by Taylor Lee
“Wyatt, damn you, stop it!”
To her relief, Lei could see that they were almost at their retreat room, well hidden behind the dojo. It was where they came when they wanted to be alone.
Her father had ordered the room built for her when she came to the ranch three years ago to train with Joey. Not only was she the daughter of Wan Chang, but she was the only girl in a class of forty students. She needed a place of her own. It was where she and Wyatt had fallen in love. Where they conceived Nicolas Deshi. When she had found out she was pregnant, and that Wyatt had continued to be unfaithful, she left him and the ranch. They reconciled when Nicolas Deshi was born. Wyatt brought her and the week old baby back to the ranch. Now with Alex and Elena, Wyatt’s seven year old twins from his first marriage, two year old Nicolas Deshi, and a busy household, their need for privacy was acute.
Their love life was tumultuous at best. When they weren’t arguing about Lei’s unwillingness to marry him, they were making fierce passionate love. It often lasted for hours and was anything but sedate. They redid the room to be their special haven, the place where they came together to live out their passion. It was where they loved, tormented, and cherished one another.
When they got inside, Wyatt put her down roughly on the table, and pulled up a chair. He spread her legs, put her feet up on his shoulders, and pulled her ass up close to the edge of the table.
He spread her legs and held them apart. His breath hitched at the glorious sight of her pussy, already puffy and glazed with her fragrant cream. Gazing at her, his voice was husky, deep, “Hmm, baby, I haven’t had any dessert tonight. I’ve been dreaming about this feast since dinner. Didn’t think I was ever gonna get out of there. Do you think it was obvious? First you left, then twenty minutes later I did. Hmm, think anyone knew I was out to get some of this honey ass of yours?”
She moaned and pushed her hips up, seeking his fingers and his mouth. She craved him touching her as much as he loved doing it. Their hours of lovemaking had taught them the secrets of each others bodies and their own. Even after all this time, they treated one another like a hidden treasure to be discovered.
“God, Lei, you are so beautiful. I will never be able to get enough of you. Christ, just the smell of you makes my cock hard. When your pussy is wet like now, there isn’t a sweeter taste in the world.”
“Wyatt, I need you bad tonight. I need you inside of me. I want to feel you hard and deep.”
“Oh, yeah, baby, I’m gonna come up into you, but first I gotta taste you.”
He ran his tongue up her slit. With his expert fingers he found her clit. As she writhed and twisted beneath him, he rubbed the sensitive nub, rolling it between his fingers and thumb. Burying his tongue deep inside of her, he licked and sucked her swollen pussy lips. She groaned and began to pant, arching her hips up to drive his tongue deeper. She tangled her hands in his hair and pulled him tight against her—begging him not to stop.
“Christ, Lei, I’m like you tonight. I need to get inside of you. Here, darlin’, sit up. Kiss me, honey. Suck on my lips and get a taste of your pussy. Have you ever tasted anything sweeter? Mm hmm. Now, baby, how about you crawl into my lap and climb up on top of this.”
With a groan he lifted her up. Securing her feet on either side of his thighs, with a deep growl he lowered her onto his swollen erect cock. She cried out as she opened to receive him.
“God, yes, honey. That’s how you like it, don’t you? Mm hmm. You want it higher, baby? Deeper?”
She was trembling. Waves of passion began to flood over her. She moved up and down on his cock with a loud groan, begging him to make her come.
“Hang on, baby. First we’re gonna find that place that drives us both crazy.”
Keeping her impaled on his hard cock he stood up. Holding her hips he twisted her around and tipped her upside down dropping her hands to the floor, her feet pressing against his shoulders. Their extraordinary athletic prowess and nights of kung fu had allowed them to find positions like this. Bending his knees, he drove the sensitive ridge of his cock up against that special place inside of her. Her passionate shrieks confirmed he had struck gold. Thrusting, he brought them both to an excruciatingly erotic climax, his deep guttural groans filling the room.
Long after their lovemaking ended, they lay in bed, wrapped in each others arms whispering words of love and passion.
Finally, Wyatt said, “What do you think, Lei? Should we do it?”
Confirming that she also had the decision on her mind all evening, she sighed. “Yes, Wyatt, I think we should.”
He smiled. “You’re the boss. Done.”
A little later, as they lay snuggling together, touching, and stroking various sensitive places, Lei turned to him, as if remembering something she had meant to say.
“Wyatt, I can’t believe you ripped another pair of my sparring pants. I’m going to have to start buying them by the dozen.”
“Hmm.” He leaned down and nipped at the sensitive spot on the inside of her upper thigh, smiling when she shivered in response. “Honey, there is something about that ass of yours when you fly through the air that makes me want to see it bare.”
She rolled her eyes and said with a wry smile, “I guess I should be thankful for your restraint. At least you haven’t stopped me in the middle of a match to rip off my pants and expose my bottom to the other fighters.”
His eyes twinkled as he pulled her closer. “Only a matter of time, baby, only a matter of time.”
~~~
The next morning Wyatt met first with Chief, Joey, and Alono. None of the three were surprised by his decision. Although they knew the obstacles he faced, they were convinced Wyatt would overcome them. How could he not?
These three men and Lei were Wyatt’s greatest supporters and wisest advisers. They knew and accepted the complicated man he was. They had seen Wyatt at his best and his worst. They knew he could be as ruthless and cruel as he was charming and kind. They never stopped marveling at his intelligence, uncanny insights, and courage. And they never underestimated him. It was a mistake many others had made. But those who dismissed him as an upstart half-breed did so at their peril. Wyatt was arrogant for a reason. He was a dangerous man and he didn’t lose.
~~~
Tom, Arthur, and Charlie were ecstatic. Tom, in particular, couldn’t hide his glee. He loved politics: the challenge and the sport of it. Several months later, he would try to remember why he had been gleeful. The campaign turned out to be the dirtiest, most outrageously racist, painful, and dangerous one he had ever been involved in.
But that sunny day in March, when Wyatt agreed to go forward, none of them knew what lay ahead. It was just as well. Who would have known that their side would commit murder, multiple murders to be precise? Given what the stakes turned out to be, murder was a small price to pay.
When Wyatt told him his decision, Tom grinned. “I heard Grant Forrester and his cronies have scheduled a major event today at the Back Door Saloon. They’re going to announce what they’re billing as the winning candidacy for Governor of Wyoming. What do you think, Wyatt?” he asked his eyes twinkling.
“If it’s a party to announce the winning candidacy for governor, then we sure as hell should be there, don’t you think, Tom?”
~~~
Chapter 3
Grant Forrester and his team were salivating. The men in the room had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Years, in fact.
Grant’s smile cracked wide, his heavy jowls twitching with the effort.
“Well, Clarence, it’s only taken us fifteen years, but this time we’ve got Wyatt by the balls. I’m not letting go until he is as neutered and useless to that Chink cunt of his as that gelding out there at the hitching post.”
Clarence and the other men in the room laughed loudly, grinning at the thought of taking Wyatt down. No wonder, thought Grant. The four of them had been outsmarted by Wyatt so many times they’d lost count. Time after time, just when they thought they ha
d beat him, he made an unanticipated move. Once again, they lost out on a deal or were embarrassed when one of their schemes was exposed. Wyatt was never satisfied taking their money, winning the bid. He always twisted the knife. If they had cut a corner or two, paid a bribe, he exposed that. An article would appear in one of the scandal sheets. Or conversation would stop, when they walked in the Saloon. The other investors would look away, not meet their eyes, and they would know that once again Wyatt had not only outfoxed them, but made sure everyone who was anyone knew it. The last time Grant was in Washington, greasing the palms of a few of the Congressmen he kept in his pocket, one of them asked slyly how many times the half- breed had scalped him that month. Everyone at the table guffawed at his expense.
It was an intolerable situation. Grant hated Wyatt with a visceral, physical hatred. He knew Clarence, John, and Will hated him as much.
“Goddamn, Grant, if we don’t get him this time, we never will,” said Clarence with a despairing sigh.
Grant’s puffy lips curled in scorn. “Look, the one thing that fuckin asshole knows is how to make money. He isn’t gonna throw away a quarter of a million dollars trying to elect one of those sorry asses who think they’re gonna run against me. We all know how goddamned smart the prick is. He didn’t become the richest fuckin asshole in the West by throwing good money after bad. He knows how many people despise him as much as we do. He also knows that every one of them is gonna contribute to my campaign.
“Besides, who’s strong enough to stop me? That asshole Slem Phillips? Or Pete Carter? Christ, those two couldn’t stop a crippled coyote with a load of buckshot and a repeater rifle. How about Dickey Peters? If there ever was a guy who’s a little dick, it’s him. Fuck, I think the only person who knows better than I do how hopeless they all are is Wyatt.”
“You’re right about the people who despise him, Grant. We got half the investors in New Mexico lined up ready to give you money to beat the unlucky son of a bitch Wyatt decides to support.” Clarence grinned at the thought. “Every one of them knows it’ll be a new game in town for us all when you’re elected.”
“Hell, Grant, I think your campaign slogan ought to be ‘Vote for me and I’ll send the redskin back to the reservation where he belongs!’” said Will. “I counted up the other day – felt like making myself puke. I discovered I’ve lost at least a million dollars to that fuckin’ half-breed in potential returns alone. That doesn’t count the real money I lost in non-refundable deposits. Goddamn, Grant, I think the first thing you do as governor is to put in a seventy five per cent tax on anyone who isn’t a full blooded American.”
“Will, that is a hell of an idea, once we figure a way to skim at least seventy percent of it off the top for us!” Grant chortled.
Grant was quiet for a moment contemplating the certain spoils of victory. He turned to his friends with a salacious grin.
“Do you know what’s gonna be one of the best parts of taking Wyatt down? Taking that haughty yellow bitch of his down with him!”
His friends unanimously agreed. Talk turned to Lei. Over the years they had watched as Wyatt brought her into polite company, to elite social events, as if breaking the taboo against Chinese was acceptable. And she was allowed in, her head dismissively in the air, because no one dared take Wyatt on. It was bad enough he rubbed their noses in his red skin. Lei was one insult too many for Grant and the bigoted men who surrounded him. After one scandalous remark after another, Grant summed up their feelings.
Raising his glass of beer in the air, he said, “I tell you what. Let’s make one of our victory celebrations a cluster fuck of that stuck up cunt. How about it? I propose we take turns fucking her in every hole of her body and open up a few new ones. Underneath all that disdain is nothing but a Chink cunt. We know better than most what they’re good for, right, fellas?”
There was a roar of approval as they clinked glasses. In descriptive terms, each man laid out his specific plans for Lei.
~~~
If anyone looked like a politician, it was Grant Forrester. He’d fit in with any machine politician from New York’s Tammany Hall or the mean streets of Chicago. His smarmy grin was plastered on. An unlit cigar lived in his mouth. It dripped with spit by the end of the day. His beady eyes, buried in rolls of skin, were hard and bright. Grant was a lot of unpleasant things, but he wasn’t stupid. His eyes told the tale. No matter how big his grin or how loud his ingratiating laugh, his eyes rarely smiled. Rather, they darted around looking for the weakness in his opponent or in his supporters, whoever he was hitting up at the moment. You could expect a lot of things from Grant. Loyalty wasn’t one of them.
He was almost as wide as he was tall. His gut jutted out from his pants causing him to lean back when he walked—more of a waddle than a walk. He always wore suspenders in case his belt gave up. He added a vest in a vain attempt to hide his girth. His trademark was a white cowboy hat that he never took off—inside or out. He said he always wore it because that’s what Western men did. In truth, it was to cover up his bald head and add several inches to his height.
If Grant looked like a politician, he also acted like one. He knew every potential supporter and how much it would cost to keep him satisfied. He knew which skeletons were hidden in which closets. He kept the keys to those closets on an invisible keychain, using as much pressure –blackmail, some might say – as was necessary to keep his prospective supporters in line. He had been in the political game for thirty years, but never in a position of acknowledged power. He’d always worked from the backroom, under the table. He’d been a legislator, committee member, head of this commission or that, any position he could buy that gave him access to potential deals going down. He also had spent a lot of those years putting others in power, then making them pay for the privilege. Being a governor would change all that. He’d be front and center; the boss, not the fixit man. People would respect him for who he was, his position. Grant wanted that respect. He wanted it bad. And when he got it, he thought with a wolfish grin, the first thing he was going to do was run Wyatt McManus’s ass in the ground.
~~~
By Noon, the Back Door was filling up with Forrester supporters and curious townsfolk. Everyone had heard about Grant’s braggadocio-laced announcement claiming to be kicking off the winning campaign for governor of Wyoming. Politics was a spectator sport in Cheyenne. What with the governor likely to have been murdered a few days earlier, more people flocked to Grant’s party than might otherwise have come. Without a doubt, the main draw was the free beer promised on the bottom of the campaign flier.
Grant greeted each newcomer as though he was a long lost relative. With his big campaign smile and hearty laugh, he made the rounds. Slapping each man on the back, he moved in closer to whisper a special secret to some. It was clear, his campaign persona was up and running.
Bert Flagger, the editor of the Cheyenne Express, stepped up with a pen and pad in hand. “Okay, Grant, we all know you are running. But why the hell are you running? I gotta say something in this article more than that you enticed half the town to the Back Door for free beer. Or is that gonna be one of the planks in your platform?”
Someone from the back of the room yelled, “Can’t think of a better platform, Grant. Promise that and you’ve got my vote!” The crowd roared.
Mark Peters, a longtime farmer, yelled out, “Know anything about how Bernie died? Do you think he was murdered? Who do you think did it?”
Grant responded soberly. He put his hand over his heart, as though out of respect to the dead governor. “Mark, I do believe the coroner said our friend Bernie died of natural causes. I do not believe he was murdered. He was too good a man. Who would of wanted to hurt Bernie?”
There were a number of guffaws and belly laughs openly questioning Grant’s sincerity.
To change the topic, Grant turned to Mike Peters, one of his supporters, and asked if he had a question. Before the planted question could be asked, someone called out, “How come you’re runni
ng in Wyoming, Grant? Don’t you live in New Mexico?”
“No, Pete, I split my time evenly between Wyoming and New Mexico. It just so happens that New Mexico has good leaders right now. I think we can all agree that Wyoming doesn’t.”
Frank Kendrick, a long time rancher and friend of Wyatt’s, hollered out, “Don’t you mean that you got one of your cronies appointed territorial governor in New Mexico? Now that you control that territory, are you’re lookin’ to add Wyoming to your pisspot?”
“Hey, Frank, not so cynical, friend. You need a governor in Wyoming that has the needs of the ranchers at heart. I’m sure you and I agree on that.”
A number of men in the crowd shouted, “here, here” and the conversation continued. Reporters for newspapers from around the state jumped in, attempting to pin down his platform. There were some serious questions from the crowd. But, for the most part, people were there to have a good time and enjoy the free beer. After a while, Grant stopped trying to get everyone’s attention. He did what he did best, went from person to person, treating each man as his newest best friend.
There was a shuffling from the back of the room and the crowd opened up as a group of men entered. Several people called out, “Hey, Wyatt’s here.”
Wyatt was without question the best known person in Cheyenne, probably in Wyoming. He was a consistent presence in Cheyenne. Few people didn’t know the tall lean handsome man with the ready smile and twinkle in his eye, either as a businessman, or someone they turned to for help with their horses, or when bad luck hit their family. Even men who had lost out to him respected him. Most people liked him, as well.
Grant looked up, surprised to see Wyatt and his men enter. He never thought Wyatt would show up. It was disconcerting to see him in the flesh, instead of the bogeyman that haunted most of his thoughts and much of his conversation. Also disturbing was the way the attention of the crowd immediately shifted to Wyatt. Most of the people greeted him personally. Many reached out attempting to shake his hand. Dismayed, Grant admitted to himself that Wyatt had what every candidate wanted and what every opponent feared—presence. When Wyatt entered a room, he captured it.
