Shuck wasn’t often wrong, not since she’d known him at least. That had been one stormy night in one of the Butterfield stage line relay stations a couple of hundred miles southwest of Fort Smith in Texas. The trail washed out, a sea of mud, the passengers had been glad of a chance to rest, passing the long hours of the night in consultation with Lady Luck, sifting a deck of pasteboards. Only Lady Luck wasn’t having much to do with it when Anne Marie took the time to study. Already sizing up Shuck Alison as a four-flusher, she easily spied his bottom deals and false cuts, but the mark, on whom she had already set her own sights, was either blind or just plain stupid. It hadn’t been long before Alison’s smirk enlightened her. He actually wanted the Mark to accuse him of cheating so he would have a legitimate excuse to kill him, then relieve him of the money belt that made such an inviting bulge under his waistcoat.
Alison’s intent paid off and the duped card player had forced a showdown, then Anne Marie had seen the devastating results of the gun skill Alison had carefully nurtured. Even before the man was cold he had stripped him of his wealth and stolen a horse to vanish into the rainy night.
She had run into him again a few towns further along and made sure this time he noticed her voluptuous curves she so amply displayed. Eventually, mutual greed had formed a bond between them. He had never once said he loved her, even in those vulnerable moments in bed, but then she never expected that of any man, let alone him. But they had come to an arrangement. When there were no easy marks for him to hit they fell back on her ability to earn a living in that most ancient of professions, and whenever she was entertaining a client, he was always near in case trouble occurred. She had seen the face of a girl down Tucson who’d had a broken bottle stuck in her face by a customer who had accused her of lifting his bankroll while he slept. Even after the doctor had done his best to patch her up, she had still been the most hideous woman Anne Marie had ever seen. It had been the end of her career. The memory of that disfigured face still made Anne Marie shudder. With Shuck around, that would never happen to her. Besides, if they hit it lucky with this prospector and they rolled him good, they’d have a big stake and she would never have to endure the foul breath or sweaty body of another man who paid for the brief use of her body.
She was still young, twenty-eight, and what was more she still looked young, not like some of the women, aged prematurely by sun and wind and the demanding life of the frontier. She would take any steps within her means to prevent herself becoming frumpish like all the others who had succumbed to the rigours of her profession and settled into complacency.
God, with a bankroll that ran into thousands, Shuck could take her to San Francisco and she could be a real lady, dressed in the finest clothes money could buy. Nobody would know what she had done in the past. She would be able to entertain other ladies of stature, tea from a silver teapot, the finest imported china, cups like thimbles. The house would have fine carpets and fine velvet drapes. She had spent so long dreaming about it she could see it all in the minutest detail.
The images flashed through her mind as she approached Morgan Clay, still standing to one side of the doorway as he scanned the room. She noted with pleasure he was dressed decently in a jacket and clean trousers, unlike the usual grime encrusted prospectors who did not know what a bathtub looked like, never mind what it was used for. He was freshly shaved too, befitting a man with a bankroll as thick as she had been led to believe.
“Hello there. New in town?” Anne Marie said as she came within touching distance. Morgan took in the black hair carefully piled on top of her head, thick coils hanging from the arrangement to brush her bare shoulders. She had a pretty face, the prettiest one he had seen in both his visits to Redrock, with a pert nose above a generous mouth. The eyes too, were interesting, sombre brown but with a sparkle that seemed to size him up at a glance. He was embarrassed. He dropped his eyes from her penetrating gaze, but found himself examining the revealing neckline of her dress. Color flushed his cheeks and he lifted his gaze back up to her faintly amused eyes. He couldn’t fathom what a girl like her was doing working in a saloon. Not unless she was the owner, but a glance at the bar told him the owner he knew from before was tending the customers.
“Well, are you?” she asked, her lips barely moving.
“What?” he replied, gruff voiced.
“New in town. I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Yes. Passed through a couple of months back.”
“But I wasn’t here then.”
“No,” he agreed, smiling a little now. Something in her voice had dismissed her immediate impact on him and he felt easier. “Would you like to have a drink with me, er…”
“Anne Marie,” she filled in brightly, linking her arm through his and steering him to an empty table. As they sat down she waved an arm to the bartender. “A bottle and two glasses over here!”
“Make it Irish,” he added. “None of that rattlesnake pi…” He faltered. She watched his expression with interest then laughed gaily.
“I’ve heard the word before,” she said, her long eyelashes beckoning.
“Strange,” he said, more to the tabletop than to her face as the whiskey arrived. “You seem, well, not…I mean you…you don’t appear…”
“…To be the usual kind of girl to work in a saloon?” she filled in again. It was getting to be a habit. “I haven’t always worked the saloons,” she lied. “I came west with my family but the wagon train was attacked by the Cheyennes. Nearly everybody was killed, but I escaped with a few others and I tried to go west in search of my uncle.” The lies came easily, told so often she almost believed them herself. “When my money ran out,” she lowered her head in shame that she should have to tell it, “I had no choice. A job as a saloon girl was the only work I could find.” She glanced up, a practised pleading in her sombre eyes. “A girl has to eat, Mister…”
“Clay. Morgan Clay.”
“So you see, Morgan, I have to work. When I’ve saved enough I’ll buy a ticket on the stage to California. That’s where my uncle is.”
Morgan sipped thoughtfully at his whiskey. “Surely you don’t earn much as a saloon girl. Those stagecoach tickets cost a lot. Only the girls who work out back would be able to afford that”
Anne Marie dropped her eyes again in shame. “I don’t work out back…but sometimes if I like a man enough and he’s been kind to me, then I just might let him take me home…”
There it was, he thought. Like all the rest, she was for sale too. A subtler approach, but it was all the same. He gazed across the table at her well kept hair and her smooth complexion. She seemed a genuine woman. From where he sat he had a good view of her ample bosom so well displayed by her dress. He wondered if she smelt nice too.
Anne Marie raised her eyes and saw his pensive expression. He was in the bag. She almost laughed out loud. Some of these men were on the trail so long they became woman shy. Especially with her. They thought if you didn’t look available then you weren’t tempted by dollars. Well, she supposed the woman-shy ones were better than the ones who couldn’t wait to paw, in such a hurry they treated you like dirt, climbing on and grunting like pigs for a few seconds, then rolling off to reach for the nearest bottle. At least the woman-shy ones left you feeling human.
Shy and quiet as he was, he would be easy meat. She would let him down plenty of the potent Irish whiskey. He would be thirsty and unused to it after all the time on the trail, then she’d take him back to his room so they could find out where he slept, and with a bit of luck he would collapse before he could get her on the bed. Shuck would follow and be on hand to help her roll him when he passed out. Once they had the security of that lovely fat bankroll they could hightail it out of this crummy dust hole of a town.
It was easy to smile sincerely when your mind could only think of those piles and piles of green folding dollars that could buy heaven.
“Whiskey okay?”
“Sure,” he answered, sipping at the amber liquid. H
e toyed a little with the glass then stood it back on the tabletop. She leaned over and made sure the glass was filled and that hers too appeared full, as though she was matching him glass for glass. The bottle was almost empty now and his eyes were beginning to sparkle.
She could read what was in them easily.It was the way they continually returned to the promise of her low neckline. He was almost primed, ready for the hook.
“You okay, honey?” she asked, feigning concern.
“Uh?” he replied, frowning as he tried to focus.
“Would you like me to help you back to your room? If you lay down for a while you’ll feel better.”
“Yeah, sure,” Morgan slurred, a little more than necessary.
“Right,” she said, rising to place a supporting arm around him. They stood and paced slowly to the batwing doors.
Morgan wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t like it. If she thought a little Irish whiskey would lay him out like a fresh growed boy then she was ignorant of men like him. He would have found it humorous if he had not detected more serious undertones. He must have drunk more whiskey in his life than water, and mostly hadn’t worried whether the bottles carried labels or not. He was a little light-headed, sure, but that was only all that clean living up in the mountains. Hard work and regular grub had flushed out his system.
Whatever she was up to, Morgan decided he would play along and see what turned up. Then he saw it. It was the way she glanced furtively at the man playing cards, coupled with the way he returned her look. The gambler was familiar. The eyes and that thin face. He was the one that had been in the bank and on the boardwalk outside the restaurant. So, they had him down as a rich man, Well, they were right, but then… He laughed and the woman looked strangely at him so he changed his laugh into a drunken slur. They’d sure picked a bad one with him, but how were they to know he’d deposited nearly all the money in the bank? Okay, so she wanted him drunk. And then what? Take him back to his room while her sharp eyed gambler busts in behind them and coldcocks him? That was the way it looked.
Might as well play along, he decided, as Anne Marie helped him along the street. Besides, he was enjoying himself. As they walked, with her bent over to support him she provided him with an excellent view of her bosom. If he played his cards right he would be able to keep her partner out and enjoy her as well.
The way he figured it, it was simple. Shortly after they entered his room she produced another bottle of whiskey. He obliged, slurping a few mouthfuls and staggering to and fro as she sat on the bed by the lamp, watching him carefully. Now she was sure he was easy meat, her guard had dropped and she wore a smile of cool amusement. She eyed him steadily, gaze following him around the room, using his movements as a cover to glance over the furnishings, looking for a place that could hide a few thousand dollars. If there was as much as Shuck reckoned, there should be a nice fat roll, stashed in some corner, not too obvious. With a start, she realized he was watching her.
“You going to stay? I know you could use the extra.” He put the line in, using her own lie against her.
“I thought that was the idea,” she replied, looking up at his rugged frame as he stood over her, swaying slightly.
“Good. I’d like that. Stand up here.”
She rose demurely, still playing the part of the destitute innocent girl, only doing this because she needed the money to go west. Eyes downcast, she stood stock still before him, feeling the wind of his breath grow ragged from her nearness. Her hands fluttered nervously.
You wily bitch, he thought, hanging it out, playing your part until your partner busts my head with a Colt. Well, we’ll see about that.
“You’ll have to help me with my dress,” she said, glancing up at his motionless face before she turned to present her back. He loosened the row of buttons and the dress slipped from her smooth shoulders. Deftly, she stepped from the cascade of material before it crumpled on the bare boards at her feet. Dressed only in her corset, bloomers and shoes, she crossed to the hanging space and hung the satin dress carefully.
“My stays,” she said simply when she came back to the bed. Morgan sat down to tug off his boots then stood up again, now only in his stocking feet. Looking down at the back of her elaborate hair, he smiled as he pulled her stays loose. As her corset fell forward he slipped his hands beneath her armpits and round to weigh the warmth of her full breasts in the palm of his hands. Soft, creamy, and very desirable.
“Let me turn up the lamp so’s I can see you real good,” he said, releasing his hold and stepping round her to the bedside table. Without staring directly into the lamplight he purposely turned the wick the wrong way and the lamp went out.
“Damn it,” he growled, “I turned it the wrong way. I wanted to look at you.” He stepped lightly round her, slurring as he grabbed the lone chair. “Got some matches over here. I’ll light it as soon as I find ’em.” As he lied, he jammed the chair under the door handle and turned the key in the lock for good measure.
“It doesn’t matter,” she purred, the bed creaking as she sat down.
“Okay. I’m coming back. Can’t see a doggone thing. If I trip over you, just holler out, honey.” Light and surefooted he reached the corner and grabbed the loaded shotgun. He headed back for the bed, his night vision showing the woman to be lying full length. He circled to the vacant side of the bed and slid the scattergun onto the floor, close at hand. If the sharp eyed gambler poked his head through the window when he found the door blocked, then he would get himself a load of buckshot in his weasly face.
“Hot damn, here I am,” he laughed, nudging the iron frame as though he had banged into it.
“Come here, lover man,” she crooned softly.
“Just get my pants off and I’ll be right with you.” The bed shook as he freed himself from his clinging clothes, then he stretched out full length beside her. She had probably not expected it to get this far, he reckoned, laying a hand on warm breast before he traced a line down the centre of her ribcage to the top of her bloomers. She still had them on, delaying tactics to the end. He sighed. Well, there’d be no cavalry tonight. Not unless the sharp eyed pistolero had the strength of a lumberjack and could break into the hotel room with his bare hands. He might shoot the lock out but there would still be the chair to contend with. Anyhow, blowing out the lock would wake up the whole hotel and that would be the last thing the gambler would want.
The aroma of her raven hair sweet in his nostrils. He savoured the gentle scent of her, smiling to think she was merely a taster for all the good living yet to come.
***
Anne Marie was listening to the night.
Shuck should bust in any moment now. Then it would all be over. The prospector would be able to do nothing. She had seen his shotgun propped in the corner and there didn’t appear to be any other guns in the room. He would be easy meat for Shuck. One good swift blow would lay him out for a long while. They’d be able to go through his gear to find the money, then goodbye Redrock. Where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he come? the prospector was closing in, his need growing as he caressed her.
She found it surprising his hands should be so gentle when they were so work worn and callused. The more she came to know of him, the less she seemed to know. He was not at all like the others. Even Shuck was hard and impatient when he was ready to take her, his grip sometimes so fierce she nearly cried out in pain, but she always held her silence. Afterwards, she worried because she had enjoyed it like that, with the pain, like animals, but this man, Morgan, he was so gentle, so patient…
…When it was over, she snuggled closer to Morgan as he slept, strength drained. Shuck hadn’t turned up. All that she’d heard, or thought she’d heard, was the door handle turning, but she wasn’t even sure of that, the amount of noise the bed had been making.
But by then she hadn’t wanted Shuck to come in anyway. It had been a totally new experience for her. No man had ever made her feel like that, not even Shuck who she thought she love
d. No, never like that. After the urgency of every man she had been with, Morgan had taken his time. She had fought it at first, but it had become so enveloping that she had allowed herself to give way and it had ruled her very being. The feeling had climbed and climbed as Morgan worked at her, coaxing it to expand until her world exploded, spasms wracking her body, jerking her like a puppet, back and forth over the thin threshold between agony and ecstasy. It was so great, so tumultuous that she could have sworn the earth moved. As she rode the crest of delight, Morgan had exploded too, moans escaping his lips as his body tensed, grinding hard against her.
It had been exhausting, but she had not slept, watching the moonlight across Morgan’s form, still beside her. It was a good feeling, all warm inside.
As she lay, the tempo of his breathing altered and he turned over on his back, moaning softly in his sleep. She could see his lips clearly in the moonlight, moving soundlessly. His eyelids fluttered and he found his voice. It split the night, loud and clear, making her jump away from his trembling body. The intensity and hatred in his voice both shocked and frightened her. His hands began scrabbling uselessly under the bedclothes and his shoulders heaved as he shouted.
“Come to Double Mountains Kiowa, and I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, I swear! Damn shotgun! Don’t jam up on me!” As the words ended his eyes opened frantically and he lay shivering, a cold sheen of sweat coating his forehead. Anne Marie pretended to wake and placed a small hand on his shaking shoulder.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just a dream.”
“Bad one?”
“Bad as you can get.”
“Has it gone now?”
He moved under the covers. “Yes.”
“Have you had it before?”
“Once. I killed an Indian up in the mountains. Don’t know why it should bother me, I’ve killed plenty of them afore, but this one keeps coming back. When I shoot him he won’t die, and then the gun jams.”
Double Mountain Crossing Page 6
