out, but he never gave my opinions any weight.”
“That’s too bad,” Clint said. “He didn’t realize how smart you are.”
“I think,” she said, “he was worried I was smarter than he was.”
“So it was all about ego.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “He had this image of himself as a businessman, and he just wasn’t.”
“Can you buy Cantrell out?”
“No,” she said. “I’m doing okay, but I don’t have that kind of money.” She put her hand on his arm. “If you can prove he killed those people, I’d be rid of him. In fact, a lot of people in town would be rid of him.”
“He has other partners in town?”
“I wouldn’t call them partners,” she said. “In fact, I’m not sure I’m his partner. I feel more like his . . . captive. He has this attitude that he not only owns my businesses, he owns me.”
“Have you ever given him any reason to think that?” he asked.
She stiffened a moment, then said, “No, not ever. He knows exactly what I think of him. I let him know every time he comes around.”
“How’s he feel about that?”
She looked frustrated. “It only seems to excite him,” she admitted. “I try to keep my feelings to myself, but when he’s around I can’t help myself.” She put her hand on his arm again. “Between Cantrell and my husband, I’d given up on men—until now.”
“What’s different now?”
She moved in on him and said, “You walked into my store today.”
Then she was in his arms and they were locked in a molten-hot kiss.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Clint pulled her shirt out of her jeans, slid his hands underneath. Her flesh was smooth and hot. He pushed his other hand down the back of her pants, slid his middle finger along the crease between her buttocks. Her ass cheeks held his finger tightly.
She pulled his shirt free, ran her hands over his chest.
“It’s been a long time for me,” she said against his mouth. “I can’t wait . . .”
“Where’s the bedroom?” he asked.
“In the back.”
She was a big woman. She probably weighed about 160, but he lifted her and carried her to the bedroom. He set her on the bed and started to undress. She pulled off her boots, shimmied out of her jeans, and hastily pulled her shirt over her head.
Her breasts were heavy; those faint freckles on her face were also across her chest, deep in her cleavage. Her nipples were russet colored, already hard.
When he was naked, she reached for his penis, stroked it until it was hard and long. She stared at it, then leaned forward and kissed it.
“I thought you couldn’t wait,” he said, “because now I can’t.”
“Feel me . . .” she said, spreading her legs.
He put his hand there, felt how hot and wet and slick she was.
“Yeah, you’re ready . . .” he said, probing.
She caught her breath, held his dick, tight in her hand.
“So are you,” she said, tugging on him. “Come, on, come on . . .”
He got onto the bed with her, knelt between her legs, and pressed his cock to her wet pussy. She gasped as he slid himself up and down, and then again when he pushed into her.
“Yesss,” she said, drawing her knees up, “oh, yes . . .”
He took her in long, slow strokes, but she urged him to go faster.
“Come on,” she said, “I told you it’s been a long time. Make love to me later. Fuck me now!”
He did.
He slid his hands beneath her to grasp her ass, then fucked her hard, pulling her to him each time he drove into her.
Her eyes went wide and the cords on her neck stood out. She released her knees and wrapped her legs around him, locking them in.
“How long can you last?” she hissed into his ear.
“Longer than you,” he said.
She laughed, then cried, and said, “Good!”
Hours later, they rolled apart, gasping.
“For someone . . . who hasn’t been with a man . . . in a while . . . that was pretty good.”
“Well,” she said, putting her hand on his belly, “I was . . . always kind of . . . good at it. You’re . . . no slouch . . . yourself.”
He took her hand, held it tightly, his eyes closed.
“Don’t go to sleep on me, Gunsmith,” she said. “I’m not finished with you, yet.”
“I’m not finished, either,” he promised. “I just need to . . . catch my breath.”
“Well,” she said, “yeah, I could . . . do that, too.”
They fell asleep.
They woke during the night and rolled toward each other. This time, they made love slowly. She rode him for a while, with him kissing and licking her breasts and nipples, and then they reversed. Later they spooned, and he slid his dick up between her thighs and into her. They moved slowly together, gently, then he withdrew and eased his penis—slick with her juices—into her anus.
“Oooh, damn,” she said. “There’s something nobody’s done to me before.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I should have asked first.”
He started to withdraw, but she said, “No,” and clamped down on him. “I think I have the hang of this, already.”
She moved again, and so did he.
“Oh yes, see?” she asked.
“This is . . . very intimate.”
“It’s all intimate, Mrs. Mason,” he said, hugging her tightly to him.
“Yes,” she said, dreamily, “it is, isn’t it, Mr. Adams?”
TWENTY-NINE
Clint stayed all night, and woke in the morning to the smell of bacon. He got dressed and went to the kitchen, found Lisa at the stove.
“Good morning,” she said, over her shoulder. “Something else I haven’t done with a man in a long time. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“Have a seat.”
He sat at the table and she brought him a mug of coffee. He could tell from the smell it was just the way he liked it.
“You strike me as a strong coffee man.”
“Exactly.”
He sipped it while she watched him. “Perfect.”
“Like the whole night,” she said. She kissed him shortly and returned to the stove. “Yesterday morning, I had a cup of coffee here alone, never expecting what the day would bring.”
“Some surprises are good, huh?” he asked.
“This one was,” she said. “Generally speaking, I don’t like surprises.”
“Neither do I.”
She came to the table with two plates of bacon and eggs. “I didn’t have the makings for biscuits,” she said apologetically.
“This looks great,” he assured her.
While they ate, she told him that she planned to finish what she’d been doing in the Gun Shop but that she’d be available later if he wanted to get together.
“You know,” she finished, “if you want to eat . . . or something.”
He smiled at her and said, “I don’t really have my day all planned out the way you do, Lisa, so we’ll have to see.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You’re still going after Cantrell.”
“Or whoever the killer is.”
“Well,” she said, going back to their conversation of the day before, “if the motive was profit, your killer has to be Harry Cantrell.”
“My feelings exactly.”
Cantrell rolled over in bed and looked at his wife. She was lying naked on her side, facing him. Her large breasts looked like partially deflated bags. There was a roll of fat around her midsection. He was always amazed how she could fill him with lust at night, and disgust him in the morning. But she’d had many men, so he knew it wasn’t just him. She was just very, very good in bed.
Unbound by Law Page 7
