Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860)

by Logan, Jake

  “The grass probably never recovered,” Marianne said.

  Slocum’s eyes widened in surprise. She might have read his mind.

  “It’s not that hard, John,” she said. “We got to know each other pretty well, and even got to the point of finishing each other’s sentences.”

  “We did,” he said, “but you’re wrong on one thing.”

  “What’s that?” She looked up at him, blue eyes shining in the dark.

  “It is that hard.”

  “Umm, so it is,” she said, her hand moving down his chest, past his belt buckle to his crotch. Her fingers squeezed lightly and traced the outline of his growing erection. He squirmed as she gripped more firmly. “We do need to get you out of those filthy duds.”

  Pressed together hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and her hand never leaving his crotch, they walked slowly toward the barber shop in the middle of a long row of buildings fetched up against one another like sheep in a flock. Marianne proved she knew the people of Silver City well. The front door opened on well-oiled hinges. Slocum guided her in ahead of him, his hand pressing into the roundness at the rear of her dress.

  He kicked the door shut with his heel so he didn’t have to turn. He spun her about. She came into his arms easily. Slocum experienced an instant of giddiness. It was as if the past thirteen years had never happened, and they were youngsters exploring the mysteries of sex for the first time.

  Their kiss started out passionately and grew in intensity until both were gasping. He pulled her close, hard enough to crush her breasts against his chest. As his hands began roving up and down her back, he found laces and hooks that came undone. When she pushed away from him, her upper garments fell to her waist, leaving her clothed only in a thin shift that hid nothing from his lusting gaze.

  Her firm breasts pressed insistently against that gossamer fabric so her nipples were outlined clearly. As he watched, they grew along with her arousal.

  “I want you, John. I want you now!”

  She came against him again, kissing his lips and stubbled chin and dirty cheeks. This gave him the chance to return the lavish kiss on her slender neck and nibble at her earlobes, moving from one to the other, leaving a trail of kisses across her forehead, on her closed eyes, against her cheeks and lips, as he went.

  Marianne sagged a little.

  “You still have the power over me,” she said, “to turn me into a damp dishrag.”

  He supported her, one arm around her waist. With a scooping move, he swept her up into his arms. This way they kissed more as he went to the back room, where a galvanized bathtub stood to one side and a stove with a water pump beside it in a shallow pit filled with rocks on the other.

  “Get the water. I’ll start the fire,” she said.

  “No fair. You’ve already started my fire.”

  “And you’ve started a forest fire in me,” she said. They kissed a little longer, then Slocum lowered her to the planked floor.

  He watched as she dropped to her knees in front of the stove and bent over, her rear end presenting such a delectable sight as she added wood to the iron belly. Slocum heaved a sigh, turned his attention to the pump, and began working the handle furiously. From deep in the guts of the earth came a choking sound followed by a deep gurgle and a rush of water. A nearby pail caught the flood.

  He swung the bucket around and saw Marianne stripping off her shift. The flames cast pale light against her breasts, creating deep shadows between the snowy globes and turning the penny-sized aureolas and nipples a ruddy red. His erection strained a bit more at the sight.

  “In the pan on top,” she said, grinning when she saw how he stared at her. “You like what you see?”

  “Every bit of it,” he said. His lips met her right tit and sucked in the tip.

  She moaned softly and thrust her chest forward so he took more of the pliant flesh into his mouth. He nibbled, gently at first and then greedily gobbled. His tongue swirled about the rubbery, hard bud and pressed it deep into the marshmallowy underpinnings. This caused Marianne to lose her balance and sit back heavily so that her skirts rode up, giving him a new view that made him even harder.

  “Darned skirts,” she said. She flopped back on the floor, lifted her behind, and wiggled sinuously to get free of the skirt. Another couple sensuous movements left her entirely naked save for her shoes.

  “You’re overdressed,” he said, kneeling in front of her. His hand moved along her bare calf and worked upward to the auburn thatch nestled at the juncture of her thighs.

  “I remember you as a man of action. You never let anything stand in your way before.”

  Slocum began unfastening the shoes. As he did so, he bent forward and kissed every inch of skin as it appeared from the high-top shoes. Her ankles received his attention and then the arch of her foot. She began moaning loudly as he worked to the toes. He sucked on them until they curled under, and she began bucking about on the floor.

  “That’s driving me plumb crazy,” she gasped out. “Do it some more.”

  He did.

  By the time he had pulled off her shoes so she lay entirely naked before him, the water had come to a boil. He dumped this into the tub, added another bucket of cold water, then started a second bucket to boiling. As he finished pouring the water into the bowl on the stove, he felt her bare body moving against his back. Her hands reached around and unfastened his gun belt before working on the buttons at his fly. He almost came as he had that very first time in the Georgia woods when her long, slender fingers circled his freed manhood and began stroking up and down.

  “Get me out of my jeans,” he said, kicking off his boots.

  As Marianne worked to peel off his filthy pants, he dropped his coat, vest, and shirt to the floor. By the time she had skinned him of his pants, the water boiled. Rather awkwardly, he took the water while she kept her arms around his waist, hands slipping up and down on his fleshy shaft. He dumped the water in, then added more cold.

  “This will do us,” Marianne said insistently.

  “With you holding on to me like that, you can get me to follow you anywhere.” He yelped as she jerked hard on him, turning him around so he fell backward into the water.

  She swarmed after him, her knees slipping to either side of his thighs so she poised directly over his throbbing spire, wantonly spread for him. Both gasped when she lowered herself down, letting him slip fully within the tight, wet cavity.

  “Time for a good scrubbing,” she whispered in his ear. “Move . . . vigorously.”

  Slocum was pinned under her weight, but surrounded by her clinging tight sheath of female flesh, he found the strength to lift up and ram even farther into her. Her tightness about him massaged and squeezed and aroused. She lifted enough so he slipped out, only to thrust back in. The hot water sloshed all around, tickling and teasing their most sensitive flesh, but Slocum concentrated on the heat mounting in his loins. No water could heat him like her willing, wet core.

  Clinging to one another, thrusting the best he could, twisting their hips, and him driving ever deeper into her pushed them both closer to the brink of ultimate desire.

  Slocum reached around, cupped her bare wet ass cheeks, and began lifting and dropping her in a smoother rhythm that set them both to crying out. Faster, deeper, harder they strove together until Slocum no longer held back. He felt as if the ache in his cock would drive him crazy if he didn’t get off. With a loud cry, he arched his back, clamped down firmly on her slippery ass, and drove upward like a Fourth of July rocket—with the same results.

  He exploded, then she did.

  More water sloshed out onto the wood planks and drained quickly between the slats. But Slocum was more aware of Marianne pressing hotly against him. He held her. Too many memories came rushing back. That first day in the woods, yes, but the other times. He had been recuperating from his war wounds, and she
had nursed him to full health. Her parents would have shot him for what he and Marianne did in their bed, but Slocum didn’t care. And Marianne certainly didn’t. She had sought him out as eagerly as he had found her for their frequent trysts.

  “I wish we could stay this way forever, John.”

  “We can. We should.”

  “No, we can’t.” Marianne put her hands on his shoulders and pushed back until her elbows locked. She stared down at him. “The water’s too cold, what little there is left of it.”

  “You shouldn’t have sloshed it all out,” he said.

  “Me? You were the one who—Oh, you!” She kissed him, then lithely stood, her feet still on either side of his legs.

  He looked up at about the most delightful view he’d ever seen. If he rode the West for another thirteen years, he doubted anything would compare with this instant. Then she stepped out and began working to refill the bathtub. Reluctantly, he joined in the work, heated more water, and then they spent the next hour washing each other. It took longer than necessary but neither complained.

  After they had dried themselves off on the single towel in the bathroom, Slocum said, “Suppose I ought to leave some money. What’s this Higgins charge?”

  “Two bits for fresh water, a nickel for used,” she said.

  He fished around in his vest pocket and found a dime.

  “This’ll have to do. We did most of the work.”

  “Is that what you call it?” she teased.

  He swatted her rump.

  “Don’t get sassy.”

  “You liked it before.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Slocum said. His thoughts jumbled up, unable to separate the idyllic days in Georgia with this moment. Silver City was anything but peaceable, and folks here weren’t taking too kindly to Marianne.

  For all that, her luck was awful. Getting burned out was the start of a bad stretch. Finding that Texas Jack Bedrich had been murdered had been about as bad as it got. This tore Slocum up inside. He hadn’t known Bedrich, but the man’s death opened a door into the past Slocum had thought forever closed.

  “Walk me back to the hotel. I wish you could come up but—”

  “Mrs. Gruhlkey would object,” he said.

  They looked at each other, then laughed.

  “We’re back to finishing each other’s sentences,” she said.

  The short walk to the hotel could have been a thousand miles and Slocum wouldn’t have objected. As it was, Marianne parted company and vanished into the darkened lobby all too soon. Slocum settled his gun belt, tugged on his hat, and headed back toward the jailhouse, feeling a world better for his bath—and confused about what to do. He had never felt the way he did toward Marianne before or after.

  Slocum reached the calaboose just as the door opened and Carstairs stepped out. The man stretched mightily, then went toward a horse tethered to an iron ring set into the jail’s adobe wall.

  Faster than thought, Slocum had his six-shooter out, cocked, and was about to fire when Dangerous Dan Tucker called out for him to stop.

  “Prisoner’s getting away,” Slocum said. Tucker came up from behind and grabbed his wrist, pulling the pistol out of line.

  Carstairs stopped, took in the tableau, then laughed. He swung into the saddle, cockily tipped his hat, and rode away, whistling off-key.

  “You can’t let him go!” Slocum struggled, then subsided when Sheriff Whitehill exited the jail. Two other men followed him outside.

  The sheriff pointedly refused to shake hands, which produced chuckles from the men. They sneered at Slocum, then disappeared around the jailhouse. In less than a minute both rode past, never giving him or the lawmen a second glance.

  “You let Carstairs go!” Slocum raged.

  “Had to,” Whitehill said. “Those two men gave him an alibi. You’re damn lucky I don’t clap you in the clink. They said you kidnapped their boss from their mine out in Chloride Flats.”

  “What I told you was the truth,” Slocum said.

  “Don’t doubt it, but it’s all three of them varmints’ word against yours and Marianne’s. Nobody here but Dan knows you and, well, ain’t no one in Silver City likely to give much credence to anything Marianne says.”

  “Because they think she’s a cheap whore?”

  “They know she ain’t cheap,” Whitehill said. The sheriff stepped back when he saw the dark cloud on Slocum’s face. “You go get yourself some sleep. Otherwise, I might just have to put you in a cell.”

  The cell Carstairs has just vacated, Slocum thought bitterly. He jerked from the deputy and left them in the street. Slocum wondered how Marianne would react when she found the lawmen had released Carstairs.

  He knew how he felt. She’d take it even worse. And that wasn’t a good thing for anyone.

  12

  Marianne Lomax felt as if Slocum had punched her in the stomach. She wobbled a mite, reached out, and supported herself against a chair in the hotel lobby. She jerked away when he reached out to steady her.

  “You cannot be joshing me, John Slocum. I’ll rip out your heart if you are.” She saw the weathered lines on his forehead and the forlorn look in his emerald eyes. He stood like a little boy in front of the schoolmarm, fingering the brim of his hat held nervously.

  “I tried to stop the sheriff, but there wasn’t a thing I could do. Carstairs rode out like a king last night, right after we—”

  “—we were amusing ourselves in the barbershop,” she said, scowling hard. Her lips pressed down into a thin line. Sucking in a deep breath, she held it for a moment, then released it with an explosive gust. “I will not permit this.”

  “Whitehill said two of Carstairs’s men alibied him.”

  “Lied for him is more like it,” she said, her voice rising. She tried to control her rampaging emotions, then abandoned the attempt entirely. “I’ll cut his throat! I swear I will see him in the grave before he ever rides free after all he’s done to me!”

  “Hush up,” Slocum said, looking around.

  “I don’t care who knows. He burned me out. He tried to rape me. Carstairs is not going to waltz away without paying for his crimes!”

  It surprised her that Slocum cared if anyone overheard, then she saw the focus of his concern. Randolph and Billy sat on the steep stairs and listened to every word coming out of her mouth. For a moment she wished she could take it all back. Setting a poor example for her son distressed her, but Les Carstairs not paying for what he did to her made her furious.

  “Randolph, come over here,” she said. Her son approached, but she kept looking at Slocum, wondering if he would help her bring Carstairs to justice. Slocum seemed different from when she knew him in Georgia. He was harder, more pragmatic—and he had been hard-bitten and cynical right after he returned from the war. Principles still ruled his hand—his gun hand—but she had less idea what those ideals were now than when she had known him before.

  Before . . .

  “Yeah, Ma?” Randolph stood in front of her, looking so young and vulnerable and trying to be a man. He almost succeeded in that, but he would always be her little boy, no matter what.

  “You have that knife?”

  “The one Billy gave me? Yeah,” he said with some reluctance.

  “Give it to me.”

  “What? Why? No!”

  “Do it,” she said, her anger causing her cheeks to burn. “I don’t want you getting any crazy ideas, not after what I just said.”

  “If he won’t do anything about Carstairs, I will!” Randolph thrust out his chin and tried to look tough. He glanced at Slocum, then at her. She felt as if he had stabbed her with his still sheathed bull cook’s knife. In one sentence he had rolled up everything that frightened her the most.

  Slocum had killed men. She knew that all too well. But he hadn’t offered to be her defender, casting doubt on whatever
it was between them. Worse, she had feared Randolph would take up the challenge and go after Carstairs. The mine foreman’s reputation resonated in Silver City and beyond as one of utter disregard of human life. Sending men to their death in a poorly built mineshaft bothered him as much as stepping on a bug. He had killed more than one man in a bar fight, claiming self-defense each time. With all the men in town cowed by him, no one dared step forward and testify to the truth.

  Texas Jack had never feared Carstairs. The times they had clashed always saw Carstairs backing down. But the man she had loved so and intended to marry was dead. She couldn’t even afford a proper burial for him.

  “Give me the knife. And don’t you go getting another one. You, either, William McCarty,” she said loud enough for the older boy to hear, as if he wasn’t following every word with the intensity of a cat at a mouse hole.

  “Ma, I won’t do nothing that ain’t right.”

  “Your grammar needs improvement,” she said. “And I need to see that knife passed over to me.” Marianne held out her hand and tried not to shake. She felt as if she had walked onto a stage where everyone expected her to know the lines.

  Randolph silently handed over the knife. She took it and slid it into the pocket amid the folds of her skirt.

  “You stay out of trouble,” she told her son. She tried to kiss him on the top of his head, but he pulled away and sullenly left. He and Billy spoke in low voices for a moment, then hastened out the front door.

  “He wouldn’t take on Carstairs by his lonesome,” Slocum said.

  “I don’t need your opinion, John Slocum. Nor do I need your advice or your help.”

  “I didn’t let him go. He’ll run afoul of the law eventually. Tucker won’t take anything off him, and I suspect Whitehill won’t either, though he plays it closer to the vest and lets Carstairs hide behind the letter of the law.”

  “I need to go to work,” she said. “Good day, sir.”

  “It’s not even noon,” Slocum said. “The Lonely Cuss won’t see customers for hours yet.”