Gideon, Robin - As the Cowboy Commands [Ecstasy in the Old West 2] (Siren Publishing Allure)

by Robin Gideon

  Jared leaned forward, gathered Helen’s auburn hair at the base of her neck, then pulled on the silken strands as he plundered her cunt with his cock. It was all the added stimulation she needed to climax. Her head was back on her shoulders, her throat stretched tautly, as her insides convulsed with orgasmic spasms. Strange, guttural, feminine sounds came from her throat as waves of raw emotion shuddered through her.

  And through it all, Jared never stopped or slowed his rhythm, driving hilt-deep into Helen’s sheath with each invasion. And when, while still holding her by the hair, he began spanking her ass cheeks with his other hand, Helen’s next climax claimed her, washing over her even before the previous one had entirely run its full course.

  As though from a great distance, Helen heard Marcus say quietly, cautiously, “Be careful with her.”

  Helen’s arms collapsed. She didn’t have the strength in them anymore to hold the weight of her upper body. Jared, to her great relief, released the hold he had on her hair and stopped spanking her.

  It’s never been like this. Now I know what fucking is all about.

  She felt only semiconscious, only partially aware of what was being done to her and what was happening around her. She heard the slick, moist smack! of a torso, made sweaty through sexual labor, striking her buttocks and felt the long invasion and retreat as her cunt was filled and emptied hurriedly of cock.

  “Not…much…more,” she managed to say between jolting thrusts.

  Her bones had turned to mush. Her muscles no longer worked. Jared, with his hands on her hips, rolled her onto her side then onto her back. When she looked up at him, sweat was rolling down his chest and temples. The look in his eyes was predatory. But the faint smile on his lips let her know that it was she he wanted, she who had driven him half-mad with desire.

  He straddled her body again, and Helen’s smile was sleepy and fatigued as she pressed her breasts together, forming a tight cleavage for Jared’s erection.

  “Yes, my darling,” Helen purred, hearing the erratic breathing of her lover and knowing, from experience, what it meant. “Come for me. Let me feel all that beautiful cum.”

  She heard him groan, and other than tilting her chin slightly upward to spare her face at least the bulk of the eruptions, she didn’t move as Jared discharged a river of thick, white cream. She felt several heavy eruptions splatter against the underside of her chin, and more of the rich nectar pooled in the hollow of her throat. The inner swells of her breasts were slick with cum when she finally released them, and Jared was completely empty.

  “No more,” Jared said with a groan then fell to the side on the blanket, one leg still over the prone Helen.

  Helen started to laugh then. Laugh as she’d never laughed before because she was as satisfied as she could ever remember being, and from Jared’s expression, he would say the same thing.

  * * * *

  Tookie Smithers and two other men arrived shortly before midnight at the home shared by Samantha and Amanda. The men had been drinking, but they were not particularly drunk. They’d had just enough whiskey to dull what little sense of decency still remained within their souls—because on this night, they intended to rape Samantha and Amanda. Their orders had been to “put the fear of Neilson” into the women, but Gregg Neilson had not been entirely specific on what they were to do to instill that fear. As they sat in the saloon, watching the hands of the clock moving slowly, they drained one bottle of whiskey and contemplated their options. Tookie admitted that he hadn’t had sex in quite a while. His comrades teased him before both admitting to similar celibacy.

  It was suggested that perhaps they could beat the women up. The man who called himself Eddie had said he hadn’t beaten a woman—beaten her properly, so that she would remember the beating for at least a month—in nearly a year. His tone of voice suggested he missed the experience with a certain sense of yearning that was nearly sexual in nature.

  Tookie, the leader of the trio, dashed any hopes Eddie might have had of using his fists and boots on the lovely poultry ranchers, saying that it made no sense to “damage the goods” prior to raping them. “Why ugly the women up before fucking them?” inquired Tookie with the disorienting logic that savage men sometimes have.

  Eddie grumbled and looked morose. Wanting to keep morale high, Tookie ordered another bottle of whiskey, filled up the glasses, then smiled at Eddie and explained that there might be a possibility of Eddie breaking a woman’s nose or arm—but it had to happen after Tookie had fucked them both.

  Eddie appeared quite pleased with the compromise.

  They had barged their way into the home, kicking in the front door. But their arrival had not been quiet. Jared had heard them when they were nearly a hundred yards from the homestead, and he’d seen them even farther away when they made no effort to hide their silhouettes as they crested the hill in the road leading to the house.

  Tookie stood now near the door, with Eddie and the other gunman behind him. Samantha and Amanda were near the fireplace, their eyes defiant, their shoulders held squarely.

  “You bitches need to learn yourselves a lesson,” Tookie said, “and we’ve come to do the teachin’!”

  Jared stepped out of the bedroom with his Colt already in hand. He had heard Tookie’s boasting when he and the others were riding slowly toward the homestead, and he had heard the venomous misogyny in his tone. And, now that he could see Tookie in candlelight, he could also see that the black Stetson on his head was the one Jared had lost the first night he’d met Helen and they’d run from the gang of outlaws.

  “Walk away from this,” Jared said as the three men wheeled to face him.

  Tookie was the first to react, raising the pistol he already had in his hand. He was, therefore, the first to die. The other two died seconds later. Eddie, who liked to call himself Fast Eddie, was able to get his pistol un-holstered and even managed to cock the hammer and fire off a shot in the general direction of Jared. But his bullet had gone wide of the mark, and Jared’s did not.

  Four gunshots inside the confines of a single room create a deafening noise, and Jared’s ears were ringing as he turned to look at Samantha and Amanda. Amanda appeared horrified. Samantha was smiling.

  “They would have killed both of you,” Jared said, as though needing to explain his actions.

  Samantha nodded and replied, “Or worse. I’ve seen those men around Whitetail Creek. Good people walk out of their way to avoid them.”

  Amanda’s expression of horror evolved slowly into one of relief. “Well, now that they’re not going to hurt us or anyone else ever again, what do we do with the bodies?”

  Helen stepped out of the bedroom. She pointed at Tookie’s corpse and said, “Jared, isn’t that man wearing the hat you had on the night I met you?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You stupid bastard! Have you any idea how much damage you’ve done?”

  Gregg had seen his father angry before, but he could never remember seeing him quite this angry. His face had gone from pink to an unhealthy shade of red, and when he hissed out his venomous words through clenched teeth, spittle flew from his lips.

  “Dad—”

  “Shut up! Just shut your dumb fucking mouth!” Jerome shot back, his voice rising despite the fact that he was at the bank, in Gregg’s office, and there were employees and patrons just outside the door.

  Gregg started to defend himself, but before a single syllable was spoken, Jerome shot him a withering look that threatened immediate execution if he heard another word.

  Jerome inhaled deeply to compose his jangled nerves. He walked over to the map on the wall, the map that he had used to plan his takeover of all the most valuable property in and around Whitetail Creek. He put his hands to his hips and shook his head slowly, just the way he always did whenever he was thoroughly disappointed with his son—which was often.

  “So, you burned your own fiancée’s house to the ground, and the whole town knows about it. You sent men out to beat up the
Averly brothers, but instead of just beating them up, one of the Averly brothers is dead now, and the other is still unconscious over at Doc Borden’s office. You sent three men to some damned little chicken ranch and all three are right now as dead as Julius Caesar.” He turned slowly to face his son. The complexion of his face had evolved from ruddy red to pasty white as the full magnitude of his public relations nightmare sank in. “Amanda Nichols and Samantha Murchison are two of the most respected women in Whitetail Creek. They are also good friends with a small man with a very big mouth named Marcus.” He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “That freak of nature must have told every person in Whitetail Creek what you’ve done. Goddamn, what a colossal idiot you are!”

  Gregg put a hand up, seeing a chance to redeem himself. “Don’t worry about Marcus. He works for me, and I’ll let him know that if he says a word against us, I’ll fire his ass.”

  Gregg hadn’t thought it possible for his father’s respect to sink any lower, but after his last comment, he saw that it could. And had.

  “You’re too dumb for words. Marcus is the worst gossip in Whitetail Creek. There isn’t a soul in Whitetail Creek with any clout at all who hasn’t heard at least some of the stories of what happened. And everyone knows that we’re behind it all.” He turned to the map, appearing unable to look at his son without feeling physically ill. “Jared must have been at that chicken ranch when your men showed up. That’s the only way those two women could have pulled the trigger on three hard men. The only way.” He put his fingertips to his temples and rubbed softly, issuing a long, slow, exhaling sigh of utter disgust. “I’m going to ride out immediately to see the territorial governor. If there’s going to be any calls for an investigation, I want him on our side. He’s a man who understands business. A five-thousand-dollar golden handshake will make him see things our way.”

  “What do you want me to do while you’re gone?” Gregg hated the tone of his own voice. He loathed his father, but he nevertheless desperately wanted his blessings and respect.

  Jerome Neilson looked at his son for a full thirty seconds before finally saying with quiet honesty, “Die. Do you think you can do that for me?”

  He left the office without another word.

  * * * *

  Gregg locked up the bank with a sense of relief. It had been a difficult day, to say the very least. No less than two dozen people had come to the bank to withdrawal all of their money, closing out their accounts because they refused to do business with scoundrels like the Neilsons. A couple times, Gregg had tried to dissuade the people from closing their accounts—particularly with Michael Duerson, who owned several profitable mines and was financing the new stage line between Whitetail Creek and Fargo—but Duerson’s mind was made up and wouldn’t be changed. He told Gregg, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone at the bank, that he’d rather throw his money away than leave it in any bank owned by the Neilsons.

  These activities meant that whenever Jerome got back from his expensive meeting with the territorial governor, there would be more bad news waiting for him. It was bad news that Gregg would have to deliver, and for which Gregg would be blamed. Of that, the younger Neilson had no doubt.

  As he headed away from the bank, walking slowly down the boardwalk with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Gregg began wondering what the odds were of his father getting robbed on his way to seeing the governor. Robbed…and maybe killed? Such things happened all the time in and around Whitetail Creek.

  A faint smile tickled Gregg’s mouth. Was he asking too much to have his father die from a thief’s bullet? Was it a sin to hope for such an occurrence?

  With vague thoughts of patricide lightening his emotional burden, Gregg walked with a bit more spring to his step as he headed for Pamela G’s, his favorite restaurant in Whitetail Creek. Though much of city’s business was geared toward mining and cattle, and to the hardscrabble lives and low incomes that those occupations tended to create, there were still a few establishments who catered to the small-in-numbers, well-heeled, polite society of Whitetail Creek. Jerome’s wealth had been the ticket of invitation for Gregg to enter that society, and he was never more comfortable than when seated at a table in a leather chair at Pamela G’s, enjoying a beefsteak entrée and the scrumptious dessert pies that could be found nowhere else.

  He reached Pamela G’s as the sun was setting. Stepping through the front door, the aroma of beef on the grill in the kitchen tickled his olfactory senses. He sighed. There was pleasure in the world, after all. He didn’t give a damn if his father hated him, just as he didn’t give a rat’s ass if some poor miners decided to pull their pitiful savings out of his bank. He knew that what mattered was power, money, and the delicious food that could be found at Pamela G’s. Everything else, Gregg decided as he stood waiting for the hostess to seat him, was bullshit. Complete bullshit.

  The hostess’s back was to him, so Gregg touched her on the shoulder, saying, “Is my table ready, Emily?”

  He saw her expression change, and he knew instantly that she had heard the rumors. Damn. He’d always liked Emily, enjoying her smile whenever he walked into the restaurant and the way she always made a point of telling him that the table he preferred was his personal table that other people sometimes used. Emily always made Gregg feel welcome, feel special. Until now.

  Emily nibbled on her lower lip for a moment before replying, “Actually…um…there’s someone at it right now. You could wait or I could seat you somewhere else.”

  Gregg saw her face go slightly pale and felt a small twinge of sympathy for the young woman. He said, “Any table will do for tonight. I’ve had a dreadful day, and I can think of no better way of putting that day behind me than to sit here, have a couple whiskeys, eat a magnificent meal, and then finish it all off with one of your stupendous pies.”

  Usually Emily thanked him whenever he complimented the food and service at Pamela G’s, but she didn’t this time. Gregg took notice of the error, thought briefly of telling Pamela G herself that the girl had been something less than cordial, then decided against it. With an unusual sense of forgiveness, Gregg decided that just because he’d just suffered through a hellacious day, that didn’t mean little Emily should have a hellacious night.

  A prickle of concern touched Gregg’s psyche when he was escorted past three empty tables and shown the table nearest the back doors where the waiters were always hurrying in and out of the kitchen. It was another insult from Emily, Gregg decided, and this time he wouldn’t be so forgiving. He spent a small fortune nearly every week at Pamela G’s, so he had the right to have the owner summoned to him so he could make his displeasure known.

  Gregg sat, his fleshy fingers laced together on the tablecloth in front of him, already mentally savoring the sound of the ice in the cut crystal cocktail glass that would hold his sour mash whiskey. There weren’t a handful of places in all of Whitetail Creek that could afford to have ice brought in during the summer months, but Pamela G’s was one of them—and she charged a small fortune for the drinks because of it, too. But Gregg didn’t care. Some pleasures were worth the price, no matter what the cost. Some things—like good sour mash whiskey over ice. And warm, fresh apple pie with vanilla ice cream on the side. Or beefsteaks cooked to perfection, topped with butter and garlic and served sizzling hot from the grill.

  Those were the things that really made life worthwhile.

  The click of heels against the brightly polished oak floor caught his attention. Gregg looked up to find Pamela G striding toward him, weaving her way between the tables of patrons. She did not look pleased, but this didn’t concern Gregg. The money he spent at the restaurant on a yearly basis amounted to the combined gross income of a half dozen moderately successful miners. He decided she needed to be taught that he was a man to be treated with respect, and he intended on telling her that in a voice loud enough for the other customers to hear. Gregg Neilson wasn’t a man who had to take insults from anyone.

  “Yo
u fat runt, get out of my restaurant, and don’t ever come back!”

  The vehemence of the assault from Pamela G, delivered from a distance of at least twenty feet and at such a volume that there couldn’t possibly be a single person in the restaurant who hadn’t heard what she’d said, made the breath catch in Gregg’s chest. Though he looked only at the proprietress, he could tell that all eyes were now trained on him. In a blinding flash of awareness, he realized that being seated at the worst table in restaurant had not been an accident or oversight.

  For several seconds he merely looked into Pamela’s G’s blazing eyes, his mind in a whirl, searching for something to say. Words failed him, but not Pamela G.

  “Get out of my restaurant and don’t ever come back,” Pamela G continued, her tone high-pitched and shrill with moral indignation. She extended an arm, pointing a finger at the front doors of the establishment. “You are a swine, and I want you out of my restaurant this instant. Marcus told me all about what you’ve done. Go! Leave! Leave and don’t ever come back. I don’t ever want to see your fat, ugly face again.”

  There was a high-pitched ringing in Gregg’s ears as he got unsteadily to his feet. For a moment he thought he might actually get sick right there in the restaurant, in front of all the people who were staring at him. He squared his shoulders, determined to be dignified even if Pamela G was not, and began walking toward the front doors.

  As Gregg walked, Pamela G added a final insult. “And tell your father he’s not welcome, either. You tell him I said that!”

  Gregg had thought the worst was over, but it was not. As the last of Pamela G’s insults echoed off the restaurant walls, the patrons began clapping their hands, applauding their proprietress, cheering the courage of her convictions. Thirty people were smiling at his agony, clapping their hands in public approval of his humiliation, utterly without fear of his retaliation.