“I’m comin’ to that,” Clover said. “Porter and the elders decided we needed a new schoolmarm and told Argent to pack her bags and get. I guess they figured that with her gone, things would quiet down. But then Billy’s and Elly’s bodies were found in the old barn out back of Elly’s folk’s place.”
Fargo’s interest perked. “Someone killed them?” “They were stabbed to death, fifteen to twenty times each, and Porter’s huntin’ knife was found in the straw beside their bodies.”
“Why would Porter kill them?” To Fargo it made no sense. Porter was the one who agreed they should marry if they wanted.
“I can’t say for certain, but Elly was startin’ to come around to her mother’s way of thinkin’. She told her ma that maybe Argent was right all along and she was too young to be hitched. Argent suspects that Porter killed her out of spite, and to show the rest of us women our proper place.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
Clover sighed and bowed her head. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. Porter denied he had anything to do with it and ordered Bramwell to take Miss Meriwether to Fort Smith and put her on the first stage headin’ east. Argent was with Patrice and several other women when Bramwell came to fetch her. Tempers flared, and someone started shootin’.” She looked at him. “That’s when it went from bad to worse, and the war started.”
Fargo thought he heard a faint sound off in the woods but when he glanced at the Ovaro, the stallion showed no sign it had heard anything out of the ordinary. “Go on with your account.”
“There’s not much left. Most of the women naturally sided with Patrice and Argent and most of the men sided with Porter and Bramwell. One thing led to another, and the women ended up out at Patrice’s farm while the menfolk moved into Jacksonville. Since then there has been more killin’.” Clover stopped, then mustered a smile. “I feel awful sorry for you, ridin’ smack into the middle of our mess like you have. I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you ride right out again.”
A soft scrape from amid the trees brought Fargo to his feet. The Ovaro had raised its head and was staring fixedly into the dark.
“Is something the matter?” Clover asked.
Her answer came not from Fargo but from the woods; a rifle blasted, spraying the glade with hot lead.
6
There was no time to think. No time to speculate on who was trying to kill them. No time for Fargo to do anything other than hurl himself at Clover and bear her to the ground. He felt a tug on his sleeve and pain in his left ankle. The firing stopped, but only, he suspected, because the killer was taking better aim or moving to a better vantage point. In any event, they couldn’t just lie there. Heaving Clover to her feet, he shoved her toward the other side of the glade and shouted, “Run!”
Turning, Fargo took two long strides and dived for his saddle. A shot rang out as his hands molded to the Henry. Fargo shucked it from the scabbard and snapped it to his shoulder as another shot boomed. He realized that Clover had been the target, not him. Spotting a muzzle flash, he banged off three shots of his own. Almost instantly there came the crash of undergrowth; the killer was fleeing.
Fargo gave chase. He entered the trees and spotted a darting, weaving shape. He tried to fix a bead but he could not get a clear shot. Whoever it was, they were fleet as an antelope. Try as he might, he could not narrow the gap.
Somewhere ahead a horse whinnied, and Fargo swore. He flew through a stand of saplings and burst out the other side but he was too late. Hooves were pounding eastward. He listened until the sound faded to silence, then, furious at himself, he stalked back to the glade.
The Ovaro, thank God, had not been hit. Fargo’s left boot had been creased but the bullet had not penetrated the leather. “Clover?” he yelled. “Are you all right?” There was no answer, and for a few anxious seconds he feared the worst, until the vegetation parted and she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck.
“Thank you!” she breathed in his ear. “You saved me again.”
The feel of her body against his stirred Fargo down low. He inhaled the scent of her hair and her body and it took all his self-control not to run his hands over her bottom. “It’s becoming a habit.”
Clover drew back but did not remove her arms. “Who do you reckon it was?”
“The same one who shot your friend Harriet,” Fargo said. He could kick himself for not watching their back trail more closely. Apparently the killer had followed them the entire way.
“Why come after us?” Clover wondered. “Bramwell thought it was Argent but she wouldn’t shoot Harriet or try to murder me. We’re on her side.”
It was something to ponder, Fargo reflected. But not right now. He had to remedy his carelessness. “Grab my saddle blanket and bridle.”
With his saddlebags over one shoulder and his saddle in his other hand, Fargo led her into the forest. No more camping in the open until the killer was dealt with. He also brought the Ovaro in among the trees, then took the Henry and prowled in a wide circle to ensure the killer was indeed gone.
“Anything?” Clover asked when he returned.
“It’s safe for you to catch some shut-eye.” Fargo sat with his back to a bole at a point where he could keep an eye on her and the stallion and see the glade, too.
“Be serious?” Clover nervously smiled and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I couldn’t sleep now if I wanted to.”
“You should try anyway,” Fargo urged. “Tomorrow I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“And then you’ll leave these mountains for good, I bet,” Clover said. “Not that I blame you one bit.”
“I’m going after whoever took those shots at us,” Fargo corrected her.
Clover’s lovely eyes widened. “Why? This isn’t your fight. What do you care if the rest of us drown in blood?”
“You’re forgetting,” Fargo said. “Whoever took those shots tried to kill me too, and I take a thing like that personally.”
“Oh.” Clover sounded disappointed. “Just so you’re not stayin’ on my account. I don’t have a man at the moment and I’m not interested in one.”
A strange comment, Fargo thought, especially as he had never let on how attractive she was. Which hinted she must feel the same way about him. He decided to test the waters. “Is that men in general or husbands in particular?”
“Oh, I like men just fine,” Clover admitted. “Too much so, according to a few of the older women. But sometimes something comes over me and I can’t help myself. Know what I mean?”
“Down in Texas they have a saying,” Fargo related. “There are two kinds of women in this world, those who are married and those who are still alive.”
Clover laughed heartily. “I wouldn’t go that far. It all depends on the husband, I should imagine.” She pretended to be interested in the clouds. “Have you ever had a hankerin’ to settle down?”
Fargo was honest with her. “I like to roam too much to ever tie myself to one spot.”
“Or to one woman.” Clover caught his true meaning. She shrugged. “I figured as much. A handsome gent like you must have to beat fillies off with a stick.”
“I’ve never turned one down.”
Inexplicably, Clover curled up on her side and closed her eyes. “Well, I’d best take your advice and try to get some sleep.”
Fargo smothered his disappointment. She had been through a lot that day, including witnessing the horrible death of her friend. Realistically, he couldn’t expect her to have the same thing on her mind as he did. With a sigh, he leaned back and placed the Henry across his legs.
Deceptive peace pervaded the night. The stars twinkled in celestial splendor, a soft wind caressed the trees, and the air was filled with the rich, dank scent of the fertile earth. But Fargo did not let it lull him into letting down his guard. He constantly scoured the woods for movement, constantly tested the wind for sound.
The Big Dipper and other constellations gradually drifted
across the firmament. Midnight came and went. Clover tossed and turned a lot. Fargo chalked her restlessness up to frayed nerves and tried not to dwell on the swell of her bosom when she lay on her back.
More time passed. A bobcat stalked silently across the glade, oblivious to their presence. Shortly thereafter, in the direction the bobcat had gone, a rabbit screeched its death throes to an uncaring world.
“Consarn it,” Clover suddenly said, sitting up. “I couldn’t sleep if my life depended on it.”
“You’ve been awake this whole while?” Fargo admired the play of starlight on her golden hair.
Clover stretched, arching her back delectably. “I dozed off once or twice but only for a minute or two. Normally I have a cup of warm milk to help me relax.”
Fargo made a show of patting his pockets. “I’m fresh out of cows.”
Laughing, Clover stood and began pacing. “I’m bubblin’ with so much energy, I can’t hardly stand it. And the thing is, I have no idea why.”
“We can walk some if you’d like,” Fargo proposed.
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any bother,” Clover said. Her tone hinted differently.
Rising, Fargo relieved a cramp in his calf by flexing his leg a few times, then moved toward the creek. She fell into step beside him, so close that every few steps their elbows brushed.
“So,” Clover said.
“Something on your mind?”
“Oh, no, nothin’ at all,” Clover answered much too quickly. “I was just thinkin’ of how nice you’ve been to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”
“I’m always nice to beautiful women,” Fargo put her to the test. “And you’re more beautiful than most.”
Clover stopped short, then caught up again. “You’re joshin’. I bet you say that to all the gals.”
“No more than five or six a month,” Fargo said, and was rewarded with another laugh.
“You sure know how to perk a girl’s spirits. The men hereabouts aren’t nearly as clever. All they care about is huntin’, fishin’, and guzzlin’ whiskey.”
“Do you hate them as much as Argent does?”
Clover was taking long strides to match his, her hips swaying suggestively. “Goodness gracious, no. I don’t hate anyone. I just want the killin’ to stop and things to go back to being the way they were.” She frowned. “But I honestly don’t know if that’s possible. Too many folks have died. Too many harsh words have been said. We can’t forgive if we can’t forget and none of us are liable to forget this awful nightmare for as long as we’re breathin’.”
Fargo did not say anything.
“Although it would sure be nice to forget for a little while,” Clover said quietly. “An hour or two is all I ask. Long enough to remind me of who and what I am.”
Fargo still said nothing.
“I don’t suppose my babblin’ makes any kind of sense. Men don’t look at life the way women do. Never have, never will. They can be the most stubborn cusses at times.”
“Men aren’t the only ones.”
Clover grinned and her fingers idly stroked the back of his hand. “Land sakes. I would be the last to say that, seein’ as how I’m the most stubborn person I know. When I put my mind to something, I never rest until I get what I’m after.”
They came to a low bank that overlooked the softly flowing water. Fargo decided that here was as good a place as any to find out if she shared his desire for more than talk. Without saying a word, he took a seat with his legs dangling over the bank, his boots inches above the creek.
Clover hesitated, then took the bait. Sitting beside him, she clasped her arms to her chest and commented, “It’s a mite chilly. I have goose bumps all over.”
“We can go back,” Fargo said, hinging what he did next on her answer.
“No. That’s all right. I like it here. I like talkin’ to you.”
“Is that all?” Fargo reached up and ran his hand across her cheek and down her neck to her shoulder. She shivered, but whether from the chill or something else, he couldn’t say.
Clover locked eyes with him. “I’m not that kind of girl, I’ll have you know.” Fargo started to pull his hand away but she grasped it in both of hers. “I still have needs, though, like everyone else.”
“It’s up to you,” Fargo said.
“Does this make it plain enough?” Clover asked, and placed his hand on her right breast.
“Plenty plain.” Fargo squeezed and felt her nipple harden against his palm, jutting against the fabric like a tack.
“Mmmmmm,” Clover cooed. “You’re off to a fine start.”
Fargo bent his face to hers and hungrily glued his mouth to her yielding lips. She tensed, as if having second thoughts, then flung her arms around him, parted her mouth wide, and entwined her tongue with his in sensual yearning. He sucked on it and she moaned deep in her throat, moaned long and loud, the meantime her fingers explored his broad shoulders and chest.
When they broke for breath, Clover was panting. “My, oh my. You sure can make a girl tingle.”
“I can do more than that,” Fargo stated matter-of-factly, and backed up his statement by licking and nibbling on her ears and neck while his hands roamed to his heart’s content.
“It’s been so long!” Clover whispered, playing with his hair. “I couldn’t go without much longer.”
It had been Fargo’s experience that women were a lot more like men than they were willing to admit. They liked a romp in the hay just as much but seldom gave in to temptation because they were afraid of the consequences.
At the moment Clover was free to give rein to her pent-up passion, and her next act was to take his chin in her hands and lavish a hundred tiny kisses and nibbles on his face and throat.
Fargo pried at her buttons until her shirt was open. Underneath were underthings he made short shrift of. The cool air on her breasts elicited a sharp intake of breath. It turned to a groan when Fargo covered her pendulous mounds with both hands and caressed and kneaded them as if they were clay. Her skin grew hot to his touch, her nipples jutted invitingly. So much so, that Fargo lowered his mouth to her right breast and fastened his mouth on the nipple. Swirling it with his tongue, he nipped ever-so-lightly and winced when her nails dug deep into his shoulders.
“Yessssss,” Clover husked. “More. I want more.”
Fargo aimed to give it to her. He lathered her right breast and then her left, then licked a path from between her globes to her navel. She uttered a soft cry when he rimmed it. Her hands rose to his hair and pulled so hard, he thought she would tear it out by the roots.
Taking her in his arms, Fargo moved a few feet from the creek and gently lowered her onto a natural bed of grass. She presented a torrid temptation with her lips parted seductively and her breasts glistening like ripe melons. With a quick, practiced move he had her pants off. The rest of her garments soon followed.
Clover eagerly reached up. Now that she was naked, she wanted him naked, too. Fargo helped her, and once the deed was done, knelt between her velvet thighs and parted them wide. She gripped his rigid pole, aligned it with her wet slit, and fed him into her bit by bit.
Scarcely breathing, savoring the sensation, neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. Clover finally broke the spell by groaning and slowly grinding her hips against his. Fargo responded in kind, sliding almost out and then back in, over and over and over in rising intensity and tempo until they were thrusting against one another in unchecked abandon, her small ankles locked at the small of his muscular back, her fingernails shearing into the flesh on his shoulders and arms.
Clover crested first. Arching up on the soles of her feet, she nearly raised him off the ground. Her release triggered his. The world blurred, and Fargo heard the loudest groan yet and realized it was his. When, at length, he coasted to a stop and sagged onto his shoulder beside her, she wearily grinned and pecked him on the cheek.
“Thank you. I needed that.”
“Makes two of us,” Fargo
said, and meant it.
7
The tracks were as plain as the new day. Fargo headed out at first light, riding double with Clover. She was in fine spirits. Resting her silken blonde hair on his broad shoulder, she idly played with his ear.
“You were wonderful last night. I hope we get to do that again before we part ways.”
“I should take you back to Patrice’s farm.” Fargo had mentioned it several times and been ignored.
“And risk that varmint gettin’ away?” Clover craned forward, her breath fanning his neck. “Besides, I like your company. And I hope the feelin’ is mutual.”
Fargo clucked to the stallion. Arguing would be pointless. And she did have a point; if he took her to the farm, it would be hours before he took up the killer’s trail. By then the bushwhacker could be halfway to Little Rock, although Fargo doubted his quarry would skip the state.
“I’ll talk with the other women when I get back,” Clover was rambling on. “It’s high time this nonsense ended. I’ve known it for weeks but I have you to thank for convincin’ me to do something about it.”
“Me?” Fargo said.
Clover giggled. “For all their faults, men aren’t the vile devils Argent paints them as. You’ve reminded me that men have a few good qualities, too.”
“A few, huh?”
Her soft lips brushed his ear. “There’s good and bad in everyone. All Argent ever does is rant about the bad. The rest of us were so upset about Elly, we let her twist our thinkin’. We let her talk us into standin’ up to the menfolk when by rights we should be workin’ with them to put an end to the killin’.”
“It will end sooner than you think if I find the killer,” Fargo vowed. He had never been one to turn the other cheek. Whoever had tried to bushwhack him would soon learn that he preferred an eye for an eye.
Clover was a regular chatterbox. “It’s awful how we can become so easily led astray. Porter and the other elders might be as hardheaded as rocks but they only ever have the clan’s best interests at heart. It’s hardly fair to blame them for doing things the way the clan has always done them.”
Ozarks Onslaught Page 5
