“It’s me,” a girl’s voice said, “Letty.”
“Letty?”
There was hesitation, then she said, “Dirty face.”
“Oh,” he said, “that Letty.”
He held his gun behind his back and opened the door wide enough to look out. A girl he didn’t remember ever seeing before was standing in the hall, alone.
“Letty?” he asked.
“That’s me,” she said, smiling.
The grin looked familiar, although he’d only seen it from behind a face full of grime.
He opened the door, looked both ways to make sure she was alone.
“You washed your face,” he said.
“That ain’t all,” she told him. “Can I come in?”
He looked both ways again, then asked, “Does your uncle know you’re here?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t tell him everythin’ I do.”
He looked at her again. He’d been right. She was pretty beneath the dirt.
“All right,” he said. “Come on in before somebody sees you.”
As she moved past him, the smell of soap drifted to his nose. He closed the door and turned to face her, his hand coming out from behind his back.
“You always answer the door with a gun in your hand?” she asked.
“Always,” he said.
He walked to the bedpost and holstered it.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“I wanted you to see me when I’m clean,” she said.
“And how often is that?”
“Well, mostly when I ain’t workin’.”
“And what do you do when you’re working that gets you so dirty?” he asked.
“Odd jobs,” she said. “Whatever I can get. Somehow, though, I always seem to end up with dirty jobs.”
“Well,” he said, “you certainly look better with a clean face.”
“That ain’t all,” she said. Suddenly her hands flew to her shirt and the buttons just seemed to come apart. She whipped the shirt off and tossed it away, and was naked to her waist.
“I also took a bath!”
He was stunned. Her breasts were small, but round like peaches, with pink nipples. Her skin was scrubbed clean, pale, and almost glowing.
“Letty . . .” he said, his mouth dry.
“Wait, wait,” she said. Her hands went to her belt and her pants fell down around her ankles. She was naked now, except for the pants around her ankles, and her boots. Her whole body seemed to glow, and there was a bushy tangle of dark hair between her legs.
“See?” she said. “All clean.”
He wondered if she knew what she was doing. Was she too innocent to realize that she had just become naked in a man’s room? Or was she really here to seduce him into bed?
“Letty,” he said, “do you know what you’re doing?”
“Sure I do,” she said, stepping out of her pants and kicking them away. “I’m tryin’ to show ya that I’m a woman.”
“Well,” he said, “there’s no doubt about that.”
“Then,” she said, “I think the next step is for us to get in that bed.”
“Letty, your uncle—”
“My uncle don’t have to know nothin’,” she said. “He don’t wanna admit that I’m a woman growed.”
“Have you, uh, been with a man before?”
“Well, sure,” she said, “I had a tumble or two in the hayloft with Billy Dunlop, but Billy left town. It’s been a while.”
“Left town?” Clint asked. “Or did your uncle chase him away?”
“It don’t matter,” she said. “Are you gonna come over here and help me take my boots off?”
Clint took a deep breath, acutely aware of the bulge in his trousers, and said, “I don’t think I have much of a choice.”
FOURTEEN
Terry Wilson was leaning on the bar at Milty’s, his head hanging over a mug of beer, complaining to anyone who’d listen that he shouldn’t have been fired.
“Goddamned kid,” he muttered. “Why should I be blamed for what some addled kid does? Know what I mean?”
In this instance he was talking but nobody was listening to him. The only one who was paying any attention to him was Randy, the bartender.
“Hey, Terry, don’t you think you had enough?”
Wilson raised his eyes to look at Randy.
“I picked up my pay, damn it,” he said. “It’s up to me how I wanna spend it, ain’t it?”
“I guess so,” Randy said.
“Then gimme another beer!”
Randy sighed, drew another beer for the man, and stuck it in front of him.
“You know what I should do?” Wilson asked.
This time Randy answered him, “What?”
“I oughtta put a bullet in Big Al Henry, see how he likes that! Ha!”
“That ain’t the kinda thing you wanna be sayin’ out loud, Terry,” Randy said. “There’s been enough trouble today with Ed Collins bein’ killed.”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“Nobody said it was.”
“Oh yeah,” Wilson said, “yeah, Big Al, he says it was my fault. And he fired me for it.” He drank some beer. “I know who else I should put a bullet in.”
“Who?” Randy asked.
“The kid,” Wilson said, “Jason. That stupid kid.”
“He ain’t stupid,” Randy said, “he’s just a little slow. That’s what they say.”
“It don’t matter what they say,” Wilson said. “It’s all that kid’s fault, whether he pulled the trigger or not.”
“You don’t think he did?” the bartender asked.
“I dunno,” Wilson said. “What do I care? All I know is, it ain’t my fault.”
“No,” Randy said, “it probably ain’t.”
He left Wilson alone and moved down the bar. The saloon was starting to empty out and he looked around, trying to spot his niece, Letty. He hadn’t seen much of her that night. He wondered what odd job she’d gotten for herself this time.
* * *
Clint leaned down as Letty lifted one foot so he could remove her boot. The movement brought her fragrant pubic patch close to his face. As he removed the second boot, he inhaled the smell of her. It was so sharp he knew she must already be wet.
She leaned her hands on his shoulders and he remained there on his knees. He reached around behind her, took her ass in his hands, and pulled her to him. He pressed his face into her bush, breathing her in deeply.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Oh my.”
He rubbed his face there, then pushed his tongue through the hair until he found her as wet as he had guessed.
“Oh!” she said, this time starting, as if she had been struck by lightning. He continued to lick her and she tightened her grip on his shoulders, digging in with her nails. “Oh God,” she said, “Billy Dunlop never did that!”
He squeezed her buttocks in his hands, then abruptly stood up, lifting her with him. She wrapped her legs around him as he kissed her and, while kissing her, turned and carried her to the bed. Her tongue was avid in his mouth, her arms and legs tight around him. He had to virtually peel her off himself to put her down on the bed.
“Get undressed,” she said breathily, “hurry, hurry . . .”
He hurried, pulling his clothes off and tossing them aside. When he removed his underwear, his erection sprang out at her and her eyes widened.
“Billy Dunlop sure didn’t have that!” she said.
“He didn’t have one?” he asked.
“Well, he did,” she said, “but his tallywacker was kind of . . . well, small.”
She reached out, took it in one hand, then also wrapped the other hand around it.
“Oh my!” she said as it filled her hands.
“Let me show you what to do with that,” he said, reaching for her . . .
FIFTEEN
Judge Frank Miller sat at his desk in his four-column, Southern-style, two-family home on the edge of town. The house was quiet, as it had been for fifteen years since the death of his dear wife, May. In the beginning, he’d missed her and had been lonely. Now, however, he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the large, silent house and would never have wanted to live with anyone else.
The only time he heard sounds in the house was during the day, when his cook was there. But she left the house right after dinner. She was not even allowed to clean up her kitchen until the next morning, when she arrived for a new day of work.
Miller had several cases on his docket, but the one he was most concerned with was the case of Jason Henry. Whether the boy had actually shot and killed Ed Collins or not, this was Miller’s chance to finally get the upper hand on Big Al Henry. The two had been fencing for years, ever since their friendship had come to an end.
The boy was an idiot. He would be no loss if Miller succeeded in sending him to prison, or to the gallows. In the morning Miller would be meeting with David House, who was the attorney who would be prosecuting the boy. He had no idea who Big Al would be getting to defend his boy, but Miller wasn’t going to give him time to bring in somebody from out of town. He was going to have to choose from the few attorneys who lived in town, all of whom were intimidated by Judge Miller.
Miller closed the file on his desk and stood up. He was wearing a silk dressing gown in lavender, belted around his corpulent middle. He poured himself a glass of brandy, carried it from the office with him, to his bedroom.
Tomorrow would be the beginning of the end for Big Al Henry.
There was no way he was going to get his addled boy off the hook for this murder.
* * *
“Wow,” Letty said breathlessly, “I ain’t never done that to Billy Dunlop’s tallywacker. Didn’t even know I could do that. You sure are a tasty man, Clint Adams.”
They were lying side by side on the bed. Clint had his hand on her crotch, playing gently with her moist public hair. She had his semi-erect penis in her hand and was just stroking it.
“Letty, sweetie, can you do me a great big favor?” he asked without looking at her.
“Sure, Clint,” she said. “Anything.”
“Could you keep Billy Dunlop out of this bed for the rest of the night?”
“Sure,” she said. “I can do that.”
“Good.”
After a few seconds she said, “The rest of the night? Am I gonna be here the rest of the night?”
“Well,” he said, rolling toward her, “I guess that’s up to you.”
* * *
Sheriff Gordon Brown stood up from his desk and walked into the cell block. He looked into Jason Henry’s cell and saw that the boy was lying there, awake.
“You need anything, Jason?” he asked.
“I need to go home, Sheriff.”
“Sorry, boy,” Brown said. “I can’t do that, but do you want anything else?”
The boy sniffed the air.
“Is that coffee I smell?”
“Sure is,” Brown said. “I just made a cup. You want some?”
“That would be great, Sheriff.”
“Okay. I got no cream, but do you want sugar?”
“Naw, just nice and black and strong.”
“Comin’ up.”
Brown went to the potbellied stove and poured two tin cups full with coffee. He carried them back to the cell block, set Jason’s down, balanced on the cell door.
“There you go.”
Jason got up from his cot and took the cup from the door. Brown had stepped back so the boy wouldn’t be tempted to toss it in his face. That had happened before.
Jason sat on the cot and sipped the coffee.
“So tell me, Jason,” Brown said, leaning against the wall with his coffee.
“Yessir?”
“Did you kill Ed Collins?”
“No sir, I didn’t,” Jason said.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Jason said. “I swear.”
“Then tell me again what happened.”
“I started to go in the back room,” Jason said. “Somebody grabbed me around the throat and then . . . I woke up next to Mr. Collins. I really thought he was sleeping.”
“Okay,” Brown said, “you told me everything you told me before. Now tell me something else.”
“Something else?”
“Something you haven’t told me yet.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Jason,” Brown said. “I’m trying to help you here. Something you saw, or felt, or smelled—”
“Smelled!” Jason said, his eyes going wide.
“What?” Brown asked. “What did you smell?”
“Somebody,” Jason said, “somebody smelled really . . . good.”
“Good?”
“Sweet,” Jason said. “I smelled something sweet.”
“You were in the back room of the mercantile,” Brown said. “I’m sure there was something sweet back there.”
“No,” Jason said, “it wasn’t something sweet I smelled. It was some . . . one!”
SIXTEEN
Daniel Thayer slapped Stephanie Kitten on her bare rump, withdrew from her sopping pussy, and shot his seed over her back.
And he was done.
Stephanie had not even gotten started. She knew she was going to have to leave Thayer’s house and go find herself a man—any man—who could last longer than he could.
That wouldn’t be very hard.
She rolled over to lie on her back, which would effectively wipe him off on his own sheets.
He got off the bed, grabbed his silk dressing robe, and pulled it on.
“You did a fine job today,” he told her.
She finished drying her back on his sheets and moved over to get away from the wetness.
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“How did you hit on framing the boy?”
“He walked in,” she said. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Well, Collins is gone,” Thayer said. “That’s what I wanted. I’ll go and talk to the grieving daughter and offer to help her get rid of her daddy’s store.”
“What makes you think she won’t want to run it?”
“She’s never worked in there a day in the last three years,” he said. “As soon as she got old enough to go her own way, she started her own store. She’s not going to want to go anywhere near it.”
“What about Big Al?”
“I thought about that,” he said, “but Big Al’s going to be busy trying to get his boy out of jail. You actually did me a favor by getting him off my back.”
“I’ll bet I made Judge Miller’s day, too,” Stephanie said.
Thayer poured himself a glass of brandy and laughed.
“I’ll bet you did.” He walked to the chest of drawers, took an envelope from the top drawer. “When you get dressed, you can have your money.”
She got off the bed and started dressing. He didn’t even watch her. She was used to men watching her all the time—but not Daniel Thayer.
When she was dressed, she walked to him and accepted the envelope from him. It was appropriately thick.
“Stick around town,” Thayer said. “I may need you for something else.”
She put the envelope of cash in her back pocket, and strapped on her gun.
“I’ll be around,” she said.
She went out the door, eager for a bath to get the rest of Thayer’s scum off her back.
* * *
Stephanie’s two partners were not waiting for her this time when she came out o
f the house. That was okay with her. She was so ready for a man, she might have taken one of them to bed, and that would have been the end of their partnership. She never slept with men she was partnered with.
Also, since they weren’t waiting for her, she had a chance to skim some of the money off the top before she gave them their shares. Not that they deserved any of it. She had done all the work. She always did.
She headed home so she could take a bath with that new sweet-smelling soap she had bought and then she was going to go out and find herself a man who could last more than a minute with her.
* * *
Stephanie’s partners, Tony Black and Andy Choate, were sitting and drinking in a small saloon called Scott’s. The rest of the customers had left more than half an hour ago, and the place was officially closed. Fact was, Scott was a friend of theirs who let them drink as long as they wanted to.
Scott—who was the same age as Tony and Stephanie, mid-thirties—came over and sat down with them.
“Come on, Tony,” he said, “tell me how that Stephanie is in bed. Come on.”
“I told you, Scott,” Tony said, “a gentleman never tells.”
“Aw, you ain’t no gentleman, Tony,” Andy said, grinning. “Tell ’im.”
“Never mind,” Tony said. “Just finish your beer. And you, Scott, finish cleanin’ your bar.”
“You boys finish up, then,” Scott said. “I gotta lock up and go home. The wife is waitin’.”
“So tell me, Scott,” Tony said, “how’s that wife of yours in bed, huh?”
“She’s a cold fish, Tony,” Scott said, standing up. “That’s why I keep askin’ you about Stephanie. That is one hot woman. Does she wear that gun belt in bed?”
“Never mind, Scott.”
“Ah,” the saloon owner said, and went back to cleaning his bar.
“You’re drivin’ that guy crazy,” Andy said.
“Just don’t you tell him I ain’t got Steph into bed yet, that’s all.”
“And you never will.”
“I’m workin’ on her,” Tony said. “Just wait and see. The day will come.”
“That day ain’t never gonna come,” Andy said.
“You got money to put on that?”
“I got a hundred dollars says you never get her into bed,” Andy said. “Never.”
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