Swatting a Mosquito . . .
“Don’t make threats, little man,” Clint said. “You’re not big enough to back them up.” He didn’t like Flores, so there was no point in going easy on him.
“This is a nice horse,” Flores said.
“Yes, he is.”
“Be a shame if something happened to him.”
Flores didn’t have a chance to move. Clint grabbed him by the front of the shirt with his left hand, bunched it up, and lifted the man off his feet, then drew his gun with his right hand. He put the barrel under Flores’s chin. “If anything happens to my horse, I won’t hesitate. I’ll just blow your head off. You got that?”
Flores tried his best to nod and breathe at the same time, his eyes wide with fear. Clint released him, and let him fall to the floor.
Clint took Eclipse’s bridle and walked him out of the barn. Outside he mounted up and rode off.
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KENTUCKY SHOWDOWN
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61042-8
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / August 2013
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Contents
More All-Action Westerns
Title Page
Copyright
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
ONE
Clint Adams rode into Louisville, Kentucky, several days before the running of the Kentucky Derby. His friend Ben Canby had a horse he was high on, and had invited Clint to come to the Derby and watch him run—and win.
The town was buzzing as he rode down Main Street. It was his intention to spend the night in town, and then the next morning he’d ride out to Canby’s horse farm to see his friend, and his horse.
Clint reined in his own horse, Eclipse, in front of a hotel with a livery stable next to it. Most towns were not usually as accommodating.
“Staying at the hotel?” the middle-aged liveryman asked.
“I haven’t checked in yet, but yes.”
“Okay,” the man said, “they’ll add the charge for boarding your horse to your bill.”
“How convenient.”
“Come for the Derby?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I got a tip for you,” the man said.
“Is that a fact?”
“Horse named My Officer. Can’t miss.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Clint took his saddlebags and rifle and entered the hotel.
“You’re lucky,” the clerk said. “Got a few rooms left. By tonight we’ll probably be full.”
“That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll only need the room for one night.”
“Very well,” the clerk said. “Room five. Enjoy your stay.” He handed Clint a key. As he turned to go up the stairs, the clerk asked, “Are you here for the Derby?”
“Yes, I am.”
The young man leaned his elbows on the desk and said, “I got a tip for you.”
“Is that so?”
The man nodded. “A horse named Little Drama. Can’t miss.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Clint went up to his room.
He took the time to wash the trail off his hands, face, and chest, then changed into a fresh shirt and went out to find a place for his supper.
* * *
The town was alive with activity, most of which—from the scraps of conversation he could catch—had to do with the Kentucky Derby. Apparently, owners and trainers from all over the country were coming to town for the race, to challenge the locals.
At a small café he found down the street, Clint had a mediocre steak and weak co
ffee, but managed to get still another tip from the waiter—this time a horse named Be Brave. “Can’t miss,” the man assured him. So that was three “can’t miss” tips he’d gotten since arriving in town just an hour before.
He didn’t know the name of Ben Canby’s horse. He wondered if it was any of the three he’d gotten the tips on.
After supper he crossed the street to a casino called the Crazy Bull. Inside there was a painting of a bull hanging over the bar, but someone had fiddled with the eyes, making them look appropriately “crazy.”
“Beer,” he told the bartender.
The casino had gambling, girls, and music, and they were all making noise. Just next to him two cowboys were arguing over the abilities of two horses, one called Awesome Gem and the other Fast Frankie. According to each man, the horse he was touting “couldn’t miss.” Eventually, they came to blows over the subject. Clint picked up his beer and moved away from the action, leaving it to the bartender to take care of.
Carrying his beer with him, he walked around the spacious interior of the casino. He paused to watch a poker game, a blackjack table, a faro table, a roulette wheel, and a craps table. There was no room for him at any of them, so he simply spent a few moments watching the action, and then moved on.
By the time he got back to the bar, the two arguing cowboys were gone.
“What happened to your friends?” he asked the bartender.
“I convinced them to leave,” the brawny man said. “You want another?”
“Sure,” Clint said, “one more can’t hurt. Might even help me sleep.”
Actually, he doubted he was going to have any trouble sleeping. He was pretty tired from the time he’d spent on the trail getting there.
“There ya go,” the man said, setting a second beer in front of him.
“You here for the Derby?” the man asked.
“Yes, why?” Clint asked. “You got a tip for me?”
“Hell, no,” the bartender said. “What do I know about racehorses?”
TWO
Clint turned over in bed and found himself staring at a woman’s naked back. She had short black hair, looked slender, although he seemed to remember breasts that more than filled his hands.
He rolled onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. Slowly, it started to come back to him. He was finishing his second beer in the Crazy Bull when a woman approached him. She was a saloon girl, said her name was Jesse. They talked awhile until she was called away to serve some customers.
“Don’t go away,” she told him, putting her index finger on his chest. “We’re not done.”
“We’re not?”
“No.”
She was in her twenties, had a very pretty face with a wide mouth and bright blue eyes.
“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll wait.”
“Good.”
She turned to go and he said, “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“You’re not going to give me a tip on a horse, are you?”
“Not me,” she said. “What I have in mind has nothing to do with horses.”
“Oh . . . good.”
She nodded, took a tray of drinks from the bartender, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Another beer?” the bartender asked. “While you’re waitin’?”
“Sure,” he said, “why not . . .”
* * *
The woman moaned, brought him back to the present. She rolled onto her back, and he saw that her breasts were indeed a handful or more, even though the rest of her was quite slender.
She stretched, making her breasts go taut, and then she looked over at him.
“Do you need an engraved invitation?” she asked.
He smiled, leaned over her, and began to kiss her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her nipples . . . she caressed his head, held him there for a while before allowing him to travel lower.
He kissed her pale, smooth skin down to her navel, inhaled the fragrance of her flesh, which—since she had come with him right after work—included some of the smells of the saloon, but mostly the special blend of her own perspiration and skin.
And then lower, and her smells became more intense, headier. He pressed his nose to her pubic hair, then let his tongue party it until he tasted her wetness . . . and she jumped.
“Yes,” she said.
He probed her with his tongue, causing her to writhe and moan. The more he licked, the wetter she became—a combination of his saliva and her juices.
Finally, she began to tremble, and then she was doing more than writhing and moaning. She was jumping and yelling, all the while reaching for him, raking his back, and laughing.
He mounted her finally, pressed his hard cock to her wetness, and pushed. The night before they had joined violently, but this morning he entered her slowly until he was fully in, then began to move, in and out, while she found his rhythm and rocked with him. They were both able to resist the urge to move faster and their movements became languid, fluid, almost like a dance, and then he was the one trembling and then gasping as he emptied into her . . .
* * *
“Why me?” he asked as he watched her get dressed. She sheathed her lovely body in the same dress she’d worn last night, green and low cut.
“Why not you?” she asked. “You’re good-looking, almost handsome, clean . . . and a stranger. Will you be staying in town long?”
“For the race,” he said, “but I won’t be staying in town. I’ll be staying on my friend’s ranch.”
“Which ranch is that?”
“The Canby.”
“He’s got a horse in the Derby, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Clint said, “but I don’t know the name.”
“Neither do I,” she said. “So I guess I haven’t heard anybody talking about it.”
“I’ve gotten five or six tips since I arrived,” Clint said.
“Well then,” Jesse said, “you have five or six horses not to bet on. Cuts down the field.”
She slipped on her shoes and then looked at him.
“Thank you for a lovely night.”
“It was lovely,” he said. “Thank you for picking me out.”
“If you come by the casino tonight,” she said, “I might just pick you out again.”
“Maybe I will.”
She started for the door, then turned and said, “I think I was so anxious to get your pants off that I never asked you your name.”
He hesitated, then said, “Clint. My name is Clint.”
“I’ll see you again, Clint.”
“Jesse,” he said.
She smiled, and slipped out the door.
* * *
Outside, Jesse crossed the street and stopped next to a man wearing black, who seemed to be staring into a hardware store window.
“Was I right?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, “his name is Clint.”
“But is he Clint Adams?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You were supposed to find out.”
She looked at him.
“We got . . . involved in something else,” she said.
“Yes, well . . . all right.”
“My money?” she asked.
He took his hand from his pocket and handed her a few bills.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Jesse,” he said, and watched her as she walked away.
THREE
Clint checked out of the hotel, got Eclipse from the livery stable, and mounted him. Canby had sent him directions on how to get to his farm from Louisville. Kentucky was amazingly green and he rode at a leisurely pace, in no particular hurry. He thought a bit about Jesse, and the night they’d spent together. It had been odd, the way she’d approached him. Very directly. He’d been approached
by women before, but this seemed . . . contrived. Although he had enjoyed the night, he felt sure she’d been put up to it. Maybe somebody had been trying to find out who he was—although all they had to do was check the hotel register. In any case, that was why he had only given her his first name.
When the farm came into view, he was impressed. There were many corrals and outbuildings, and a large, two-story main house. There was also a track that Canby used to train his horses.
Clint rode up to the main house while several men stopped what they were doing to look and see who he was. Since none of them knew him, they simply went back to work.
He dismounted in front of the house, and one of the men came over to him.
“Help ya?” the middle-aged man asked. He was short, bow-legged, had the hands of a man who had worked around horses his whole life.
“I’m looking for Ben Canby.”
“The boss is around,” the man said. “I’ll find him. Who should I tell him—”
“Clint Adams,” he said. “Tell him it’s Clint Adams.”
“Ah,” the man said, “the boss said you’d be coming. I’m Ed Donnelly.”
“Foreman?” Clint asked, shaking the man’s hand.
“Manager,” Donnelly said. “Come on. I think the boss is in the barn with Whirlwind.”
“Whirlwind?”
“Our Derby horse.”
“Oh, well, lead the way, then. I’ve been anxious to meet Whirlwind.”
Donnelly led Clint to the large barn. Inside there were many stalls, some of them inhabited. In the back was the largest stall in the structure, more of a small corral, complete with a door. Inside a man was fussing over a horse’s legs.
“That’s a three-year-old colt, Ben,” Clint said, “not a woman.”
Ben Canby looked up and smiled when he saw Clint.
“Clint Adams! By God!”
He came to the edge of the stall and shook hands with his friend.
“So this is the horse, eh?” Clint asked. “Whirlwind?”
“This is him,” Canby said. He was a tall, slender man in his fifties who had been working with horses for years. “This the finest animal I’ve ever trained, Clint. And he’s gonna win.”
“Really?” Clint asked. “Since I got here, I’ve had tips on five or six other horses.”
Kentucky Showdown Page 1