The trio dismounted and followed lamely behind the giant black dog. For lack of anything better to say in such an odd situation, Worth said, “Do you know what Jeremiah was talking about—spirits throwing snowballs?”
“The spirit of a bear wrestler?” Foster added.
Tabitha looked down at the grass with shame. “Yes. Apparently when my sister Alameda first arrived in town, there were strange events they took to calling the Cinnabar Murders. Her husband Remington Rudy—Rudy Dunraven, I mean—was at first suspected of being the culprit.”
Foster nodded. “I heard about that. Happened before I came to Laramie.”
Tabitha looked Foster in the eye and nodded. “Right. The part you lawyers probably didn’t hear much about was that they had the assistance of a spirit, a deceased bear wrestler. That might sound absurd, but why would my sister and her husbands lie?”
It wasn’t so much the dead bear wrestler that made the hairs stand up on the back of Worth’s neck. It was the part about “husbands,” plural. Foster looked quizzical, too, quirking an eyebrow sideways at Worth.
Finally Foster said, “So this bear wrestling spirit threw snowballs? I can believe it. I once had a dream—only it wasn’t a dream, if you know what I mean—when I was ten years old. My cousin who lived two hundred miles away appeared in my room, making a circle in the air with his fist. That was our agreement, to make that sign if one of us were to die. A few days later, I received a letter from my aunt, saying he had died that night.”
“Yes!” cried Tabitha. “See? So it was his spirit that came to you, right?”
“Evidently so.”
Woof. Phineas had found something a bit upstream. She barked at them to come look.
They raced over like madmen—at first.
They all came to a dead stop, though. The bone of a ribcage protruded from the grass, and only Foster, the scout, dared tiptoe closer to have a look.
Phineas sat next to the skeleton, with her usual relaxed, casual tongue flopping from her velvety mouth. Worth put a hand on Tabitha’s shoulder to urge her to stay put in case it was a human skeleton and not just some coyote Phineas had eaten for dinner.
Foster squatted with his back to them and touched the massive canine skull, tinted green, perhaps from algae. With a shock, Worth realized that Foster’s shoulders struggled to contain a sob. Worth leaned forward far enough to see that the skull Foster fondled was much too square and not nearly elongated enough to have been a wild canine.
Phineas was showing them her own skeleton.
Foster gathered the ghost dog to his chest and buried his face in her neck. Worth, too, got down on his knees next to his partner and ruffled the dog’s head, just as solid and furry as ever.
“Phineas?” Worth asked softly. “Are you showing us yourself?”
Phineas happily looked him in the eye and seemed to nod.
“Stay away, Tabitha!” Foster cried when Tabitha came closer. To Worth, he blubbered, red-eyed. “This was no accident! These dogs can swim—they have webbed feet like a duck. There is no way in hell she would’ve just wandered down to this riverbank and drowned, for Christ’s sake!”
Worth said softly, “You think someone…”
“I know someone killed her! Harley was right when he said she had died. Look, I’m going back to that bastard Sherman Bullard’s—he was supposed to be caring for her, and I was even sending him money for her upkeep. I’m going to lift his hair if he doesn’t tell me how this happened! Right, Phineas?”
But the ghost dog was gone. One moment Worth’s hand was on her soft, sleek fur, and the next, his hand was lying atop the skull!
“She’s over there,” said Tabitha, pointing to where the horses watered at the river.
Foster sighed deeply and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Taking his bowie knife, he severed the skull from the spine and went to put it in a saddlebag.
Tabitha placed a palm in the middle of Foster’s back and rubbed. “I’m going to call on this Caleb Poindexter fellow. He’s allegedly a psychic fellow with great powers. He should be able to shed some light on this.”
Foster chuckled with despair. “Caleb Poindexter? Sounds like one of Jeremiah’s friends from the circus.”
Tabitha grinned, a dazzling smile there in the twilight that showed off her cunning beaver’s teeth. “Caleb may be familiar with some of those circus clowns. But I have a guarantee that he’s a seriously talented psychic.”
Foster sighed heavily. “All right. I’ll take any ridiculous option right now.”
Chapter Six
Foster was glad that Tabitha had allowed him to bathe first.
This must be a sign of his prestige in her eyes. She had instructed the maid to fill the tub with hot water and had specified that Foster would bathe first. Now Worth was forced to loll about in Foster’s old, tepid bathwater. Foster could hear Worth splashing around behind the screen as Foster sat at the dressing table, looking for shaving items.
He had slept fitfully last night. Even more than realizing his beloved dog was a ghost and his saddlebag contained her skull, Foster was enflamed by his meeting with the stunning Tabitha Hudson. After his extremely bad choice with his last flame, Orianna, Foster had vowed to stay away from courtship. It was just not worth it, the agonies women put men through. Foster had suffered the torments of the damned at Orianna’s hands. Hell, he had given up his flourishing law practice to become an itinerant scout in the wilderness simply to get away from anything that reminded him of Orianna.
He had vowed never to repeat that experience, yet here he was, falling for another wily scamp. What made him think Miss Hudson was wily? Nothing at all—just past experience with dolls. Dolls would mess up a man, toy with his emotions. Dolls took pleasure in roasting men over the fire. Dolls were mean enough to hunt bears with hickory switches.
Yet he had lain awake nearly all night trying to keep his hand off his cock, images of the fetching Miss Hudson floating into his brain. She hardly seemed so mean she’d swallow a horned toad backward, but one never knew. She was serenely genteel with her sapphire eyes, pouty lips, her blonde braids piled so smoothly on her head they resembled a cache of gold nuggets. Foster admired her athleticism, even though she had bashed him in the jaw with her elbow. And her calm yet tough nature showed him that she was game for all manner of antics, perhaps more so now that she had come out of mourning.
But it had been the afflictions of Job last night to resist frigging himself into a fine lather. Tabitha had suggested that Worth stay at Vancouver House until Harley returned, and so Foster might stay there as well. The ghost of Phineas lay, intermittently, at the side of Foster’s bed. Periodically Foster would drape an arm over the side of the bed and feel nothing. Then, just as suddenly, she would be there again. He realized that Ghost Phineas made absolutely no sound when moving.
“Today I’m going to make a photograph of you, Miss Hudson, and the dog,” Worth said from behind the silk screen. A heavenly ray of the morning sun beamed in the window behind the bathtub, casting Worth’s alluring silhouette onto the screen. It occurred to Foster that he would have to fight Worth for Tabitha’s hand, if that was Foster’s intention at all. Worth was a fine, strapping buck, and he had the advantage that he planned on staying in Laramie. The athletic Tabitha would probably appreciate a gadabout stud such as Worth. He would be acceptable in society, yet she could accompany him on his photographic expeditions, breathing in the fresh, out-of-doors air.
Foster returned his eyes to the business of shaving, but now he was fuming to think that Worth would win Tabitha’s hand. After all, they had both believed in the ghost dog before Foster had been convinced. They must share similar beliefs—a feature of a strong marriage, Foster now knew.
“I wonder if Phineas will show up on the photographic print.” Foster mused as he scraped the last of the soap from his face with the blade. His eyes flitted away from the mirror to view Worth’s silhouette. Worth stood in profile toweling off his enormous horse’s co
ck, which bobbed and swayed between his muscular thighs. Almost as though he knew the sun was casting that shadow on the screen and he enjoyed displaying that massive phallus just to tantalize Foster.
“That’s got me curious, too,” said Worth, emerging from behind the screen. He didn’t bother even wrapping the towel around his trim waist, just slung it over his shoulder to stand behind Foster. Bending over, he peered into the mirror while fingering his excruciatingly handsome face. Foster knew he was wondering what sort of shave he’d need, but in Foster’s current irritation, it seemed as though Worth was admiring his handsome devil’s face.
He stood so close that Foster could feel the heat from his crotch against his shoulder. Since Worth had no shame or self-consciousness about his body—and with good reason, as he was built like a brick house—he stood there with his stupid towel slung over his shoulder and his hot erection pointed right at Foster’s shoulder.
Foster managed to say, “I wonder if she appears to other people?”
“It occurred to me,” said Worth, “that maybe only we’re able to see her. We should test out that theory by taking her into public, maybe on a leash so she can’t vanish.”
“If she vanished while on a leash, I wonder if we’d be standing there holding an empty leash?” Foster mused.
In the next flashing of an eye, though, and without absolutely any forethought, Foster found himself standing behind Worth, nestling his erection into the buoyant cleft of Worth’s ass. He gripped one of Worth’s shoulders in a steely claw, the other hand wrapped around the root of Worth’s prick.
Foster humped his erection into the steamy cleft, immediately on the verge of orgasm. To his vague surprise, Worth didn’t protest this assault. He even seemed to surrender to it, leaning forward with his hands propped on the vanity, and he seemed to spread his feet a few inches apart. No dimples appeared in his cherubic face now, just the hitch of his upper lip into a slight snarl as his eyes slid half closed.
“You want this, don’t you,” Foster snarled, hunching over the beautifully muscled back. “You like showing off your thoroughbred physique, making men hot.” It was the same thing he’d accused Worth of during the boxing bout on French Creek. Foster wasn’t sure how much he truly believed that Worth purposely stood around displaying his meaty ball sac, flexing his pectorals for the view of other men—it was merely a handy excuse for why Foster was acting crazy as a bedbug, overcome with lust.
Worth squirmed his ass sensuously, nearly sending Foster over the edge. “I don’t do it on purpose.”
“Then why is your cock throbbing in my fist?”
“It’s a natural reaction to being stimulated.”
“But it was stiff as a board before I even grabbed you.” Foster stroked the cock now, long, thick, and delicious in his palm. Foster enjoyed being the aggressor. He knew that he’d only jumped up to hump his friend due to his repressed lust for Miss Hudson, for lack of anyone handier to hump. The prairie flowers were several blocks away.
Worth’s face twitched at being fondled so brazenly like this. When Foster’s dry palm stroked the shiny, bulbous glans, Worth gasped, his eyelids fluttering. It was always a great sense of power to have over another man, Foster knew. To hold his every slight reaction in the palm of one’s hand, each motion bringing twinges of pain or pleasure. Now, when Foster slid his hand down to the meaty pectoral and pinched Worth’s nipple, Worth’s ass flexed with sensual resistance.
It was a natural reaction to slap Worth’s fleshy ass. The vibrations against Foster’s cock lodged in the cleft were immediate. Semen surged up the underside of his prick, and he knew he wouldn’t last long if he kept up this deviant behavior.
Worth gasped now, almost pleading. “I was stiff thinking about Miss Hudson. I know you want to woo her, but she’s an awful fetching good-looker.”
Slap! Foster frigged his friend in earnest now, taking great pleasure in slapping the muscular ass. It was almost too much to bear, having this strapping buck at his command like this. He squeezed and corkscrewed his hand up and down the hefty tool, synchronizing his slaps. Worth’s delicious ass bounced when Foster slapped, and he knew that anyone in the house could probably hear the cracking swats, but he wasn’t about to stop.
“Yes, I want to woo her,” Foster admitted with a snarl, “and I want you to keep your sweaty paws off of her.” Slap!
Spying a jar of Macassar oil on the vanity, Foster had to stop his erotic slapping and frigging to unscrew the lid. Taking a palmful of the pomade that Tabitha’s father probably used for his hair, Foster slathered Worth’s pulsating cock, twining his fingers every which way as he pumped the tool.
The reaction was immediate. As a cloud of coconut and sandalwood rose from Worth’s anointed crotch, Worth tensed and hissed in air. The globes of his ass clenched around Foster’s eager prick. But since Foster’s main aim wasn’t to satisfy his partner but himself, he scooped up another handful of the Indonesian oil and applied it to his own prick. Now he hissed and knew he had to apply it lightly or would prematurely shoot.
Now Worth swayed his hips as though fucking Foster’s fist. Eyes squeezed shut now, he gasped, “I’ll keep away from her. But I think it’s up to her to choose between us.”
Foster wedged his bursting glans against Worth’s asshole, jiggling the head up and down against the anal ring, looking for any sign of protest. Worth merely hovered, nearly on tiptoes, mouth open in a silent plea. So Foster wedged his prick an inch or so inside his friend, gasping at the sheer pleasure.
It had been so long since he’d fucked anyone. He’d not wait this long again. “I’d venture to say she’s already made her choice, buddy.” To avoid listening to any claptrap, he slapped the juicy ass again and continued, “You like this, don’t you? This is what you wanted the whole time we were boxing. Your prick was as hard as a mallet, and that’s why you were belting me so hard.”
Worth gasped, “I’ve never…”
Had he never been fucked like this before? Foster groaned as he slid his prick farther up the slick channel. Worth’s rectum was like a sucking anemone, grabbing at his cock, urging him on. When he reached the sensitive spot he knew was there, he quivered and gyrated his prick around, knowing the head rubbed against the spot that would shove Worth over the edge.
Only, it was happening to Foster now. He sped up his humping, pumping away at that glorious ass with short, fast jabs. Slapping the shapely haunch again, he growled nastily, “You’ve never been buggered before, have you? You’ve got a nice, tight, virgin ass.” Slap.
“Jiminy crickets,” Worth gasped.
His boyish cries inflamed Foster, and before he could hold back, a great, hot load of jism roiled up his cock and spurted forth inside the heated channel. Foster could only quiver, holding his breath, as wave after wave of ecstasy shook him to the core. He breathed again and jiggled his pleasured penis around to cover up the fact he’d erupted inside his friend much too soon. He grabbed ahold of Worth’s oily cock and pumped the erection to preoccupy both of them.
Still shuddering with bliss, Foster hunched himself over Worth’s broad back and growled, “You’ve never been fucked by a man?”
“God, no!” Worth finally gasped all in a rush. “Don’t stop!”
Foster’s cock stayed rigid inside Worth as he frigged the monstrous tool. “You like having another man’s prick inside you?”
“Yes,” Worth gasped. “Don’t stop, you bastard.”
Foster pinched Worth’s nipple, rolling the hardened nub between thumb and forefinger as he murmured lewd things next to his ear. “You like it when another man frigs your giant cock. You like having another hard, muscular body slapping up against you.”
When he pinched the nipple to the point where it would cause pain, Worth cried “Ah!” in a strangled voice.
Foster felt the semen churn up the length of the prick and explode onto the mirror. It was extremely gratifying to watch the blobs hit the mirror, the shiny arc of jism splashing forcefully. A surge of
affection for his friend welled up inside Foster’s chest, and he slid his free hand lower to joggle the full ball sac almost lovingly, murmuring, “That’s good. Feels so good, doesn’t it? A man’s hand is bigger, firmer, more experienced. You’re hung like a bull, Worth. Your prick is so meaty and juicy in my hand.”
Worth gasped and writhed as though intent on collapsing, and at length Foster allowed his prick to slide out of his friend’s ass. He gave the delicious rump one more slap for good measure then casually went to clean his prick in the washbowl. Worth panted, looked at the ceiling for mercy, and whipped the towel from his shoulder to dry his sweaty chest.
But when Foster stepped into his drawers, he realized he still wasn’t satisfied. Buggering Worth had only served to irritate him in another, new way. He realized that now he was attracted to more than just Worth’s enticing ass, his athletic chest, his dimpled face. Foster had no problem with being temporarily attracted to the sway of some fellow’s buttocks or a hefty horse’s cock jiggling within his eyeshot.
No, it was the way Worth had just submitted to him that got to Foster. Worth was a strapping buck, a gangling strongman. He didn’t need to submit to anyone. No, Worth had submitted because he was, at heart, an innocent lunkhead that wanted to please others. Now Foster was aroused by Worth’s gentle heart.
And he didn’t want to be. So he strode over to Worth, who had only just stepped into his own drawers, twirled him around, and grabbed his stupid chiseled chin. This fellow was such a shining example of masculinity that even his juicy lower lip shined with moisture. Foster was glad for the additional irritation, as it gave even more power to his words. Jutting his hips forward, he pinned his adversary against the vanity.
“Keep your damned paws off her, Worth.”
Worth didn’t back down, however. He gripped Foster by the wrist and wrenched his arm away, his eyes fiery. “She can make up her own mind! And you’re not even staying in town. You’re going back to the army.”
Karen Mercury Page 6
