“Oh, yeah, baby!” she cried. He started to fuck her hard, thinking about the lady in the hall.
“Wow,” Annie said, “somebody sure got you all worked up.”
He slid his hands beneath her and cupped her slender ass. She wrapped her long, slim legs around his waist. He hammered her that way, and she moved with him until she felt him grow taut, and then he cried out, exploding inside her.
“Ooooh, yeaaaah,” he bellowed, and continued to stab at her until she had milked him dry.
* * *
She watched him as he got dressed. He was a big man who looked like he had been built out of stone. Carved, she thought, carved out of stone.
“So when the lady calls, you run?” she asked.
“She’s got the money,” he said.
“What about her husband?”
“What about him?” He strapped on his gun.
“Do you take his money, too?”
“I take anybody’s money,” he said. “I’m like you, Annie.”
“Like me?” She frowned. “How are you like me?”
He smiled and said, “I’m a whore, too.”
He started for the door.
“And the lady?” she asked. “Is she a whore, too?”
“Aren’t all women?”
“Have you been with her?”
“No,” he said.
“I had the feeling she wanted to join us.”
“I don’t mix business with pleasure,” he told her.
“Then you’re not like me,” she said, “because I do.”
TWENTY
Angela Locksley was waiting in a private room on the first floor. The madam, Lotta, worked for her and kept that room for her.
“In there,” Lotta said as Tolbert came down.
Tolbert nodded, went to the door, and entered without knocking.
Angela turned to look at him, a glass of wine in her hand.
“A drink?” she asked.
“Not that stuff.”
“I have whiskey.”
“Sure.”
She turned back to the sideboard, poured him a glass of whiskey, and took it across the room to him.
“Thank you.”
“Do you know who Clint Adams is?” she asked.
“The Gunsmith,” Tolbert said. “What about him?”
“What do you know about him?” She walked across the room. It was well furnished with a plush sofa, two matching armchairs, and several tables.
“He’s a legend,” Tolbert said. “Like Hickok.”
“Hickok is dead,” she said.
“The Gunsmith can die, too.”
She turned to look at him.
“Can you do it?” she asked. “Can you kill the Gunsmith?”
“I can.”
“In a fair fight?”
“Do you want it to be a fair fight?”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I just want him dead.”
“Well then,” Tolbert said, “I guess I’ll assume he’s in town?”
“He is,” she said. “He brought that girl back with him.”
“Mary Connelly?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty girl.”
Her eyes flashed as she threw her glass at him. He didn’t duck, because she was way off target. At worst, a little wine got on him.
He thought about what Annie had said about Angela Locksley, and about her running her finger along his cock. And what she did with that finger after.
He put down his glass and walked to her.
“If you want him dead, it’s gonna cost you.”
“I’ll pay,” she said. “I always pay.”
“Yeah, with money,” he said. “But I want you to pay with something else, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think you know,” he said. He grabbed her hand, the finger she had touched him with, and lifted it to her lips.
“Oh,” she said, her tongue flicking out to touch her own finger.
He released her hand and she touched his chest. With the same finger, she traced a line down over his chest and belly to his belt. She undid his gun belt, dropped it on the nearest chair. Next she loosened the belt of his trousers, unbuttoned them, and drew them down to his ankles, dropping to her knees to do it. When she tugged his shorts down, his semihard cock sprang out at her.
“You’re a big man,” she said. “And not too tired?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all.”
She took his cock in her hand and stroked it until it was fully hard. She ran her nose up and down the length of him, breathing in his scent, then ran her tongue along the same area. Finally, she took him into her mouth and began to suck.
Maybe Annie was right, he thought. Maybe she would join them next time . . .
TWENTY-ONE
Clint entered the doctor’s office with the tray.
“I could get used to this,” Doc Mathis said. “Having my meals brought to me by the famous Gunsmith.”
“I’ll take Mary’s in to her,” Clint said. “How is she?”
“A lot better. Food will help.”
Clint poured a cup of coffee, put it on the tray, and carried it into the other room.
“There you are,” she said from the bed. “I’m starving.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I was . . . occupied.”
He carried the tray to the bed and set it on her lap. He removed the napkin with a flourish, revealing a steaming bowl of beef stew.
“It smells great,” she said. “This from the café?”
“Yes.”
“Good food there,” she said. “That’s all I was gonna miss when I left here.”
She tucked into the stew and Clint went back to the other room, where Doc was doing the same.
“Whiskey?” Doc asked.
Clint held up his hand. “I’ve had more whiskey in the past few days than I’ve had in a month. I prefer beer.”
“You find out anything interesting?”
“A bartender named Max recognized me,” Clint said.
“I know Max,” Doc said. “He’s a good man.”
“He wasn’t on the street when they rode Mary out?” Clint asked.
“No, he wasn’t,” Doc said, “but like me, there wasn’t much he could do about it.”
“What kind of guns have the Locksleys got on their payroll?”
“If you’re smart,” Doc said, “you’ll look at those two as very separate dangers. Either one of them can use money to send some guns your way. The more money, the better the guns.”
“That’s not always the case, Doc,” Clint said, “but I take your point.”
Clint sat.
“So what do we do now?” Doc asked.
“We keep that girl alive,” Clint said. “I think Mrs. Locksley is just crazy enough to have her killed.”
“Well,” Doc said, “they know where she is.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “and that’s a problem.”
“So we’ve got to move her.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “but where to? Are there any other people in town who might help?”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Doc said. “Everybody pretty much kowtows to the Locksleys.”
“There must be somebody we can put her with who’ll keep an eye on her until she can travel.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I had supper with Gina Hopewell tonight.”
“Nice girl,” he said. “Too bad she works for Locksley.”
“She doesn’t like him very much.”
“Nobody does.”
“What about her?” Clint asked. “What
if I asked her to take Mary in?”
“Why would she want that kind of trouble?” Doc asked.
“Then what about the waitress? Amy?”
“She’s a nice woman,” Doc said. “She doesn’t need that kind of trouble either.”
“I suppose not. What about a man? The sheriff?”
“No, not him,” Doc said.
“I didn’t think so. What about somebody we could hire?”
“Hire?” he asked. “We?”
“Me,” Clint said. “Anybody I could hire? I mean, if the Locksleys can hire somebody, so could I.”
“You want to hire some guns?”
“If I needed guns,” Clint said, “I wouldn’t have to hire any. I’ve got friends I could send for.”
“Then maybe you should do that,” Doc said. “Ask some of your friends to come and help.”
Clint rubbed the back of his neck.
“I got myself into this,” Clint said. “I don’t think I’ve got the right to ask my friends to put their lives on the line for Mary.”
“You’re doing it,” Doc said.
“So are you, Doc,” Clint said. “Why?”
Doc shrugged.
“I should’ve tried to help her before,” he said. “I guess I’ll try now. I’ll keep giving it some thought. Maybe I can come up with somebody who’ll take her in.”
“Gina and Amy,” Clint said, “they’re the nicest people I’ve met in town. So I think I’ll ask them if they can think of anybody.”
“Good idea,” Doc said. “Give Mary and me time to finish this stew, and you can go back to the café and talk to Amy.”
“I think I’ll do that,” Clint said. He settled back in his chair and watched the older man finish his supper.
TWENTY-TWO
Tolbert pulled his pants back up. Angela Locksley stepped back, ran her fingers around her mouth to make sure she was clean.
“Is that what you had in mind?” she asked.
“That,” he said, “and money.”
“You’ll get your money,” she said.
“Half before,” Wes Tolbert said, “and half after.”
“Okay.”
“Does your husband know about this?”
“No,” she said, “he doesn’t know anything. He’s useless.”
She turned to look at him, then closed on him and took hold of his arms.
“I need a man who can get things done, Wes,” she said. “Are you that man?”
He smiled at her.
“I just had you on your knees, didn’t I?” he asked.
She smiled and said, “You want me on my back?”
“You know it.”
“Then you’re my man,” she said, squeezing his arm.
* * *
Clint walked back to the café, which was empty by the time he got there. Amy was sitting at a back table, waiting to see if any customers would come late. Clint didn’t smell anything cooking.
“Brought back your things,” he said.
“Thank you.”
She took the plates, forks, knives, and tray from him, and set them aside.
“I don’t smell anything cooking.”
“The cook’s gone,” she said.
“What happens if somebody comes in and wants to eat?” he asked.
“Then I cook.”
“Expecting anybody?” he asked.
She walked to the front doors, locked them, turned the sign hanging there so that it said CLOSED on the outside, then pulled the shades down. Then she turned to look at him, her hands behind her back.
“I was expecting you.”
“Were you?”
She nodded, walked toward him. She took her hands from behind her back and put them against his chest.
“Are you going to see Gina tonight?” she asked.
“Probably not.”
“Good.” She leaned in and kissed him, She smelled of fried foods and something else. He grabbed her, kissed her back. “I don’t like to share.”
“Me neither,” he said.
Her body was solid inside her cheap dress. He took her apron off, lifting it over her head. She kept her hands up, so he followed with the dress. She was naked underneath. The smell of her sweat came from her armpits, not unpleasant. Her breasts were full, with heavy undersides and dark nipples. The tangle of hair between her thighs was darker than the blond hair on her head. He pulled away the ribbon that held it at the back of her neck, and her long hair fell free.
He put his arms around her, enjoying the solid feel of her against his body. Her skin was hot as he pulled her closer and kissed her again, mashing her breasts up against his chest.
She moaned into his mouth as his hands traveled down her back and cupped her buttocks. One of her hands slid between them, cupping his crotch. What she found there interested her.
She broke the kiss, pushed him back until the backs of his thighs banged against a table. He sat on it awkwardly, and she unbuttoned his pants and freed his hard penis. She stroked it with one hand, pulled on it, then went for his gun belt. He pushed her hands away and removed it himself, laid it within arm’s reach. He let her do the rest, until she was on her knees in front of him, and his trousers and shorts were pooled around his ankles. She took his cock in her mouth and lovingly sucked it. She rubbed his thighs and his calves while continuing to suckle him, making wet sounds as her mouth moved up and down on him.
Eventually he put his hands beneath her arms and lifted her to her feet. He turned, set her down on the table, spread her thighs, and pressed his penis against her. He rubbed it along her wet slit, and then entered her quickly, cleanly.
She gasped, clutched him to her with her arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist. As he pumped his cock into her, the table jumped beneath them, and neither of them saw the eyes that were peering at them from beneath the shade . . .
* * *
Harley Trace watched as Clint Adams fucked the waitress—what was her name? Amy, yeah, that was it. It looked to him like the table they were on wasn’t going to hold. He was waiting for it to fall apart beneath them.
He took his eyes from the window, looked around to be sure nobody was watching him. There were some women across the street, walking, so he had to move before they saw him.
He left the front of the café, crossed the street, found a doorway, and waited there . . .
* * *
“Oh, Jesus,” Amy said into his ear.
“What?”
She laughed.
“I think I got a splinter in my ass.”
“Want me to stop?”
“Oh, God, no,” she said, raking his back with her nails.
He slid his hands beneath her ass, between her and the wooden table, to keep her from getting another splinter, and continued to fuck her. Her breath came hard in his ears, sweet puffs of air. She was sweating, but it was different from the perspiration that had already dried on her. This felt different, smelled different . . . when he licked her shoulders, and the slopes of her breasts, bit her neck, it tasted different.
“I have a bed in the back,” she said.
“You own this place?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then take me there,” he said. He lifted her in his arms.
TWENTY-THREE
The bed was small, the mattress thin, but it offered more comfort than a restaurant table.
He made love to her once, then fucked her once. They were two different things, both glorious. Afterward, Clint and Amy lay together in her bed, their sweat cooling.
“What are you gonna do now?” she asked.
“I still have to find a safe place for Mary,” he said.
“You know they’ll try to kill her if yo
u don’t get her out of town.”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you leave tonight?”
“She can’t ride,” he said. “She needs a couple of days.”
“And you need a place to hide her, ’cause they know she’s at Doc’s.”
“Right.”
“Is that what this was about?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d be waiting for me . . . like this.”
“Then what?”
“I wouldn’t ask you,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you at risk,” he said. “Besides, there’s no room here.”
She rolled over and looked at him.
“I have a house, a small one, outside of town,” she said. “Nobody knows about it. It’s been closed up for a while. Take her there.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” she asked. “I want to help. She got a raw deal, didn’t deserve to be run out of town.”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“In here,” she said, “serving steaks.”
He sat up.
“Are you going?”
“I’ve got to get Mary away from Doc’s,” he said.
“Your clothes are in the café,” she reminded him as he looked around.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. He realized his gun was there, too. Not a smart thing to do. He could have been dead by now.
Stupid.
“Come on,” she said, getting out of bed. “Let’s get dressed and I’ll show you the house.”
* * *
Harley Trace watched as Clint and Amy came out the front door of the café. They started to walk away, but then abruptly Clint Adams stopped, and started across the street.
In a panic, Trace’s feet would not move.
* * *
“Hold on a second,” Clint said to Amy. “I have to talk to someone.”
“Who?”
“Just wait.”
He stepped into the street to cross to the other side. The man he was approaching saw him, but seemed incapable of moving.
Town of Two Women (9781101612125) Page 6
