by Jon Sharpe
“Goodness! Be gentle, remember?”
Fargo squeezed her harder, then hauled off and gave her bottom a slap. She arched her back and her eyes widened in surprise . . . and something else.
“You call that gentle?”
Roving a hand to her belly, Fargo rubbed in circles until his hand brushed a breast. He covered it with his palm. Her nipple was growing as hard as a tack. When he pinched it, her eyelids fluttered and she mewed in delight. “Liked that, did you?”
“You make me tingle.”
Fargo intended to do a lot more than that. He eased her onto the bed on her back and was about to spread out next to her.
“The bolt, remember?”
Grumbling, Fargo hurried to the door and back again. He removed his spurs. He’d torn apart more than a few quilts, blankets, and sheets in his time, and she didn’t have any to spare.
“Lord, I hope I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life. If words get around, I’ll have men crawling out of the woodwork, thinking I’m easy.”
“Who is there to tell?” Fargo unbuckled his gun belt and set it to one side. He was rock-hard under his pants, so hard it hurt, a delicious hurt he could never get enough of. He commenced kissing her; her throat, her cheeks, her brow. Her body grew hot. She squirmed in rising delight and sank her fingernails into his shoulders.
Fargo’s mouth found hers. He covered her mounds and kneaded them through the sheer fabric of her nightgown. She bit his bottom lip as if trying to devour him, then suddenly drew back, her eyes widening in horror.
“Oh, no.”
Not having any idea what she was upset about, and not caring to stop, Fargo went to nuzzle her neck and was surprised when she pushed against his chest, stopping him. “What’s the matter?”
“I bit you so hard, there’s a drop of blood.”
Fargo didn’t understand why she was so disturbed. “Bite me all you want. Just so you don’t rip my throat open.”
“I didn’t mean to do it.”
Drawing back, Fargo stared. “A drop of blood never hurt anybody. What’s really got you upset?”
“I—” Mary hesitated. “I lost control.”
“All you did was bite me.”
“I never bit Frank’s lip.”
“I keep telling you I’m not Frank. Bite me, claw me, pull my hair out—it won’t make me faint.”
“It’s not you,” Mary said. “It’s me.”
“I don’t savvy.”
“Aren’t you listening? I lost control. I got so excited, I bit you without thinking. I’ve never, ever done that my whole life.”
“Calm down. It’s not as if you ripped my clothes off and had your way with me.”
“That’s just it. I want to.”
To Fargo’s delight, she threw an arm around his neck and pulled him to her. She kissed him fiercely, moaning all the while, and did the last thing he expected her to do: She reached between his legs and cupped his rigid pole. Her lips and her body were living fire. She didn’t so much make love to him as consume him.
Time lost all meaning. Mary kissed and rubbed and stroked and aroused as few women had ever done to Fargo. He held his own for a while and then lay back and let her do as she pleased. She pleased to do everything. Her lips roved everywhere. She was a bottomless wellspring of carnal craving, and she craved to be filled.
When, at long last, they neared the peak, Fargo throbbed with the need for release. His manhood felt fit to rupture.
Mary crested first. She threw back her head and her eyes widened in amazement, and then she bit her lip to keep from crying out as she bucked and heaved and cooed and gushed, gushed, gushed.
Her climax triggered Fargo’s. He hurtled over the brink, surprised by the intensity. It was like no time, ever. It was different. It was unique. It was the best.
They coasted to a stop and Fargo collapsed beside her. That was the last he knew until a gentle shaking of his arm brought him out of perhaps the deepest sleep of his life to find her gazing lovingly into his eyes.
“Good morning.”
“What?” Fargo thought she was mistaken. They couldn’t have slept that long.
“It’s almost dawn. Half an hour and the sun will rise. I’ve checked on Nelly and Jayce, and they’re still sound asleep.”
Groggily, Fargo raised up and looked around. “I slept the whole night?” He sank back down.
“What was left of it. We were up pretty late.” Mary tenderly touched his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
“That was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I thought that Frank and I—” Mary stopped. “How do I put this?”
“It’s never the same with any two people.”
“No. I don’t mean that.” Mary’s brow puckered. “I thought I knew what it was all about. I mean, Frank and I did it, well, fairly often.” She touched him again, a great tenderness on her face. “But none of those times were anything like this. I don’t know if I can describe it in words.”
“There’s no need.” Fargo closed his eyes. If they had half an hour until daylight, he might as well get a little more sleep.
Mary kissed his cheek, his chin, his throat. “If I could, I would do it again right this minute. But the children will be up soon.”
“Rest,” Fargo said.
“I don’t want rest. I want you. I want you again and again. I want you until I pass out.”
Fargo looked at her, and damn if she wasn’t serious. “I won’t complain if you take it into your head to ravish me again sometime.”
“How about tonight?”
“If I make it back.”
Mary pressed her mouth to his, hard. “How about every night for the rest of our lives?”
Fargo sobered and propped his head on his arm. “I thought I made it clear. I’m not looking to put down roots.”
“I’d make you happy. I’d make you as happy as any man has ever been since the dawn of time.”
“Oh, Mary . . .”
“Think about it. That’s all I ask. Think about it, and if you want, stick around awhile and make up your mind.”
“I’m taking you and your kids out of here, remember?”
“There’s no rush. With you here we’ll have plenty to eat. You’ll hunt game, and I’ll cook and clean, and at night we’ll do what we did last night, over and over. There will be no end to it. No end to us.”
Fargo rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his forearm. He liked her. He liked her a lot. Maybe it was even more than liking. There was no denying their coupling had been special. But what she was asking was impossible. He would eventually move on, as he always did.
“I’ve upset you, haven’t I?”
“No,” Fargo lied.
“Yes, I have. I can tell. I’m sorry. Truly sorry. It’s the last thing I want to do.” Mary rested her cheek on his neck.
Fargo was startled to feel a spot of wet on his skin. He peered from under his arm and saw tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. “Stop that.”
“I don’t want to lose you. This is so new, so wonderful. I’ve never known anything like it”
“I’m not the only man in the world,” Fargo said by way of suggesting she would find someone else one day.
“You are for me. Don’t you understand? What we have comes along only once or twice in a lifetime. It’s rare. If we go our separate ways, we might never have it again.”
Fargo draped his arm around her shoulders. “It’s new for you. You’re making more out of it than there is.”
“You don’t see. You just don’t see.”
“Mary, please.”
Mary tilted her head to look at him. The tears were still flowing but she didn’t sob or blubber. They were quiet tears. “I’ll make this as clear to you as I possibly can. Then it’s up to you to decide what you’ll do about it.” She cleared her throat.
“Don’t.”
“Skye Fargo, I love you.”
“Oh, hell.”
11
Fargo rode out half an hour after breakfast. He ate sparingly. They were running out of food. There wasn’t much of the flour left, and Mary was reluctant to kill another chicken. He made up for the lack with half a pot of coffee.
The three of them came out to see him off. The cold had abated somewhat, thanks to warmer wind from the south.
Fargo was about to step into the stirrups when Mary came over and, in front of the children, kissed him warmly on the cheek.
“Take care and come back safe.”
Fargo said he would try. He climbed on and looked down and felt a strange constriction in his throat. “If I don’t make it back and Cud Sten shows up, wait for your chance and steal three horses and head out of the Beartooth Range.” They wouldn’t last another six months, otherwise.
Mary put her hand on his leg. “You’ll come back. I know you will.”
Fargo used his spurs. He looked back once and they were still standing at the corner of the cabin. All three waved. He waved back, then swore.
Fargo told himself he was upset because of Mary. She had forgotten that he told her that he had no interest in planting roots. He’d meant what he said but she refused to listen.
With a toss of his head, Fargo focused on the here and now. He made for a point where two mountains seemed to merge. Mary had told him that between them wound a strip of grassy flatland. It was the easiest way in and out of the valley, the way Cud Sten was likely to bring the cattle.
Once he reached the flatland, Fargo stayed close to the forest so he could seek cover quickly if he had to.
The snow had turned the mountains white. Here and there boulders added a splash of brown and pines a dash of green.
There was no sign of the outlaws.
The middle of the morning came and went. Fargo arched his back to relieve stiff muscles. He looked up at a pair of ravens flying overhead, their wings beating loud in the thin air. He looked down and drew rein.
Fresh tracks marked the snow, the prints of a single horse. A shod horse. It had come down off the mountain and set off across the flatland.
Fargo rose in the stirrups. The horse wasn’t in sight. He reckoned it had gone into the forest on the other side. Sliding to the ground, Fargo hunkered down. A tingle shot through him and he was back on the sorrel in an instant. Then he hesitated. He wanted to go after the other horse. But Sten might come along while he was gone. Did he dare risk it? he asked himself. The answer was no. He had to put Mary and her kids first. It bothered him, though. He rode on with a heavy heart, glancing often across the flatland in the hope that the other horse would appear.
The sun was directly overhead when, faint on Fargo’s ears, fell the lowing of a cow. Wasting no time, he reined into the snow-shrouded trees and behind a pine half bent from the weight. By craning his neck he could see over it.
Presently, here they came: seven riders herding a handful of cows.
Mary had told Fargo there would only be five or six men. Somewhere or other, Cud Sten had added new curly wolves to his pack.
Figuring out which rider was Sten was easy. He was the only one holding—of all things—a club. About two feet long, it was thick at one end and tapered at the other. Oak, unless Fargo missed his guess. Why in the hell anyone would tote something like that around, Fargo couldn’t imagine. A six-shooter killed a lot quicker. Sten also wore a revolver, butt-forward on his left hip. A Smith & Wesson.
Comparing the others to wolves wasn’t far from the mark. All were lean and sinewy with eyes that glittered with the promise of death. Five were white. The sixth, who happened to be in the lead, had some red blood, as evinced by a shock of raven hair and copper skin.
The outlaws were herding the cows along but they weren’t in any particular hurry. One man dozed in the saddle.
The half-breed was on a claybank. He came abreast of where Fargo was hidden and suddenly drew rein and leaned down.
Cud Sten stopped, too, rumbling “What is it, Rika? We’ve got us a ways to go yet and I want to be there by nightfall.”
Rika straightened and turned. “Tracks,” he said simply. “They puzzle me.”
“How can that be?” Cud said. “What you don’t know about tracking ain’t worth knowing.”
“A white man has come this way.”
“What’s that?” Cud said, and he and the rest glanced all about, most placing their hands on their revolvers.
“It’s a white man we know,” Rika said. “Or his horse, at least.”
“What are you babbling about, damn it?”
Rika pointed at the tracks. “These were made by the animal our friend Tull rides.”
“Are you sure?”
“As you say. What I don’t know about tracking is not worth knowing. And I know the tracks of our horses as I know my own.”
“But if it’s Tull, where did he get to?”
“I ask myself the same question.”
Cud gigged his bay up and the two of them climbed down and hunkered to examine the prints.
Fargo palmed the pearl-handled Colt. He knew what they would do next, and he was ready. They would mount and come after him. With luck he could drop half of them before they suspected where he was, and then it would be cat and mouse until he finished them off.
True to his prediction, Cud Sten and Rika whispered back and forth. They climbed on their horses and reined around to talk in hushed tones to the others. Then, drawing their six-shooters, all seven swung toward the forest.
They were so obvious Fargo had to grin. But he didn’t find what happened next the least bit funny.
The branches of the pine were laden thick with snow. Now and then clumps fell to the ground. But just as the outlaws reined toward the forest, a clump of snow the size of a washbasin fell with a loud thud, and the pine, relieved of the weight, suddenly whipped straight up into the air. The rest of the snow in its branches came raining down on Fargo. For a few seconds all he saw was falling snow. Then the whiteout ended, and he could see again.
The tree no longer hid him.
He was in plain sight.
For a few seconds the outlaws were riveted in surprise. Then Cud Sten bellowed, “That’s not Tull! Kill the son of a bitch!”
Fargo wheeled the sorrel and jabbed his spurs. Behind him six-guns blasted and lead sang a song of death. One buzzed his ear, another narrowly missed his shoulder. Then he was past more trees and at a gallop.
Cud Sten let out with another bellow. “After him!”
Fargo scowled. Thanks to a fluke he was riding for his life. He reined right to avoid a tree, reined left to avoid another. A few more shots were fired but none came close. Then the shooting stopped.
The outlaws were after him in earnest.
The snow muffled the thud of their hooves. Nearly everything was white, the trees so burdened that many hung low to the ground. Fargo hadn’t gone far when he discovered how precariously balanced they were. The sorrel brushed against one, and it snapped vertical as that first tree had done, raining snow all over him. .
“Don’t let that son of a bitch get away!” Cud Sten bellowed.
Fargo glanced back. Two of them were hard after him. One raised a revolver but lowered it again because he didn’t have a clear shot.
Minutes passed, and the sorrel’s lead began to widen. But Fargo could tell the sorrel was beginning to tire. The heavy snow was sapping its vitality.
Fargo had to try something. He looked for another large pine, bent low, and soon spied a huge one so covered with snow, it resembled a white hill more than a tree. Reining around it, he came to a stop and hunched low over his saddle. Now it was up to fickle fate, which had already betrayed him once.
Off to the right hooves drummed. One of the outlaws flew past without seeing him.
To the left, more hooves. That made two.
Tense with hope, Fargo waited. Another rider was briefly visible, staring straight ahead. He heard one crash through the growth and twisted his head. The man had bushy red hair an
d a bushy red beard and, like the others, didn’t notice him. That made four.
Only two to go and Fargo would be safe.
A man in a mackinaw went past.
Then it was Cud Sten himself, his club held high as if he couldn’t wait to bash in Fargo’s skull.
Fargo waited. He didn’t hear the seventh. After a bit he decided the man must have gone by without him noticing and he gigged the horse around the pine.
Rika was barely ten feet away, the stock of a rifle wedged to his shoulder. The instant Fargo appeared, he fixed a bead on Fargo’s head and said quietly, “It’s up to you.”
Fargo had the Colt at his side. He could jerk it up and fire, but he had no doubt that even if he got off a shot, he was as good as dead. Rika wouldn’t miss, not at that range. “Don’t do anything I’ll regret,” he said, smiling. Then, holding the Colt by two fingers, he slowly raised his hand and slid it into his holster. “There. How’s that?”
Using only his legs, Rika goaded his horse nearer. “Turn so your back is to me and hold our arms out from your sides.”
Fargo did so, chafing inside at his run of bad luck. He felt a slight tug on his holster. The pearl-handled Colt was gone.
“You can turn around now.”
Rika had moved back out of reach and lowered the rifle to his waist, but it was still fixed on Fargo’s chest. He hefted the Colt. “This belonged to a friend of mine. That horse is his, too. How is it you have them?”
“I lost my horse in the blizzard. I about died from the cold and the snow, and then I came on this animal and a man lying dead with a broken arrow stuck in him.”
Rika’s face showed no hint of whether he bought the story. “And why is it you were hiding behind that tree when we came by?”
Fargo shrugged. “I was on my way out of the mountains. I heard you and your friends coming and didn’t know if you’d be friendly.”
Again Rika showed no emotion. He wedged the pearl-handled Colt under his belt, pointed the rifle at the ground, and fired two quick shots, which echoed off the high slopes like so much thunder.
Fargo tried another smile. “What are you doing here, anyway? And with a bunch of cows? Is there a ranch nearby I don’t know about?”
