Vigilante Sin: Steamy western with a paranormal twist. (GloryLand Book 1)

by Lana Gotham

  “Yeah. It ain’t like she raised you or anything,” I said. It was a low blow. I’d meant it as a joke but as soon as I said the words—I knew I shouldn’t have.

  Cheryl’s face clouded with anger. “She was no Mama to me. She made me earn my keep as her maid. So excuse me if I don’t get sentimental over the town pimp.”

  I turned up my glass and finished my whiskey, then sat it neatly in front of me. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  In the corner, two men jumped to their feet and drew their guns on one another. Their chairs clattered to the floor. The rest of the men at their table didn’t bother stopping their game.

  “Idiots,” I mumbled. I pulled my pistol and spun. “Take it outside, boys.”

  Neither man moved. I pulled back the hammer.

  “I said take it outside. Now.”

  Slowly. Deliberately. The men made their way across the bar, neither lowering their guns. A few moments later, when they were no longer in the bar, but outside in the dirt street, the crack of gunfire sounded. Cheryl cocked her head to the side, her lips screwed into an annoyed scowl. “I guess I’d better send someone to fetch doc.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “He’s at the Daigle’s place. I’ll send him over after I finish my whiskey. I’m going to give Mary-Belle’s room one more look around. I keep feeling like I missed something.” I typically kept my cards close to my chest—but Cheryl was a friend.

  “Speaking of that.” Cheryl again leaned close across the bar. I holstered my pistol and leaned in, following her lead. “There has been a rumor going around. About a masked man. Old Chester Murdock said he saw him. Said he hopped from roof top to roof top. Lithe as a cat.”

  “Bullshit.” I pushed away from the bar, annoyed. Everyone talked in front of the bar tender, and Cheryl had a nose for gossip. I thought I was going to finally get a lead, but calling Chester Murdock the town drunk was an understatement. “Chester wouldn’t know his asshole from his eyeball,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Cheryl crossed her arms. “But what else do you have to go on right now?”

  She had a point.

  Tom’s eyes had rounded into two globes and I could practically see the wheels in his head turning—probably with some kind of cockamamie idea. “Did Chester say if he saw any red on the man? Like on his clothes or something?”

  Me and Cheryl both looked at Tom and then turned back to each other.

  What the hell is he talking about?

  “I am serious, Sheriff. My Maw used to say that the witches on the mountain could give men the power to fly. Maybe this man—maybe he saw himself a witch. Maybe that is why he could hop on the rooftops. Maw also said you couldn’t ever visit the mountain without getting a little of that red dust on you. Said it don’t ever completely wash off either—no matter how hard you scrub.”

  Nobody said a word. Tom was always spouting dumb shit.

  But Cheryl was right. What else did I have to go on?

  And Tom’s question was better than anything I could think of at the moment.

  Red Soot Mountain was a place I tried to block from my mind—in my opinion anybody with a brain would pretend it didn’t exist. Getting mixed up with witches never worked out well. We’d all grown up listening to our parents and grandparents tell stories of the mysterious yellow-eyed women who lived over the mountain pass. They’d seduce anyone who made the trek up their mountain into doing their bidding. It was said that they used the promise of magic to use men up and spit them out. Everyone had heard of someone who’d disappeared over the mountain. And everyone’s maw or aunt or cousin had a tale about the red soot that stained skin and refused to wash out of clothes.

  I knew there was truth to the tales. When I was a little girl, I’d had dealings with a witch, though I never talked about it. Not with Cheryl. Not with Tom. Not even with Jon, my lover.

  I sighed and stood. There had been red dust on Mary-Bell’s. Had there been red dust at the other victim’s places? I couldn’t be sure—like I said before—it wasn’t exactly uncommon for red dirt to be found all over the place in GloryLand.

  I dropped a few coins on the bar and picked up my hat. Tom was an idiot, but even an idiot was bound to have a half-good idea every now and then.

  “Where you off too, Alyssa?” Cheryl asked, using my real name. Smugness swirled in her eyes and puckered her lips as she rested her chin against the back of her hand.

  “Where the hell you think I am going? I am going to do another pass around Mary-Belle’s house to check for red dust.” I stopped and added, “I think this magic, flying, red-dust covered, masked man is about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of, for the record.”

  “But there you go,” Cheryl said smugly.

  “Dammit. Here I go.” I didn’t mention that I’d already noticed dust near the window. No need in letting Tom get a big head over the possibility of finally being right about something.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Tom beaming with pride.

  “Wait up, Sheriff. I’m coming with you. What would you do without me?” His boots were heavy on the wood floor as he followed me through the saloon doors.

  “I don’t know, Tom,” I said. “You’re genius is unmatched.”

  Chapter 3

  I’d found no new dust at Mary-Belle’s—only the tiny bit near her window. I still believed it was remnants of the red clay that coated our town—not red-magic-witch-sand from the far-away-scary-as-shit mountain.

  The feeling of missing something obvious still lingered and I’d remained in the dead woman’s room, pacing in circles and rechecking every square inch until sun down. After that, I’d had to hunt down and then lock up a very drunk Peter Smith so he could dry out before he got himself shot. Then I’d visited Madam Jenny and settled a dispute between her and that old cheapskate Lewis Wallace. He’d gotten the full work up but only wanted to pay for a blow job because, as he put it, “it was only ok.” I don’t know what Madame Jenny was more upset about—being shorted the cash or Lewis bad mouthing one of her girls. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson after the fiasco with Leland earlier in the day.

  On my way out of the bar, I’d had to break up a fight. Being a Davis meant that my skin was mostly indestructible. It was my family’s blessing—that we were tough as nails. Literally. It had its advantages, and I’d been able to get everyone out of the saloon with only a minor scratch. Of course, I’d had to kick a little ass, but that’s part of the job. (Or maybe one of the perks, depending on when you asked me.)

  When I’d finally hopped on Diana for the long ride to my house outside off town, I was one big pile of knotted tension.

  I’d arrived home and wanted nothing more than to take care of my appaloosas and fall into bed. The day had turned into a long one, as usual.

  Thank the gods for Jon. Sweet, reliable Jon, who always knew what I needed to feel better.

  He’d filled our huge copper bathing tub with water and then warmed it by fire. I’d shucked my clothes right on the porch and jumped in.

  He’d joined me.

  We sat in silence, neither feeling the need to speak, as we soaked, and Jon began to massage my feet.

  Being good with his hands was only one of Jon’s many talents.

  “That’s amazing,” I moaned. I leaned my head back into the warm water and looked toward the stars that blanketed the sky. They were so heavy that the night above me seemed like a single, expertly cut crystal who’s many facets winked and sparkled.

  Somewhere in the distant dark, a coyote yodeled. Minutes later his mate joined him, turning his melancholy song into a duet. To me, it was the unmatched beauty of the desert night.

  At the other end of the copper tub, Jon moved from kneading the soles of my feet to massaging my calves.

  “Mmm” I sighed.

  “You work too hard, Little Wolf,” he said, using the nickname he’d given me the day we met. Jon moved his hands north, onto my thighs.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s just
that I should be able to solve these murders, yet they keep happening. GloryLand just ain’t that big of a place. If there is a monster here, then I should be able to sniff him out.”

  Jon smiled, his face an opaque screen. I never knew what he was thinking.

  “Maybe I can help you relax,” He said, slyly. His rough hands continued to squeeze the inner and outer thigh of one tired leg and then the other.

  “That’s nice,” I purred.

  He inched his fingers upward, moving higher until he reached between my legs where he caressed my clit with his thumb, pulling from me a deeper need. The delicious tension continued to build as he stroked, back and forth and back and forth, until every muscle of my body tensed. I lay my head back in the water, but kept my eyes open, hungry with anticipation.

  Jon slid his fingers against my slick wetness and rubbed.

  I shuddered as the hot tingle continued to build. When I couldn’t stand it, I sat up, sloshing water over the sides of the bathing tub. Jon didn’t stop. I moaned as he slid first two, and then three fingers deeper into my sex, moving his index finger until he found just the right spot. The look on his face was serious as ever as he drew another moan from deep within me. My nipples puckered, and I wished for his mouth to cover them. To suck and flick and even bite and nip. As if he could read my mind—or maybe we were than in sync—Jon moved to my end of the tub, his knees tucked under him. His lips started at my ears, then neck then collarbone. I resisted the urge to grab his face on either side and push him down until my breast was in his mouth. I knew better—if I tried to rush him, he’d take pleasure in making me wait.

  The moonlight shown against my pale breast, as he took one protruding nipple gently in his teeth, running his tongue over the sensitive tip, then sucking hard, he pulled much of my small, pert breast into his mouth. With one hand, he pinched the tip of my other breast, hard, and the pain made me teeter on the edge of ecstasy as I clenched around the fingers of his other hand, that were working furiously below.

  Then he stopped.

  “No,” I moaned. “Please, Jon. Please.” I opened my eyes to catch the gleam in his gaze. He oh-so-slowly began to stroke me again. It was painstaking and teased my body until I couldn’t stand it. His tongue traced the round, pink outline of my areola.

  “Ask me nicely, Little-Wolf. Patience is a virtue.”

  “Please Jon.” I meant it. I was the Sheriff of GloryLand—I never begged a man for anything. I single handedly rounded up the baddies and kept the women and children—and yes even the men—of our small territory safe. A member of the Davis clan had been Sherriff for as long as GloryLand had been occupied—but I was the first daughter. I was a woman doing a man’s job and I took it seriously.

  But Jon—with his deep copper skin and ropey muscles—held the power to make me beg until I cried.

  “I need it Jon.”

  “You need it?”

  “Yes. Baby. Please.”

  Mischief danced in his black eyes, but it never crossed his face. Instead, his fingers again picked up speed. I looked down to see his girth expand under the warm water and it sent yet another thrill through me. I’d never grow tired of Jon’s cock. The way it filled me, stretching me and pushing me in a way that almost made me orgasm just thinking of it.

  As his fingers began to gather momentum, the perfect, hot tension again began to take hold. It started in my sex and the heat slid up through my abdomen, to my chest, and across my face.

  He thrust his fingers deep in me, this time four, and found the perfect spot.

  Every muscle in my body tensed, my sex tightening around his fingers. Finally, with my head tilted and back arched, under the GloryLand desert sky, I released.

  He pulled away and looked down into my face. Once, as we lay in bed under the covers, he’d confessed how he loved to watch me come. “Your face is wild and free in a way you never are. And I made you feel that way,” he’d said. It had made me feel special. Beautiful.

  Jon slid back to his side of the tub and continued to eye me with a sexy, mischievous look. The head of his enormous cock saluted me over the top of the water. God I wanted it inside me.

  I’m tiny compared to Jon’s six foot three frame, and he smiled down at me. I climbed onto the tops of his legs and kissed him hard on his mouth. I opened his lips with my own and drew him deeper into the kiss and bit him lightly on the lip. I pulled away. Jon wrapped his arms around my slight frame.

  I moaned loudly, as I reached down and took Jon’s erection in my hand and squeezed. I caressed his length before spreading my legs wide and slowly sliding it inside of my wet center. I lowered myself as far down as I could, taking all of him inside me. Then I pulled his face toward mine, and we breathed the same air as I rode him like only a cowgirl could.

  My breathing quickened as I bucked and swayed and bounced. His length barely fit and his girth filled me completely. Without dismounting, I turned my back to Jon and continued my ride in his favorite position, facing away into the backward cowgirl. He squeezed my breast in his large hands, then moved one hand down, slipping his fingers over my clit in rhythm with my thrust. Even under the water I could feel the slip of his fingers against my pussy. He pressed and rubbed, taking my nub between his thumb and index finger and squeezing lightly.

  Again the warmth built until it exploded inside of me, and this time I could barely move. Jon grabbed my hips, and with his strong arms, thrust me three more times, before I felt him come inside.

  Jon gathered me in his arms and carried me naked into our cabin.

  Chapter 4

  I knew we weren’t in love. But we were friends. We cared for each other. We trusted each other. We filled a need that we both had. I could have loved John—loved him deeply. But I knew I wasn’t enough for him. He’d experienced true love. Once in a lifetime love. I couldn’t measure up, but I told myself that was okay. That what we had was enough for me.

  Once upon a time, several years ago, Jon had another name. And another life. One with a wife and a son. He’d been fiercely in love with the woman he’d married. I know because one night, after too many shots of whiskey, he’d opened up and told me about her.

  They were sweethearts since childhood, and married when they were young. They’d had a son, and wanted more, and been happy in their little house many days journey away in the middle of nowhere, keeping to themselves, until one day three years ago, Jon left for a hunt, as he often did. When he came home a few days later, his wife was dead and his son was gone. He’d galloped into the nearest town for help, and been told that his kind weren’t allowed. Someone had destroyed his life and no one would help him. No one cared.

  He’d stayed in his house with his wife’s body for a week, praying for her to return to him, to haunt him, before he could bring himself to perform burial rights.

  After that he’d saddled his horse and drifted for a long time, before settling near GloryLand.

  I never pressed him about it, even though it occupied my thoughts often. I wasn’t jealous—but I was curious. Had he been different then? Before so much tragedy? Had he laughed easily? How had he been when he was with her? I squeezed his hand underneath the quilt, suddenly sad that my lover didn’t have his wife. It was a complicated feeling, one that if I’d taken the time to dissect, I would still have not understood.

  Now, it was hard to imagine Jon without the somber haze that clung to him like a cloud, even as we laid together in bed. I snuggled close to him and pulled his arms around me. He kissed the top of my head, and I lifted one of his hands to my mouth and gave him a playful nip.

  “The Little Wolf bites,” he said.

  “You like it.”

  He squeezed me tighter.

  Unlike any other men I’d met, Jon had a calm spirit, and never minded stepping aside, and letting me take the lead in our life, both in and out of the bedroom. Though on nights I needed a release, he certainly didn’t mind taking the reins, either. But it was more than sex. There was a trust between us—the kind s
hared between two outsiders—misfits in a town where we neither belonged, but we also called home.

  I’d been born the girl child in a family that for generations, had only produced males. Paw had gasped and Mama had cried. And no one knew what to expect. The Davis boys had always been born tough as nails, with skin like iron and mostly indestructible (a power we’d inherited for as long as anyone could remember) but there’d never been a Davis girl.

  Turns out I was every bit as strong as any son Paw could have hoped for. When I’d taken over as Sheriff, all the women and most of the men knew better than to object. Paw had been the Sheriff before me, and his Paw before him. For better or worse, it was my birth right, and when I pinned that little badge to my vest, I also pinned to myself all of GloryLand’s problems. My job was a burden that I carried zealously.

  “Tell me about these murders,” Jon said. His voice was deep and even.

  “There ain’t that much to tell,” I said. “Mary-Bell Daigle, Viktor Daigle’s wife, was found today. She was posed same as the others. And besides them all being on the hoity-toity side, you’d be hard pressed to find a real connection between the victims. Maybe I could find individual reasons that specific people would want to kill each of them, but as a group, they don’t seem to have anything in common.”

  “These killings must have a purpose. Maybe you need to dig deeper,” Jon said.

  “No shit.” I smiled, wryly. “Good thing I have a big, strong man like you to solve these conundrums for me, or whatever would I do?” Jon was serious, which made giving him shit that much more fun.

  Without warning, and with very little effort, he pushed me out of the bed. I landed on the floor with a clunk.

  “Hey. No fair.” The planked wood was cold on my naked backside.

  “Good night, Little Wolf.”

  I hopped back into the bed and snuggled close to Jon’s warmth. “Good night.”