by Jon Sharpe
“So you think it would have been a mercy to kill him?”
“Sometimes death is a mercy,” Fargo admitted.
“You are a hard man,” she said. She turned to the river, leaning back into him. Her dress exposed the curve of her neck, and the line of her shoulder, white and beautiful in the moonlight. “Do you know what I like about you?” she asked.
“Tell me,” he said.
“I like a man with good aim,” she said. “With his mind as well as his guns. You don’t bandy words and play about like most of the fools I meet on this boat.” She turned into his arms, and he met her halfway, wrapping himself around her.
He caught up her hair in his hands, pulling out the pins and letting it fall free. It was longer than he’d thought it would be, full and luxurious. “Do you know what I like about you?” he asked, pulling her closer still, burying his face in her neck and smelling her sweet scent. He felt her jaw muscles clench as he trailed a slow kiss up her neck.
“Tell me,” she moaned, under her breath.
“That you know what you want,” he said. “And go after it.”
He raised his head up and crushed her mouth with a bruising kiss and she moaned again, the sound reverberating off his lips and tongue in a pleasant buzz.
“Do you think your aim is still good, Fargo?” she whispered. “Can you show me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
They turned away from the rail and began making their way to his small berth. Every few steps or so, they’d stop and kiss once more, their hands seeking frantic purchase to hold themselves upright. She tasted like a fine wine, and she had a nice, mature figure. This wasn’t a girl, Fargo knew, but a full-grown woman with an appetite to match his own.
They finally reached his bunk and he shut the door and locked it behind them. She didn’t waste any time with more talking, but got right down to business, shoving him down onto the bed as soon as he’d loosened his gun belt and hung it over the hook on the wall.
The berth he’d chosen wasn’t fancy—a single bed, a dresser, and a basin to wash up in. She lit the small oil lamp on the dresser top and turned down the wick so the room was bathed in a warm glow that made it appear nicer than it was. Not that it needed much improvement with her in it, Fargo thought.
He watched as she slowly undid the buttons down the front of her dress. She returned his gaze as she went about undressing, moving her fingers without breaking the spell of her eyes. Each wooden button undone came closer to revealing her fine body and as the top half of her dress came free, he felt himself exhale in pleasure at the sight of her full, deep breasts.
She undid several more buttons, then gave a shrug and allowed the dress to drop to the floor where it pooled at her feet. As he’d suspected, she was a mature woman, with a form to match: broad hips, with a slight swell to her belly, and beneath, a dark thatch of curly hair that she kept trimmed and neat. Her legs were long and smooth, and tapered down to her feet, helping accentuate her hourglass shape.
Her breasts swayed slightly as she stepped toward him, the nipples dark and erect points against the fairness of her skin. She leaned down and pulled off his boots one by one, then piece by piece, she undressed the rest of him. This was a woman who knew how to take her time, and she did, finally getting him naked just as he thought he couldn’t stand being bound up anymore.
He started to move up, and she placed her hands against his chest and pushed him back down. Her mouth found his, and he tasted her tongue once more even as his hands reached up to cup her breasts and stroke the nipples with his thumbs. She moaned softly, but broke off the kiss and worked her way down, using her lips and tongue until she took his erect manhood in her mouth.
There was nothing tentative about her approach and Fargo felt his hips buck in response to her smooth technique. He tangled his hands in her hair as she worked on him, using her own hands to tease him to an even harder erection.
Finally, he could take no more and lifted her away with a playful growl, then twisted her around so that he could take his turn on top. As she had done, Fargo teased her all the way down, running his teeth and fingers over her nipples, then reaching lower still, finding her center with his fingers. She was warm and wet and more than ready, but he wanted her to ache for him a little, so he continued the slow, torturous play until she was panting beneath him.
“Please, Fargo . . . Oh, God,” she whispered. “Don’t make me wait any longer. I want you inside me. Now!”
“Let’s find out if my aim is still good,” he said, sliding into her to the hilt.
She gasped and bucked beneath him, and her moans got loud enough that Fargo figured anyone in the hallway or the berth next door was getting quite an earful. Her legs opened wider, and he obliged the gesture, plunging deeper into her with each thrust.
She was all woman, warm and wet and wanting, and Fargo felt himself beginning to build toward his own climax even as she writhed beneath him. She surged upward, meeting his thrusts with her hips. “Oh, God, Fargo . . . your aim is fine. Don’t stop, no matter what. Make me . . . make me . . .” She clawed at his back, raking her nails down, as she screamed, “I’m coming, Fargo! Right now!”
He rode her wave and felt his own climax join hers. He groaned into her heaving shoulders, feeling her sweat-slicked body trembling beneath his. “Oh, God,” she said. “That was better than I expected. You are a good shot.”
Fargo chuckled and rolled off her, opening the small window to let in some fresh air to mingle pleasantly with the smell of their sex. He lay back down next to her. “Well, I’ve had some practice,” he admitted. “I reckon if more men practiced with a woman like you, they’d be damn fine shots themselves.”
She laughed and curled up next to him, still trying to catch her breath.
“I don’t think so,” she murmured. “I think you’re a natural.”
“Is that what you think?” he asked.
Louisa nodded against his chest, almost purring. “I do,” she said. “But you’re probably going to have to prove it to me.”
“Prove it to you?” he asked. “This didn’t?”
She laughed at the ire in his voice. “Oh, this will do for now,” she said. “But it is a long ride to New Orleans.”
3
The boat arrived in the city of New Orleans at mid-morning. The air was a foul-smelling mix of human waste, trash, swamp, and too many people crammed too close together. In short, it was like most of the bigger cities Fargo had ever been in—no place he’d want to stay for any length of time, and why anyone else would was a mystery to him.
The trip down the Mississippi had been filled with good meals, great sex with the voluptuous Louisa, and good conversations with David Parker, who now stood beside Fargo at the rail, watching as they neared the docks.
“It’s good to be home,” Parker said. “I enjoy traveling, but my soul belongs to this city.”
Sniffing the air with distaste, Fargo said, “That’s hard to imagine, given the smell.”
Parker laughed. “I’ll admit that it does assault the olfactory senses, but you’ll get used to it. There are other compensations that more than make up for it not smelling like a bed of roses.” His eyes scanned the docks. “There’s one now,” he added, pointing to a woman descending from a carriage at the far end of the dock. She turned toward them, and Fargo was struck by her handsome features.
She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but her face was striking. She caught sight of Parker standing at the rail and raised her hand in a wave, then moved down the dock to where the passengers would disembark. The riverboat finally moored, and Parker led the way down the gangplank with Fargo close on his heels.
“Hattie,” Parker said. “You didn’t have to come down here to meet me.” He caught her up in his arms and kissed her on the cheek.
“You’ve been gone almost a month!” the woman exclaimed. “I wasn’t going to wait to see you even another minute.” She turned her gaze on Fargo, and
then he knew why she was running a successful brothel. Her blue eyes screamed seduction. They glowed from within, like a twin set of blue flames, and the passion in them exactly mirrored the intensity and wetness of a woman reaching an orgasm. They were eyes meant for the bedroom, and her smile hinted at every dark desire that could cross a man’s mind. Despite the fact that her figure was more matronly than seductive, he guessed that she’d have no trouble bringing most men to their knees within moments. “I see you’ve brought someone along with you, David. Who’s this handsome specimen?”
“Hattie Hamilton, meet Skye Fargo,” Parker said. “We met on board during a poker game. Mr. Fargo here has an eye for detail and doesn’t take kindly to cheaters.”
Fargo took her outstretched hand and almost jumped as a wave of sexual heat passed from her to him. It wasn’t just her eyes, he now knew. She was pure sexual ambition in female form—almost a predator. “Miss Hamilton,” he said. “It’s a . . . unique pleasure to meet you. Mr. Parker speaks highly of your business establishment.”
She laughed, low and throaty. “I’m sure he does,” she said. “He financed its opening, but he’s made his investment back a thousandfold, haven’t you, David?”
“Yes, yes, indeed,” Parker said. “I thought Mr. Fargo might prove useful in our upcoming poker game. I trust all is prepared.”
She nodded, letting her eyes linger on Fargo’s a moment more before turning back to her patron. “Yes, everything is ready. The game is set for three nights from now, and everyone has confirmed their attendance.”
“That’s excellent news, Hattie,” Parker said. “I knew I could count on your delicate handling of this. We wouldn’t want any interference from those who frown on such high-stakes games.”
“Speaking of high stakes,” Fargo interrupted, “we probably shouldn’t be standing here on the dock talking about this.” He jammed a thumb in the direction of the boat. “I’ll need to get my horse and my things, arrange for a place to stay.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Fargo,” Hattie said. “There’s plenty of room at my establishment.”
Fargo saw Parker’s tense look and remembered his earlier words, then ruefully shook his head. “Thank you,” he said. “But I suspect I could get a mite distracted staying there and Mr. Parker has hired me to be sharp. You and your ladies could dull any man’s senses, I imagine.”
She laughed, and the sound was that of a young woman. “Why, Mr. Fargo, I do believe you are flirting with me!”
Fargo grinned and said, “Maybe a little. But the truth is, I’d best get a place to stay that’s elsewhere.”
“Indeed,” Parker said, his voice cold. “Hattie’s place is easy enough to find. Once you’ve stabled your horse, just ask any of the newspaper boys in the city for directions to the Blue Emporium. They’ll be able to direct you. Across the street is a decent enough hotel, the Bayou. It’s run by a bunch of Cajuns, but it’s clean and affordable.”
“Sounds fine,” Fargo said. “When do you want to meet up again?”
“Three days from now,” Parker said. “Be at the Blue Emporium at sundown. The game will begin shortly thereafter.”
“I’ll be there,” Fargo said. “Anything else?”
Parker took Hattie’s arm possessively. “Just stay out of trouble, Fargo. This city eats up cowboys and spits them back out as nothing but sackcloth and bones. Be careful.”
“Understood,” he said. He tipped his hat to Hattie and turned away.
The Ovaro would be restless from several days in the hold and Fargo felt the need to stretch his legs, too.
His horse was led out shortly thereafter, and with a wave to Louisa who was standing on deck and looking forlorn, he tossed his saddle on the Ovaro and began the work of crossing the crowded, dirty city, trying to find somewhere, anywhere, that a man and his horse could feel free.
So this was fabled New Orleans, Fargo thought, as he plied its streets and observed its broad spectrum of the human species. It seemed that on every street corner somebody was peddling something—gadgets or junky tourist mementos or elixirs meant to make you more beautiful or rich or intelligent.
The architecture was more interesting than most of the people. Most of the houses, even the poorer ones, had a certain style that made them worth a serious look. Fargo didn’t know anything about architecture but he knew that few cities offered the eye this kind of varied housing. The civic buildings were likewise impressive. For all its flaws, the place obviously had pride and that was reflected in everything from the humblest abode to the gaudiest mansion.
And that was certainly not the only kind of beauty on display. In carriages, buggies, and hansom cabs, and on horseback the range of female good looks was stunning. The rich women in silks, the working girls in scruffy cotton, the imperious ones in gold-trimmed carriages . . . a man didn’t know where to look, there were so many attractive women competing for his attention.
Sometimes it was difficult to remember that he was actually trying to find something out . . .
It took two hours of dealing with no small number of rude people with little knowledge of the surrounding country before Fargo finally found someone who gave him directions worth a damn. Following them, he found himself on the outskirts of the city, where swamp hadn’t taken over the fertile fields, and the trees looked almost normal, rather than the haunting, moss-covered trees that he’d seen elsewhere.
He gave the Ovaro his head, letting him run. It felt good to be on horseback again, the wind in his face, his hat blown backward. Even the rush of air through his recently trimmed hair made him feel alive and well. He had money—quite a bit of it—and if things went well, he stood to earn a good deal more.
The Ovaro dodged right, around a tree stump, and pulled a tight circle, ready to run across the field again. Fargo pulled him to a halt, letting his big lungs catch up for a minute. Suddenly, the Ovaro snorted a warning and stamped his front hoof. Fargo’s hand moved to the butt of his Colt, even as his eyes scanned the shadows beneath the trees for whatever or whoever was there. A faint movement caught his gaze, and with breathtaking speed the Colt cleared the holster and was aimed at the form. “Show yourself!” he barked, his hands rock steady.
“Don’t . . . don’t shoot me, please,” a female voice said. “I didn’t mean to startle you or your fine horse.”
“Come on out from beneath that tree,” Fargo said. “Nice and easy. I’m a mite jumpy, and I’ve run across far too many women who were good with a gun to go on pure trust these days.”
She stepped out from beneath the trees and Fargo felt his jaw unhinge a little bit. She was just about the most breathtaking creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Her skin was the color of coffee with just a bit of fresh cream mixed in and her eyes, large and dark, were mirrored pools deep enough for a man to drown in. Her face was absolutely guileless, unmarked by lies or harsh words, like so many women he’d seen. It almost glowed from within.
She wore a simple dress, cut of one cloth, and her large breasts swelled against the tight, cotton fabric. The ivory color suited her, he thought, as his eyes traveled over her hips and down her shapely legs. From his vantage atop the horse, he could see that she wore no shoes. He holstered the Colt, and tipped his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.
She laughed, and it was the sound of an angel singing. “Don’t you go calling me that,” she said. “I may be a lot of things, but I don’t hardly qualify as no lady.”
“Reckon I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Fargo said. “Least until you prove otherwise. You’re a long way from anywhere out here.”
“I like to come here sometimes,” she said. “It’s quiet most of the time and no one bothers me.”
“I don’t suppose,” he said. “Why were you hiding under the trees?”
“I . . .” She cast her eyes downward, in the same way he’d seen slaves do. “I didn’t mean no harm. I just wanted to watch your horse. I never seen one like that before.”
“Yes,” he said. “He’s a good one.
Full of himself, too.” He climbed down out of the saddle. “Would you like to ride him?”
She looked startled and held up her hands. “Oh . . . oh, no! I didn’t mean that! I just wanted to watch. I . . . I’ll leave now and won’t trouble you no more.” She started to back away.
“Hold on,” Fargo said. “You haven’t troubled me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He gestured vaguely at the trees. “Are you from around here?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I work in the city most every day. I just come out here once in a while, when I can . . .” She caught her breath, then took what must have seemed to her a daring risk, by adding, “Just so I can breathe again.”
Fargo chuckled. “I understand,” he said. “I don’t know much about New Orleans, but it sure is ripe.” He took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled. “It’s better out here.”
She smiled shyly at him and nodded. “I guess I better be going back,” she said. “I don’t want Miz Hamilton to get mad at me.”
“Miss Hamilton?” Fargo asked. “Hattie Hamilton? ”
“Yes,” she said. “She runs the Blue Emporium over on Basin Street. Best bang for the buck in all the city.”
“You work there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m what Miz Hamilton calls a ‘special.’ Lotsa men like their girls to have some dark in their skin.”
Fargo eyed her appreciatively. “I can see why,” he said. “I should be the one apologizing—for interrupting your quiet time. I think we both”—he jerked a thumb at the Ovaro, who was busy grazing on the green grass and ignoring them—“just needed to stretch our legs a bit. That riverboat ride from St. Louis was a long one.”
The girl nodded as though she’d been on the trip herself several times, though Fargo doubted she’d been more than fifty miles from New Orleans in her entire life. “Do you . . . I don’t mean to pry, but do you know Miz Hamilton?” she asked.
Fargo nodded. “A little,” he said. “We just met today, down on the docks. Her friend Mr. Parker introduced us.” The girl shuddered and did her best to hide it, but Fargo’s experienced eyes could see that she didn’t think much of Parker—or of Hattie Hamilton. “Why do you ask?”