Must Love Cowboys

by Cheryl Brooks

  Wyatt rolled me onto my back and unbuttoned my top, exposing my breasts. His touch seemed purely therapeutic at first, but quickly slipped into a more erotic mode as his fingers brushed my nipples. My clitoris responded with a surge that made me tremble.

  A nudge was all it took to spread my thighs apart, exposing my sex to his touch. A waft of air and the dip of the mattress was all the warning I had. He had to know that actual intercourse wasn’t going to happen that night. Nevertheless, he eased up between my legs.

  At that moment, I wouldn’t have cared if he’d gone ahead and taken the plunge. However, it wasn’t until his hot, wet cock met my engorged clitoris that I understood his intention. Kneeling between my outstretched thighs, he stroked my own tight bud with his erection. His lips and tongue had felt fabulous enough, but his firm cockhead pressed against my clit raised the pleasure to new heights. Although he was barely visible in the dim light, what I could see—broad, muscular chest and shoulders, along with his thatch of thick, unruly hair—enhanced the effect.

  He moved the hot, slick head back and forth, up and down, and around in circles until I thought I would go mad with the desperate need to feel his cock on every part of my body in every possible manner. On my face, between my breasts, and another place I never would have dreamed I would consider. I drifted on, delighting in those sensations while anticipating others. I had a bottle of lubricant. Surely that was all that was needed.

  What was it he’d said? That I could ask him to do anything…tell him to do anything?

  Yeah, right. I could really hear myself telling Wyatt to fuck my ass.

  Still, what he’d already done without being asked was nothing short of breathtaking. Should I let him continue or stop him now?

  A sigh escaped my lips.

  “Feel good?”

  “Incredibly.”

  “But?”

  How had he done that? Was there hesitation in my reply? An unspoken request? I had no idea, but he’d given me the opening I needed.

  “Umm…I was thinking of something else you could do.”

  “Such as?”

  Was he really going to make me say it? Probably. I doubted it was the sort of thing a gentleman would even suggest. Although I may have been wrong about that.

  “I was thinking of an…alternative—” Alternative what? Approach? Method? “One that might be better for you.”

  “Anal?”

  Once again, he proved just how adept he was at reading me.

  I nodded. “I’m willing to try it if you are.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.”

  “Sweet of you to say that.” I racked my brain, trying to recall anything I’d ever read on the subject. The one detail aside from sufficient lubrication that stood out in my mind was not to be in too big a hurry. “I think you’d have to take it really slow.”

  “I can do that. With or without a condom?”

  The mere thought of his naked cock inside me set off a quiver of anticipation. “Without,” I replied. “But with plenty of lube.”

  His next question was bound to be about the position. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be seen facedown with my butt sticking up in the air, but while Wyatt had never struck me as the dominant type, he was a bit on the alpha side. Chances were good that he would absolutely love it.

  I retrieved the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand and handed it to him. After that, I removed my pajama top and rolled over onto my stomach, adopting a position far more vulnerable than any I’d ever dreamed I would assume voluntarily.

  His softly uttered, “Wow” and the touch of his hand on my bottom was proof of his enjoyment. Even so, he didn’t rush. The next thing I felt was his breath on my skin, then his lips, followed by his tongue. He stroked my clit with a calloused fingertip, scraping my emotions raw, making me long to be fucked so badly I could hardly stand it.

  Positioned as I was, my nipples brushed the sheets, tingling as they hardened while my pussy clamored for his attention. The snap of the cap on the lube and the swift outflow of air as he squeezed the bottle drove me wilder still. Cool moisture on my anus followed—soothing and oddly arousing—as he probed the opening with a slick fingertip. While I hummed with pleasure, he added more lube and another fingertip. My clit became even more engorged, teetering on the brink of pain.

  His fingers were soon replaced by the blunt head of his penis. Slowly, with painstaking slowness, he worked his way inside. He felt absolutely fabulous right where he was, but I did my best to relax and let him in. Eventually, I felt something give and he slid in with no discomfort and very little effort. The outstroke was even better, although my ecstatic sob must have sounded like a cry of anguish because Wyatt came to an abrupt halt.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh, God, yes,” I said, practically panting out the words. “Don’t stop.”

  Apparently he didn’t believe me because he dribbled more lube on his cock before resuming the steady thrusts that soon had me delirious with delight. Grasping my hips, he shifted me side to side in a movement so slight, if it hadn’t been for the exponential increase in bliss, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

  Wyatt’s groan reverberated throughout my body as he plunged in deeper than ever. When I tried to envision how he would look at that moment, the mental image of his balls bouncing off my pussy triggered a backward shove that had me seeing stars.

  The effect on him was immediate. I didn’t need to hear his ragged exhale to know he’d reached his climax. I could feel it.

  His hand slipped unerringly from my hip around to my clitoris, and that one brief touch sent me screaming into overdrive. I bit back a cry as my knees slid out from under me, landing me flat on the bed and initiating an abrupt withdrawal that set off shock waves of indescribable ecstasy.

  Until that moment, I’d never truly believed what romance novels had to say on the subject of anal sex.

  I knew better now.

  Chapter 27

  I checked Calvin’s inbox first thing in the morning—that is, after doing my best to kiss Wyatt’s lips off—and again after breakfast and found nothing. The spammers hadn’t even found him yet.

  It wasn’t until after lunch that I discovered an email from Jamison and Markovitch. I probably should have waited to let Calvin open it, but curiosity got the better of me—not that the message contained anything I hadn’t expected to see.

  Calvin was indeed Jeannine’s heir, with one very interesting detail: the secondary beneficiary wasn’t her grandson Tom, who wasn’t even mentioned, nor was it anyone named Duane. It was the Mother’s Haven Foundation, which had been Jeannine’s favorite charity—one that it appeared she had already endowed with a small fortune.

  I was somewhat surprised they would’ve put even that much information in an email, although they did attach a form for Calvin to fill out, which included a request for several documents to establish his identity—his military service record, driver’s license, and birth certificate. After those documents had been received and approved, they would send him a copy of the will along with some additional information.

  I was dying to hear Wyatt’s take on it, but the men wouldn’t be back for hours. Calvin, however, was there, and so was Jack.

  Their impressions were polar opposites.

  “Looks like you’re gonna be a rich man, Calvin,” Jack said, slapping him on the back. “Might have to find us a new cowboy.”

  Calvin, on the other hand, seemed less optimistic. “Might not turn out to be anything much.”

  “I dunno,” I said. “There could have been a prenuptial agreement that returned the majority of her assets to her husband’s estate when she died, but I can’t see naming a charity as a beneficiary if there wasn’t a good-sized chunk of change involved.”

  That being said, the fact that the secondary beneficiary was a char
ity effectively eliminated any motive for murder. Somehow, I couldn’t see hordes of unwed mothers banding together to do away with Calvin in order to keep their shelter from closing.

  No case now, Nancy Drew…

  I hated to admit it, but I couldn’t help feeling a teensy bit let down—and not because I wanted Calvin’s heart attack to have been an attempted murder. I had simply viewed the matter from that perspective long enough to believe it.

  Now we would have to abandon our sleuthing sideline in favor of ordinary ranch life—unless we could figure out who was cutting the fences. Unfortunately, catching the perpetrator red-handed would be more a matter of luck than detective work. Even finding blood on the fence wouldn’t help unless we had a suspect for comparison.

  So much for that.

  “I’ll print this form and you can fill it out and sign it. We can make copies of your other documents.”

  Calvin nodded. “Got all of that stuff in my desk.”

  I glanced at Jack. “I’m assuming you have a printer up at the house?”

  “Yep,” Jack replied. “Angela can show you where it is.”

  “If we can scan the documents and send everything as email attachments, they’ll get them a lot faster.”

  “And we’ll know something sooner,” Jack said with a nod. “You know, sometimes these newfangled contraptions are pretty useful.”

  While Calvin went off to retrieve the necessary papers, I took the opportunity to get Jack’s take on the matter, but I regretted asking the question almost immediately. Being somewhat deaf himself, Jack had a tendency to speak rather loudly.

  “Be a good thing if Calvin were to inherit a bundle. He’s worked damn hard all his life. He deserves an easy retirement.”

  “You don’t think it’ll cause him any trouble?”

  “Nah. Not if he’s careful.”

  I considered asking him to define “careful,” but decided against it. For one thing, Calvin returned much too quickly.

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll head up to the house and get these sent off. Think you two can hold the fort while I’m gone?”

  “Absolutely,” Calvin replied. “Although we might do it lying down.”

  “A nap sounds damn good,” Jack agreed. “I believe I’ll try out my new bed.”

  Despite the debunking of our attempted murder myth, I was tempted to say no—to tell them that at least one of them needed to stay awake while I was gone—but I wouldn’t be going far, and I fully intended to lock the doors before I left.

  “Right,” I said. “Be back soon.”

  I gathered up the documents and headed up the hill to the main house with Ophelia at my heels. Although the weather was still relatively cool, daffodils were beginning to poke through the mulch in flower beds on either side of the steps leading up to the wide veranda, and a few crocuses were actually blooming. Built of logs that had been buffed and varnished to a high sheen, the house seemed fairly typical for the region except for the front door, which was comprised mostly of stained glass. A bit leery of tapping on the glass, I rang the bell.

  Moments later, Angela opened the door. “Hey, Tina. What’s up?”

  “We heard back from Jeannine’s lawyers. Looks like Calvin is in line to inherit something, and if he doesn’t claim it, a charity for single mothers is the beneficiary.”

  “So our little powwow was for naught?” Clearly, she didn’t consider a charity as a threat, either.

  “Seems that way. Guess we let our imaginations run away with us.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that.” She glanced at the documents. “Need to copy those?”

  I nodded. “Jack said you had a printer.”

  “Sure thing.” She led the way to an office that had windows made entirely of stained glass. Apparently, she caught me staring. “The stained glass is a hobby of mine. Keeps me sane.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Love the hardwood floors and the oak desk too. Very western.” Despite the rustic decor, I was pleased to see she had a relatively new printer complete with a flatbed scanner. I printed out the form and scanned the other documents onto a thumb drive. “I’ll have to come back and scan this one after Calvin fills it out and signs it.”

  “No problem. I’ll be here.” She hesitated for a second or two. “How are Dad and Calvin getting along?”

  “Pretty well, I think. They’ve been playing checkers and watching CNN. They were fixing to take a nap when I left.”

  She nodded. “Dad usually naps in the afternoon. What with all the excitement, he probably won’t wake up until dinnertime.”

  I hoped Calvin didn’t sleep that long. Knowing how slow the legal process could be, I was dying to get that form signed and sent off—anything to get the ball rolling.

  Nevertheless, I accepted her offer of a brief tour of the house, after which I collected Ophelia and headed back to the bunkhouse.

  I was about halfway down the hill when I spotted a car parked in the stable yard and a tall, dark-haired man wearing a suit and tie standing on the kitchen porch. That in itself wasn’t terribly disturbing. It was his energetic attempt to open the door that had me bugged.

  “Where the devil is Wyatt Earp when I need him?” I had half a mind to go back and get Angela, but I did have a dog who had proven her worth as a protector on more than one occasion. I glanced at Ophelia. “Or for that matter, why didn’t you warn me?”

  My trusty canine companion’s response was a noncommittal pant. Therefore, I opted to do the safest thing, which was to keep my distance, stopping when I reached the gravel at the foot of the slope. “Can I help you?”

  To his credit, the man’s reaction was more along the lines of being genuinely startled than being caught trying to break into the bunkhouse. Whichever the case, he recovered his composure with apparent ease. “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for Calvin Douglas. Does he live here?”

  “That depends on who you are.”

  His subsequent smile was disarming enough—even a bit embarrassed. “Sorry. I knocked, but no one answered. I thought the door might be open.”

  Figured it was stuck, did you? Fortunately, I managed to keep from saying that aloud.

  “We’ve been having some trouble lately, so we’re keeping them locked.”

  “I see.”

  I couldn’t help wondering just how much he did see—especially since the one time I’d left Jack and Calvin alone in the bunkhouse without Ophelia for protection, someone had come calling. His presence was either one heck of a coincidence or near-perfect timing. Unless I missed my guess, this was the infamous Duane, but after all the suspicions his visit to the hospital had aroused, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Nor did I come any closer.

  Folding my arms, I stood my ground. Waiting.

  “Oh, right,” he said after a long pause. “My name is Duane Evans. I’m—or was—a friend of Mr. Douglas’s sister, Jeannine Caruthers.”

  Figuring it would be best to let him do the talking, I opted to play dumb. “Was?”

  “She died this past January.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said. “Would’ve been nice if someone told Calvin about it.” That much was true, anyway.

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here. Jeannine asked me to try to find him.”

  “Her dying wish?”

  “Something like that.” He stepped down from the porch and approached me. He hadn’t gone far when Ophelia growled a warning.

  Duane raised his hands, palms forward, and backed off slightly. “Your dog won’t attack, will it?”

  “That depends on you,” I replied. “Might be best if you don’t come any closer.” Especially considering the nature of the papers I held in my hand. I hesitated, choosing my words with care. “So how did you know Jeannine?”

  “I’m on the board of one of her favorite charities—a suppor
t service for single mothers. I have an interest in that sort of thing.” His slightly embarrassed, even apologetic smile struck me as reasonably genuine. “You see, my parents never married and my mother had to raise me on her own. Anyway, I promised Jeannine I would try to find her brother. She said there’d been some bad blood between them and that they hadn’t seen each other for nearly thirty years.”

  Although at least part of what he said was true, I still didn’t trust him. After all, we had yet to figure out how he could have known Calvin was in the hospital. “How come she waited until she was dying to try to find him? Why not before that, when they might’ve had the chance to reconcile, maybe even visit each other?”

  “Oh, you know how it is…” His smile seemed less genuine this time—the sort of condescending smirk that made me want to smack him. “Family ties seem more important when you’re nearing the end.”

  “I suppose they do. How did she die?”

  “Heart attack,” Duane replied. “She’d had angina for years—had bypass surgery twice—but she hadn’t been doing well for several months before that last episode.”

  Calvin’s health history was similar, minus the bypass surgeries, and anyone who knew Jeannine’s history could have made the same assumptions about her brother, especially after going through Calvin’s meds and seeing what he’d been taking—or rather, was supposed to be taking. Perhaps it truly was as simple as dumping out his nitro tablets.

  Or not.

  Calvin had claimed he didn’t remember much about what happened that evening, which put me in mind of what that nurse had said about Calvin acting like someone who had overdosed.

  But what on earth could he have taken? If a drug screen had been done when he was first admitted, something might’ve shown up, but I seriously doubted there would be any lingering traces now. I didn’t know how long hospital laboratories normally kept specimens, but surely they wouldn’t have kept them this long unless there was evidence of foul play.

  “So tell me, why keep looking for him even after she’s dead? Just to let him know she was sorry for the ‘bad blood’ between them?”