Longarm and the Diamondback Widow

by Tabor Evans

  A charcoal brazier glowed in a corner. The door to the bedroom was open, revealing an unmade bed with a candle burning on a near table. The bed was rumpled, covers thrown back. Longarm had a feeling that Rainey’s bereaved widow had been spending a lot of time in it.

  Her hands shook slightly as she splashed amber liquid from a cut glass container into two short water glasses. She brought one of the glasses to Longarm.

  “Brandy,” she said. “Probably not the appropriate glass, but my husband never stood much on form, which was one of the things I loved about him.”

  Her voice quavered and tears oozed into her eyes. She smiled as though to try to cover the emotion, and swung around quickly. She walked over and retrieved the other glass and then walked over to the rocking chair. Turning to Longarm, she held out her arm and said, “Please. Have a seat.”

  She sat down in the rocker. She appeared to be struggling to maintain composure.

  She knew what he wanted to know, so Longarm sat down in the armchair, sipped his brandy, and waited. She sipped her own drink and crossed one leg over the other.

  “He was shot,” she said, staring at the floor between them, rocking a little in the chair.

  She drew a breath, steeling herself. “I saw it happen. I was here, waiting for him as I always do, every afternoon. We always went to supper together downstairs or we’d walk over to Abigaile’s. Five-thirty every evening. I knew he’d ridden out of town earlier, and I’d been worried all day. I had a . . . I don’t know . . . a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remember I even prayed and I, like Des, was never given to prayer. I was raised in a very strict, religious household, and I’d had enough . . .”

  Mrs. Rainey shook her head, apparently realizing she was getting off track.

  She took another sip of her brandy and lifted her gaze to Longarm. “Like I said, Marshal Long—I saw it happen. I was at the window. It was raining and Des was walking up to the jailhouse. He must have just gotten back to town and stabled his horse. He went into the sheriff’s office and a moment later there a flash in the windows and in the door. I thought maybe Des was having trouble with a lamp, but then I saw him . . .”

  The woman’s voice quivered. She lowered her gaze to the floor again and lifted a shaky hand to her face.

  She pressed two fingers to her chin, drew a breath, and then pinched her chin between her thumb and index finger. “I saw Des fly back out of the office and land in the street.” Her breasts rose and fell heavily as her breathing became strained. “He landed in the muddy street.”

  “Someone was waiting in the office for him?”

  She nodded. Her face crumpled, but then she got her emotions under control again. She swallowed. “Yes. I heard the blast. It sounded like thunder. Funny, I thought for a minute lightning had struck his office. I stared at him just lying there, not quite able to believe what I was seeing, and then I ran out of the room and down the stairs. I screamed for Mrs. Fletcher and ran outside.”

  Her mouth twisted. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “By the time I got to him, he was dead. He just stared up at me. It almost looked like he was smiling, as though he were telling me not to worry, that everything would be all right.”

  Mrs. Rainey’s voice broke, and the rest came out pinched and barely understandable: “But he was dead though his eyes were still open. He was dead! Des was dead and just lying there in the street!”

  She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, and cried into her hands.

  She looked so grieved and vulnerable and downright tortured that Longarm, awkward at lending comfort, rose from his chair and dropped to a knee before her. She was sobbing uncontrollably. He touched her arm, and it seemed to be the only invitation she needed to lean into him, wrap her arms around him, and bury her wet face in his shoulder.

  Now she cried harder, her body spasming against him.

  Longarm wrapped his arms around her and held her until her cries slowly died. She pulled her head away, and Longarm dug a handkerchief out of his pants pocket.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, wiping her cheeks and brushing the cloth across her nose. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, ma’am,” Longarm said gently. “I’m the one who’s sorry. But if it’s any consolation at all, I aim to find out who killed your husband and bring him to justice. Do you have any idea?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, blowing her nose into his handkerchief.

  The firm reply startled him.

  She sat back in her chair, balling his handkerchief in her fist. “I’ll have this cleaned for you, Deputy Long.”

  “Please, call me Longarm.” He realized that he had his hand on her knee. He removed it quickly, though he could still feel the warmth of her supple leg. She looked at his hand, as well, in a vague, oblique way, and then lifted her glass to her lips and sipped the brandy.

  As she set the glass back down, she looked at him still on one knee before her and frowned. “Longarm?”

  Longarm offered a sheepish smile. “Custis Long, long arm of the law. I reckon that’s where it comes from. I been called Longarm so long I reckon I plumb forgot exactly where the handle came from. All I know is that’s what most folks call me, and you’re welcome to call me that, too.”

  She smiled as brightly as she could through her anguish. “Longarm. I like that. Please call me Meg.”

  “All right, Meg.” Without realizing that he had raised his hand again, he placed it on her knee. It seemed the natural thing to do, so he tried not to pay too much attention to it as he said, “You said you know who the killer might be. Did you see him?”

  Meg Rainey shook her head. “No. By the time I’d run out there, he was gone. I saw someone run around the corner of the building just west of my husband’s office, but it was cloudy and rainy and he was just a blur. I believe he was wearing a black hat and a cream shirt, possibly a red neckerchief, but I could be wrong about all of that.” She shook her head once, blinking. “I’d hate to accuse the wrong man. I really want you to find the man who killed my husband, Deputy Long. The right man.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I suspect—Oh, I shouldn’t say this without more proof . . .” She set her left elbow on an arm of the rocker and rested her chin against the heel of the hand in which Longarm’s handkerchief was wadded.

  Longarm gently squeezed her knee. “Please, Meg—any information you can give me will be a whole wagonload more than what I have so far . . .”

  “All I can really tell you for now, Longarm, is that someone rode to town that morning to fetch my husband on what sounded like a dire mission. I was in Des’s office—we often took our coffee together around eight—and Dan Garvey’s hired hand, a drunkard named Calvin Johnson, galloped into town to inform Des that his boss wanted to see him out at the crossroads near Diamondback Creek. Apparently he’d discovered something that Des needed to look into.”

  “A killing? Rustling?”

  “I have no idea.” She stopped, reconsidered. “I mean, I do have an idea, but I’d like you to look into the matter first before I offer it. Because I could be wrong, and the last thing I want to do is accuse the wrong people of murdering Des.” She stared at him, and he felt the burn of her hazel gaze. “The right man—or men—must be brought to justice.”

  Longarm sighed and rose, throwing back the last of his brandy and thinking through what Meg had told him. She held her empty glass up. “Would you mind?” she asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Refill your own, as well.”

  Longarm went over to the side table and splashed another two shots into each glass. He brought Meg’s back to her, sipped his own, and looked down at the poor woman, who continued to seem on the verge of breaking down.

  “I guess, since you won’t give me the name of the man you suspect, I’ll have to ride out to this Ga
rvey place and see what the trouble had been the day your husband was killed.”

  Meg nodded. Tears came to her eyes, and she winced and looked away. “I’ll draw you a map,” she said, her voice quivering. She set her elbow on the arm of her chair again and leaned her forehead against her fist. “Oh, Des,” she said, “why did this have to happen?”

  Longarm knelt before her again, placed his hand on her knee. This time it was purely an automatic gesture stemming from his desire to lend comfort. “I’m very sorry, Mrs.—Meg. Isn’t there someone in town who can stay with you until you’re feeling better?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher offered, but it didn’t feel right. People in town—they . . . well, they don’t seem to want to have much to do with me. It’s almost like they all feel guilty about Des’s murder. It’s as though they somehow feel responsible for it—because I suppose they suspect who did it—and I only remind them of the trouble.”

  She stared at him, befuddled. “Do you know what I mean, Longarm?”

  “I know what you mean. No one in town—aside from you, of course—has offered me any help at all in finding Sheriff Rainey’s killer. I was beginning to suspect the entire town was somehow responsible. That they’d all turned on the man they’d hired to enforce the laws here in Diamondback.”

  “No, that’s not it. They’re just afraid of what might happen to the town when the real killer or killers are brought to justice.”

  “So it is someone powerful, then.”

  “I think so. But that’s all I want to say on the matter. If I talk too much, I could influence your investigation in the wrong way. And I don’t want to do that. I want you to investigate this yourself, knowing only what I told you.”

  “You think that’s enough, Meg?”

  “I do.” She placed her hand on his hand that was resting on her knee. “I will be very anxious to learn what you come up with, Longarm.”

  Longarm looked at their hands. He was conscious of the warm and supple leg beneath his palm. He slid his hand out from beneath hers and started to rise. “Well, I’d best get on back to my own—”

  “Please, stay.”

  Chapter 12

  Longarm remained on his knee, frowning up at the woman. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “You’ll think me craven, but I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  “But, Meg . . .”

  “I’m so tired of feeling only pain, Longarm. I’d like to feel something else besides pain, pain, pain! Do you understand?”

  “I think you’re just—”

  “It’s no secret that my husband was much older than I. We were married only two years. For one year, he . . .” She glanced off as though searching for the right words. “He wasn’t the man he wanted to be. Make no mistake, I loved Des dearly, and I managed to suppress my natural needs. I didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already felt. But . . .”

  She raked her arms across Longarm’s thick, weathered-brown neck and his broad chest and heavy shoulders straining the seams of his frock coat. “But . . . you’re here now, and I must tell you, as shameful as it may be, I thoroughly enjoyed your hand on my knee just now.”

  Longarm’s heart thudded.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she leaned forward suddenly and placed two fingers to his lips.

  “Please, put it on my knee again, will you?” she whispered.

  Longarm finished his drink in one fell swoop, set the glass on the floor, and placed his hand on her knee again. It was warmer than before. He felt as though he could feel it expanding and contracting with each beat of her heart. He could hear her breathing as she stared down at his hand, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks from wet eyes.

  She placed her hand on his hand again, very gently. Slowly, she pressed it more firmly on his. She breathed harder and harder, her breasts rising and falling heavily behind her thin, colorful wraps and the man’s cream undershirt.

  “Take your cock out of your pants,” she breathed, keeping her eyes on her hand pressing firmly down on his.

  “Meg, maybe we should think about this. I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly.” As much as he wanted this woman—as much as she’d worked him up, he had no intention of taking advantage of her in this obviously precarious, emotionally compromised state she was in.

  “Take your cock out of your pants. I want to see it.”

  Longarm swallowed. Her words alone were flooding blood to the organ of topic.

  He straightened, unbuckled his cartridge belt, and set it on the chair he’d been sitting on. She was leaning forward a little in her rocking chair, hands folded together in her lap, staring at his crotch.

  Her eyes were like warm fingers stroking him. His pants and summer-weight balbriggans were growing painfully tight.

  Longarm unbuttoned the top button of his pants. She parted her lips.

  He unbuttoned his three fly buttons, and a lock of hair slid down from the knot she’d gathered it in, to dangle along her cheek. Longarm felt foolish about exposing himself to this woman he’d just met, but he was also almost erect and getting more erect nearly as fast as a snake could strike. There was something so erotically charged about this grief-stricken woman that there was no turning back.

  He peeled his pants open and then lowered his summer underwear. His cock bounced free of its confines and hung at half-mast though it was swelling noticeably, nearly as thick and round as a bung starter.

  “Oh, my god,” Meg whispered.

  Leaning forward, she slowly reached out, turning her hand palm upward, thumb extended, and caressed the underside of the nodding, growing organ. She placed her other hand on his balls, kneading them with her fingers. She turned the first hand and wrapped her fingers around his cock that was, by now, standing up and arcing back against his belly.

  She smiled and pumped him slowly, gently, fingering his balls with her other hand, leaning forward very slowly until her lips were touching the head of his cock. She kept them there for a time while she played with him, and then she opened her lips slightly and kissed him.

  Her tongue slithered out of her mouth, and she licked the swollen, purple head.

  Longarm groaned, gritted his teeth. Her tongue was like a pure blue flame. Desire stabbed up from his balls and deep into his belly, making his heart beat heavier, faster.

  Meg slid forward from her chair and dropped to her knees. She released his cock and, staring up at him with tender eyes pleading for understanding as well as for nourishment of her long pent-up desires, she slid her wraps down her shoulders.

  She unbuttoned the cream undershirt and let it, too, fall from her shoulders, revealing her full breasts, creamy and tender, round as medium-sized cantaloupes, pink nipples jutting.

  Longarm’s spine melted. His cock throbbed harder, standing straight out in front of his flat, corded belly, nodding.

  She smiled up at him beguilingly, and then wrapped her right hand around his massive cock once more. She cupped her other hand beneath his heavy balls and then closed her mouth over the head of his cock. She moved her face first to one side, then the other, sliding him against the inside of each cheek, causing each cheek to bulge.

  She licked and sucked and then went so far down on him that he thought he could feel her heart throbbing against his staff’s swollen head. She gagged deep in her chest and then slid her mouth off of him, gasping, spittle stringing between her lips and his member.

  “It’s so big,” she said throatily, staring wide-eyed at the wet member standing at attention in front of her face.

  She swallowed, licked some spittle from his cock, and lifted her eyes to his. “I’d like it deeper inside me, Longarm. Could you do that for me and not think me a monster? I have a feeling that Des would understand.” She narrowed her eyes slightly and quirked her mouth corners. “In fact, I bet he’s smiling down from Heaven right now, giving us bo
th permission.”

  She’d obviously loved her husband a great deal, but Longarm thought that grief had chewed a large hole in her brain. But if there was no stopping himself before, there certainly was no stopping him now.

  “Stand up,” he croaked. “Let me get a good look at you, Meg.”

  She kept ahold of his cock as she rose and stood before him, sliding her shoulders back, breasts out. She gave a shudder of desire. Chicken flesh covered both bosoms, and the nipples tightened, distended even farther.

  Longarm kissed her rich mouth and placed his hands on her breasts, cupping them, kneading them, rolling the nipples beneath his thumbs. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her more passionately. She groaned and released his cock and wrapped her arms around his neck, mashing her wet lips against his, flicking her tongue into his mouth and pressing it against his own.

  Finally, he released her, stepped back, and shrugged out of his coat.

  Her breasts rose and fell as she met his fervent, passionate gaze with one of her own. She slipped out of the pantaloons that were all that she was wearing now, and while he undressed, she picked up their empty brandy glasses and walked over to the side table.

  He watched her, letting his eyes feast on her pale, long-limbed, full-hipped body, the half-moons of her breasts bulging out from beneath her arms. She filled their glasses, glanced at him, smiled, and then walked across the parlor area and through the door to the bedroom.

  Longarm grabbed his shell belt and holster and followed her. Inside the bedroom, she sat on the bed, holding her drink against her cleavage. Her eyes no longer owned the emotional sheen of before. Now they danced and shone smoky with a cool, feminine passion, the nubs of her cheeks lightly brushed with pink.

  “Any second thoughts?” he asked, as he coiled his cartridge belt around his holster and set the gun rig on the dresser where the single candle burned.

  “None. I want you to fuck me hard. I want you to make me forget, at least for tonight, the anguish that burns inside me. Will you do that, Longarm? And then will you find the man who murdered my husband?”