Arizona Renegades

by Jon Sharpe

  “Something wrong?” Gwen asked when he neither moved nor spoke.

  “I can’t make up my mind whether to kiss you or spank you.”

  Gwen giggled. “You’re making this hard for me. I thought the man was always supposed to make the first move.”

  “You want me, do you?” Fargo bluntly asked, still not moving. He was challenging her, taunting her, paying her back for her little prank.

  “Damn you.” Gwen smiled when she said it. “Is this some sort of game? Do you want me to come right out and admit it? Would that make you happy?”

  Fargo did not say a word.

  “I hate you more than ever,” Gwen declared. Then she stepped even closer and craned her neck so she could kiss him warmly on the chin, on the cheek, on the edge of his mouth. Her breath was warm, her touch velvet. “Yes, I want you,” she said hungrily. “I think I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. But I’m not the kind of woman who throws herself at a man. It’s taken me a while to build up the nerve.”

  “Why here? Why now?”

  “I thought of waiting until we got to Tucson, but then I remembered you’re going east, not west. This might be my last chance. Ever.” Gwen’s throat bobbed. “I’m scared the Apaches will catch us. Scared I’ll never get to touch you or any other man ever again, never get to—”

  Fargo silenced her by pressing his mouth to hers. She responded by melting into his arms, her small figure fitting snugly against him as if their two bodies were but two parts of a whole. Her lips were downy soft yet firm with passion. Almost timidly, they parted to allow his tongue to gain entrance. Her tongue was small, delicate, yet silken. It met his, exploring, then entwined in an erotic dance.

  Fargo’s hands rose up the backs of her thighs. Her legs trembled as he ran his fingertips to her firm buttocks and cupped them, feeling the heat she radiated. She mewed deep in her throat as he kneaded her. Then he slid his hands higher, his palms rubbing across her lower back, rising on either side of her curved spine to her shoulders. She was still wet, her skin wonderfully cool. Fargo massaged her shoulders, then ran a hand through her damp hair.

  Gwen broke to take a breath. “Ohhhhh, I’m in heaven.”

  “You’re not halfway there yet,” Fargo said, and kissed her brow, her cheeks, her ear. She was sensitive there, and when his tongue flicked her earlobe, she gasped and arched against him. He sucked on it, feeling her quiver, her legs rubbing against one another to heighten her pleasure.

  Fargo pulled back. He removed his hat, peeled off his dirty shirt, his gunbelt, his pants, and his boots. That tiny voice at the back of his mind came to life. It railed at him for letting down his guard in the middle of Apache country.

  “You’re being stupid!” the voice screamed. Fargo didn’t care. The past two days had been a living hell. He would like a short time to relax, to forget the problems he faced.

  Gwen stared at him as she might at a steak she was about to devour. “You’re magnificent,” she husked, her small hands rising to his superbly muscled chest. Her palms rubbed in tiny circles, working their way to his broad shoulders, then down his arms. She drank in the sight of him, breathing heavier and heavier.

  Fargo elicited a sharp gasp by suddenly cupping her breasts. They fit his hands like large apples, the nipples full and taut. He gently squeezed, then with more force. Gwen gazed skyward, her rosy lips parted as if to cry out, but she uttered no sound other than panting. Fargo stroked her, from the base of her cones outward. He pulled on her nipples and tweaked them, and she groaned so long and loud that he started to worry about the Apaches again.

  To quiet her, Fargo smothered her mouth with his own. Her kiss this time was fiery hot, her tongue a dervish that never stopped encircling his. He continued to grope her mounds and pinch her nipples until her chest heaved with passion.

  “Please,” Gwen said. “Please, please, please.”

  Fargo did not know exactly what she wanted. Bending, he clamped his lips onto a pert breast and inhaled it. She rose onto her toes, her nails raking his shoulders.

  “Like that, like that!”

  Her breasts swelled under his manipulating fingers. Fargo lathered them with his tongue, then licked lower to her navel. The musky scent that rose from her nether region tingled his nostrils. He slowly straightened, kissing her belly, kissing between her breasts, her lower neck, her mouth. She glued herself to him, her hips pumping.

  Fargo shocked her by taking her hand and placing it on his pole. At the contact, Gwen stiffened, then began to stroke him from top to bottom. Relaxing, she drew back to admire his manliness, and for a few seconds Fargo thought she might dip lower but she didn’t. Closing his eyes, he thrilled to her tender touch. Then he opened them, clasped her, and plunged his right hand between her legs.

  Gwen cried out. As well she might. Fargo’s fingers were enveloped in moist heat that became hotter the deeper he went. His index finger found her slick tunnel and he thrust it in to the knuckle.

  “Ohhhhh! Skye!”

  Her bottom heaved as Fargo pumped in and out, the friction adding to the already considerable heat, to say nothing of her pleasure. Gwen bit his shoulder. Her greedy mouth rose to his and fused. She cooed like a dove as he brought her to the brink of release, but only to the brink. Her hips were rising up and down, her legs shaking uncontrollably, when he stopped stroking and placed both hands on her hips.

  “What—?” Gwen said.

  Fargo lifted her off the ground. Her small frame, her light weight, made it easy. Easy, too, to poise her over his manhood. She understood and willingly parted her legs. Then, inch by iron inch, Fargo slid her down onto himself, inserting his pole into her wet sheath. He took her standing up, his sturdy legs bracing them both. And when he was in her all the way, when she was balanced on his hips, he gripped her shoulders and thrust higher, rising onto the tips of his toes.

  “Ahhhhh! Yessssss!”

  Gwen threw back her head, her eyelids fluttering, golden tresses spilling over her shoulders. She gave herself up to him completely, adrift in the ecstasy of their coupling, crying “Oh! Oh! Oh!” each time he hammered into her.

  Fargo pumped and pumped, in perfect self-control, staving off his release for as long as he wanted. Gwen thrashed and writhed, her hands on his powerful arms, her tiny feet barely touching the ground.

  While their union lasted, for those precious moments in time, the sensations they felt overwhelmed their worries, their cares. The Apaches were shut from their minds, the sense of constant danger temporarily gone. Their release was just as much mental and emotional as it was physical, which added to the intensity of their mutual climax.

  Gwen wailed like a lost soul as her body was flooded by rapture. She clung to his shoulders, her hips levering wildly, her womanhood wrapped around his member like a glove. And when she called out, when she said, “Oh, Skye! I’m coming again!” it triggered his own release.

  Fargo exploded with the force of a keg of black powder, ramming up into her again and again and again. To call what he felt bliss did not do it justice. He crested a white hot peak and sailed on the inner winds of blinding pleasure.

  When, at long, long last, Fargo slowed and then stopped, they were both spent, both slick with sweat, both breathing as if they could not catch their breath. Fargo held on to her and sagged onto the bank, stones and dirt prickling his skin. Gwen’s hands were on his neck, her lips on his chest.

  “I thought I would die.”

  Fargo listened to the night sounds, his wariness returning. Coyotes were in full chorus, and to the west an owl hooted. Much farther off a panther screeched. All was normal. All was well. He sighed and ran a hand over her hair. “Thank you.”

  Gwen tittered.

  “Share the joke,” Fargo said.

  “I guess I don’t hate you anymore.”

  “Really? You could have fooled me.”

  Both of them smiled and closed their eyes, and although Fargo did not want to fall asleep just yet, he dozed, awakening
half an hour later with Gwen snoring lightly on top of him. Water chilled his feet. The cool night air caressed their bodies. He started to sit up, and Gwen lifted her head. Befuddled by sleep, she looked all around.

  “What is it? The Apaches? Have they found us?”

  Fargo kissed her cheek. “No. It’s peaceful as can be.” He rose, cradling her. “I need to wash up and get dressed.”

  “We’ll wash together.”

  They stepped into the shallow pool and sat facing one another. The water was only five or six inches deep, the pool no wider than four or five feet, but it was so cool, so refreshing. Fargo splashed his legs, his chest, then cupped his hands and drenched his face and hair. He would have liked to sit there until morning, luxuriating in the coolness.

  Gwen washed her arms, her face. Leaning back, she quirked her lips and said, “This is a no-no time I’ll never forget.”

  “A what?” Fargo asked.

  “A no-no. When I was growing up, whenever I was bad my ma would say I had done a no-no. It was no-no this, and no-no that. Taking a cookie without permission, leaving my room a mess, that sort of thing. It got so I learned to be real secretive about the no-no things I did. I’d never tell a soul.” Gwen bent a shapely leg and idly ran a finger along her inner thigh. “This is a no-no time I’ll treasure forever.”

  Fargo was watching her finger, how it slowly swirled around and around. He saw her glistening thatch and the water flowing between her thighs, and he began to grow hard again.

  “Was I all right for you?” Gwen asked. “As you’ve probably guessed, I don’t have a lot of experience. You’re only the second man I’ve ever made love to.”

  Fargo grew harder.

  “I was ashamed the last time. It was a boy I knew, one I always figured I’d marry. But I’m not ashamed with you. Why should that be?” Gwen looked down at herself. “I know I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world. I’m too small up top, for one thing.” She cupped her breasts. “If you only knew—”

  But Fargo didn’t care to hear more. He surged toward her, enfolded her in his arms, and parted her legs with his knees.

  Gwen’s eyes went wide. “Again? So soon?”

  His answer was to drive into her, nearly lifting her out of the water with the urgency of his thrust. There was no kissing this time, no foreplay. Holding her slender waist, Fargo lanced up into her, over and over and over. She bent her head back and groaned nonstop, adrift in a sensual sea of delight.

  Fargo lasted longer this time. Much, much longer. A rip-tide of arousal pulled him higher and higher until he was at the summit with nowhere to go but over the brink. He prolonged the inevitable as long as he could, extending their bliss for what seemed like forever. At last the eruption came, so violent, so intense, the stars pranced giddily and the ground seemed to buck as if from an earthquake. Gwen sank her teeth into his shoulder to stifle a shriek.

  Tired but fulfilled, they leaned against each other, Fargo stroking her hair. Gwen looked up at him in awe and asked,

  “Don’t you ever get enough?”

  Fargo knew women well. He gave her a compliment she would treasure. “It’s you. You do things to a man.”

  “I do?” Gwen said in disbelief. “Why hasn’t anyone ever told me before? You’d think I’d have men falling out of the trees to ask me out.”

  Shrugging, Fargo replied, “You know how men are. We like to keep our feelings to ourselves. And most men get tongue-tied around a pretty woman.”

  “Land o’ Goshen! I sure am learning a lot tonight. Anything else you have a hankering to teach me?” Gwen wriggled her bottom.

  Fargo laughed and smacked her on the fanny. “And you think I never get enough? On your feet, hussy. We need sleep now, more than anything else.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Gwen groused.

  Glowing embers were all that remained of the fire. Fargo rekindled it and stretched out. Gwen snuggled against him, her cheek on his chest, her fingers playing with his beard. She did not fall asleep right away. On the verge of dozing off, he heard her clear her throat.

  “Skye?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I—” Gwen hesitated, giving Fargo a suspicion of what was to come. “I take it you’re not looking to settle down any time soon?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess you wouldn’t want—”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Gwen slid off him and rested her head in her arms. “I hate you again.”

  “Good.” Chuckling, Fargo rolled onto his side and was soon dreaming of Denver and clean sheets and the best whiskey to be had. A poke in the ribs woke him up. Gwen had turned in her sleep so her back was against him, and she mumbled something about needing to milk the cows. Fargo drifted off once more.

  Shortly before dawn a splash in the stream snapped Fargo awake. His hand closed on the Henry, but it was only a deer, a doe, come for her morning drink. Shaking himself to get his blood flowing, Fargo rose. To heat the leftover rabbit, he ignited kindling and added fuel.

  Along about the time the meat was ready, Gwen rose on an elbow and dreamily watched him. “Morning.”

  “We head out in ten minutes.”

  “Fine.” Like a contented cat, Gwen lazily arched her spine and sat up. “I still feel as if I’m floating on a cloud. Never knew a man could have this effect on me.”

  “I thought you were back to hating me?”

  Gwen ruffled her hair and smacked her lips. “I’ll hate you later. Right now I’m in too good a mood.”

  Truth to tell, so was Fargo. But that changed once they were in the saddle and trotting to the southeast. He had to shut the pleasure they had shared from his mind. The Apaches were still abroad and they must occupy him now. They, and they alone.

  Over an hour passed. The grass shimmered in the morning sun. Sparrows flitted on the breeze. A herd of antelope sped away at dazzling speed.

  Fargo planned to reach the road somewhere near the stand of oaks, but his sense of direction was so exact that he came out of the grass directly across from it. No sounds issued from within the stand, nor were any living creatures to be seen. No birds, no squirrels, nothing.

  “It’s so quiet,” Gwen said. “You don’t suppose something awful happened?”

  “We’ll find out.” Fargo crossed the road and passed between two trunks. Suddenly a pistol cracked, the slug thumping into the bole on the left. Fargo reined to the right, where the oaks were thicker, and produced the Colt. But a female voice, raised in anger, froze his finger on the trigger.

  “Tucker, you damned idiot! Didn’t you see who that is?” Melissa Starr was fit to be tied. “Skye? Did he hit you? It’s safe to come out in the open.”

  The redhead and the drummer were at the edge of the clearing. Melissa was radiant, as always. Virgil Tucker sheepishly held a smoking revolver.

  Beyond them, propped against a log, was Buck Dawson, chewing on a wad of tobacco. “Fargo! Miss Pearson!” the driver hailed them. “Don’t pay that yack Tucker any mind! He’s so scared, it’s a wonder he ain’t shot his own foot off.”

  Gwen hopped down, saying, “It’s so good to see all of you alive.” She embraced each of them, even the drummer. “We have so much to tell you! Don’t we, Skye?” Gwen glanced up at him. “Aren’t you stepping down?”

  “No,” Fargo responded. He had a lot to do and little time in which to do it. “You’re to stay here until I get back.” Fargo noticed that the color had returned to Buck Dawson’s cheeks, that Melissa had ripped more strips from her dress and changed the bandages on Buck’s wound, and that Virgil Tucker was even more of a mess than when Fargo saw him last. Tucker’s clothes were filthy, his jacket torn, his shoes so scuffed it would take a month of polishing to restore them. Fargo also noticed that something was missing, something important. “Where are the horses?”

  Melissa and Dawson looked at Tucker. “Well?” the redhead said.

  The drummer gestured. “I’m sorry, Fargo. I lost them.”

  Fargo cou
ldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How in the hell can you lose an entire team?”

  “It’s not my fault. I was on my way back, just like you told me. I had to heed Nature’s call, so I stopped and went into some bushes. When I came out they were running off. I tried to catch them. Honestly I did. But they wouldn’t stop.”

  Fargo gripped the saddle horn to keep from climbing down and gripping Tucker by the throat. “Did you tie them to anything? A tree? A bush?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hobble some, at least?”

  “It never occurred to me.”

  “You just got down and walked away and left them standing there?” Fargo had heard of some stupid stunts in his time, but this! And drummers were supposed to be so shrewd! They had to be, in order to manipulate others into buying their wares.

  Virgil Tucker glumly nodded. “I just wasn’t thinking, I guess.”

  “Of all the—” Fargo stopped before he vented his spleen. Without the horses it would be doubly hard to elude the Apaches. Instead of half a day’s ride, it would take close to two days to reach the San Simon, Buck Dawson’s leg hurt like it was. “Where did you lose them?”

  “Where?”

  “Are you hard of hearing? Exactly where did they run off? Once I’ve found Burt Raidler, I’ll track them down.”

  “I don’t recall, exactly,” Tucker said. “Somewhere between where I saw you last and here.”

  “That’s a big help.” Fargo thought of another way to pinpoint where he should start tracking “How long after we parted company did it happen? Fifteen minutes? An hour? What?”

  Tucker scratched the stubble dotting his double chin. “Again, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention. I really can’t say.”

  A strong urge to punch the drummer came over Fargo, but he resisted. It struck him as peculiar that Tucker couldn’t remember a single thing. Any man able to memorize profit margins on dozens of products had to have a better-than-average memory.

  Melissa was as peeved as Fargo. “You never said anything about losing the team when you straggled in here, Virgil. When were you fixing to tell us? Next Fourth of July?”