Louisiana Laydown

by Jon Sharpe

  She sank back down and seemed to relax a little. “Thank you—”

  “Call me Fargo,” he said. “Or Skye, if you like.”

  Mary considered this for a moment, then said, “Skye, then. It’s a nice name.”

  “Thank you,” Fargo said. He was tired and had absorbed too much information in a short time—he needed to think and to rest.

  “Skye,” Mary said, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t understand why Miz Hamilton . . . she ain’t never sent me out like this. I don’t understand.”

  Fargo chuckled. “I can’t say as I completely do, either.” He pulled off his boots and unbuckled his gun belt, leaning forward to hang it over the bedpost. “Probably best if we get some sleep and try to figure it out tomorrow.”

  “Sleep?” Mary asked. “I thought . . . you don’t think I’m pretty, Skye?”

  He looked over the beautiful young woman lying in his bed and smiled. With her dark hair and skin, she looked like a ribbon of chocolate silk against the white of the bedcovers. “I think you’re very pretty,” he said. He got to his feet and undressed, enjoying the sound when she gasped quiet appreciation at his flat, rock-hard stomach muscles and lean form.

  He was down to only his underdrawers when she got out of the bed and turned down the lamp until the room was little more than pockets of dark gold light and shadows. The window shade was drawn and the noise from the street below faded into the background as he felt more than saw her come closer, running her hands down his chest.

  “You been hurt a lot,” she said. “Lots of scars.”

  “I’ve got a few,” he said. Her hands roamed over the terrain of his shoulders, her nails lightly scratching. “But compared to those who gave them to me, I came out okay.”

  Her hands found his biceps and she said, “You’re strong.”

  She moved lower, her hands seeking his manhood. Even if she wasn’t often given pleasure for herself, she certainly knew how to give it as she stroked him to full hardness, then took him in her warm mouth. Using her tongue, she worked the shaft, base to tip and back again, warm and wet. Her hands found his sac and gently worked on him. Fargo’s hands found her hair and he groaned in pleasure.

  Finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he eased away, pulling her to her feet. Mary kept her silence, her eyes wide open. Keeping his own silence, Fargo removed the nightgown, lifting it over her head. Her breasts fell free, rounded and full, but not overly large, with rose-colored areolas and pert nipples. Stepping closer, Fargo lowered his head and took one in his mouth, using his opposite hand to caress and stroke the nipple of the other. He felt them harden.

  Her thighs were smooth and muscular, leading down to shapely calves. He knew it was time to please her. Her legs splayed open, giving him full access to her treasures, and Fargo didn’t hesitate to explore the offerings on display to the fullest extent possible. He used his hands, his fingers, and his tongue, touching her, tasting her, arousing her senses everywhere he touched until she writhed on the bed, moaning and begging. Her breath came in short, sharp pants and Fargo knew she was ready, right on the edge of orgasm.

  He quickened his pace, moving himself atop her and sliding into her warm center in one smooth motion. She shrieked in pleasure, rocketing to her climax as her hips shuddered beneath him.

  “Oh, my God, my God!” she screamed, shoving herself against him. “Eeee . . . Yes, Skye! Yes, oh God, yes!” she screamed as her orgasm hit.

  Her body shook beneath him, her hard nipples jutting into the air and the sweat on her skin making it shine. Fargo let himself go when he felt her clench his manhood, the sweet, musky scent of her orgasm hitting his nostrils and filling the air.

  In the dim light he saw her small, wondering smile and she curled into the protective curve of his arm, sated and giving off an almost visible glow. After they’d gathered their breath, Fargo gently lifted her up and beneath the blanket, then joined her as she drifted into sleep.

  Tired in mind and body, Fargo let himself wind down until sleep came on quiet feet to take him, too. His last thought was one of some concern and he promised himself to think on it more:

  If Hattie Hamilton had sent the girl here before he’d met with Beares, was it possible that she was playing some kind of game of her own?

  But it turned out not to be his last thought, after all. Suddenly he was awake again. He lay there listening to Mary breathing. Snoring, really. The soft, sweet sounds a child makes while sleeping. He smiled, grateful for an image of innocence in a city that knew very little innocence of any kind.

  He reached over and touched her hip beneath the sheet. He envied her ability to fall asleep. There were so many angles and lies to sort through in this place. You couldn’t be sure of anybody. Sometimes you even doubted yourself, something Skye Fargo wasn’t used to.

  He forced himself to close his eyes. To drive all thoughts of conspiracy from his mind. He wouldn’t be much good if he had to drag through the day, now would he? But when sleep came it was troubled sleep with dreams of shadowy doorways and cards dealt from the bottoms of decks and smiling faces that were not at all what they seemed.

  As was his habit, Fargo awoke early and took a moment before opening his eyes, letting his other senses tell him about his surroundings. The streets of New Orleans were beginning the slow process of waking up—unlike frontier towns that often started even before sunrise, New Orleans was a city of night, and it woke like an ill-used prostitute, slow and cranky and stiff.

  It suddenly hit him that Mary wasn’t in the bed. He opened his eyes and saw that the room was empty. He sat up, wondering where she’d gone and had just decided to go find her when the door handle rattled and began to turn.

  With lightning reflexes, Fargo snagged his Colt free from its holster on the end of the bed and spun back to the door just as it opened.

  Mary let out a little gasp of surprise and almost dropped the tray laden with breakfast and coffee she held in her hands. “Oh!” she said.

  Fargo eased the hammer back on the Colt and put it away. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know where you’d gone.”

  She blushed a bit, her dark-skinned cheeks showing just a hint of rose. “I’m sorry . . . Skye. I thought you’d like some coffee and food.”

  Fargo nodded appreciatively. “You reckoned right,” he said. “I worked up a fairly good appetite last night.”

  She giggled and stepped the rest of the way into the room, setting the tray on the dresser and pouring coffee for him. Handing him the cup, she looked briefly into his eyes and the knowledge of the previous night once more made her blush. “Here,” she said. “I made it myself.”

  Fargo grinned and took the cup, enjoying the hot feel of it in his hands. He took a long sip and tasted chicory—something he hadn’t had in his coffee in a long while. “Mmmm,” he said. “That’s good.” The coffee was rich and black and strong.

  He pushed a pillow against the headboard, and leaned back to enjoy the view as she went about the business of making a plate for him and then a smaller one for herself. She was as pretty as a night sky, and he felt his manhood stirring once more.

  She turned back to him and must have noticed his condition through the thin sheet.

  Setting the plates down, she smiled shyly and said, “Do you . . . ?”

  He put his coffee on the floor and pulled her into the bed and his arms. “It’s the best breakfast in the world,” he said.

  Pleasuring her, he quickly found, was a pleasure. She was a fast learner and it wasn’t long until once again her cries of joy were echoing in the small room.

  When they finished, Fargo got his makings out of his saddlebags and rolled himself a smoke, using a saucer as an ashtray. He wanted a bath and suggested they find one.

  “I have an idea,” she said, sitting up in bed and sipping out of his coffee cup.

  “What do you have in mind?” Fargo asked.

  “Would you take me for a ride on your horse again, Skye?” she asked. “I know a pl
ace. . . . It’s private and we could bathe and do . . . other things.”

  Fargo laughed. “I think you’ve developed a taste for sex,” he said. “That’s a fine quality in a woman as beautiful as you.”

  She laughed, too, though he could sense her embarrassment. “Please,” she said. “I don’t want to tire you, but it is beautiful and private.” She paused, then added, “And your horse is wonderful. Those colors!”

  “He’s special,” Fargo said. He didn’t have anything in particular to do today and a ride away from this place in good company might give him time to think about everything he’d learned—assuming Mary let him think at all. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go for a ride.”

  “Thank you!” she squealed. “You won’t regret it.”

  Noticing that in her excitement the sheet had dropped away, Fargo eyed her gorgeous body with appreciation. “I don’t reckon I will at that,” he said.

  Snatching the sheet to cover herself, she giggled again.

  “Get yourself dressed,” Fargo said.

  She jumped out of the bed, ready to head down the street stark naked if it meant getting the day started.

  “Then we’ll go?” she asked.

  Mary was so full of excitement that Fargo couldn’t help but join in. “Yes,” he said. “Then we’ll go.”

  It didn’t take long for them to get Mary outfitted in some comfortable riding clothes and it was only two hours later that they picked up the Ovaro and headed out of the city.

  She guided him back to the field where they’d first met and from there to a small grotto nearby. A clear pool had formed beneath the cypress trees and the hanging moss. It was as private as any bathhouse he’d ever been in.

  He helped her out of the saddle, then grabbed his soap and a towel from his saddlebags.

  The water was almost as warm as she was and it took quite some time for her to reach all his spots, but with his guidance, they managed to get them all . . . and all of hers, too.

  After, she led him to a moss-covered place beneath the trees and they toweled themselves dry. It had been quite a while since Fargo had been with someone of her considerable appetite, but she sat quietly next to him now and let him think.

  There was a lot more going on in New Orleans than a simple high-stakes poker game, and more players, he thought, than had actually agreed to come to the table.

  With so much at stake, he knew he’d have to be very careful over the next few days if he was going to get out of the city with the money he’d been promised . . . and his life.

  Life was often cheap, he knew. But the kind of money and power that was involved in this game was more than enough for many people to kill for. These two jobs—keeping the game fair and keeping Hattie Hamilton safe during the game—wouldn’t be easy, lay-down jobs.

  They’d be the kind of jobs that could get a lot of men killed. One easy distraction and . . .

  Fargo sat bolt upright, realizing that there was a huge distraction sitting next to him. One that had already caused him to lose a night and most of a day.

  “Mary,” he said, “do you have any family at all around here? Somewhere you could stay for a few days?”

  She shook her head. “No. They all been killed or run off during the war. I’m all I got.”

  Fargo sighed. He’d have to find somewhere to stash her. One look at her eyes or her body and like any man, he could be distracted at a critical moment that could lead to his death. “Well, you’ve got me,” he said. “At least until we figure out what to do.”

  She smiled and Fargo couldn’t help but wonder if he was being played for a fool. He looked into her eyes, but there wasn’t the smallest hint of guile. She was innocent, he thought. There wasn’t any sign that she was anything other than a beautiful prostitute who’d been caught up in the games of her employer.

  Knowing they’d have to head back soon, he put an arm around her and she snuggled close.

  There are worse forms of payment in the world, he thought, looking at her. A lot worse.

  9

  H.D. was not happy. In fact, he sounded downright unhappy. “Come on, Fargo, I’ve got better things to do than babysit a whore, for God’s sake!”

  “Not for the next few days, you don’t,” Fargo said. “Unless I miss my guess, Parker, Beares, and Anderson are going to pull all their men in and wait for the outcome of the game. It should be pretty quiet around here.”

  “But why a whore, Fargo? My wife will tan my hide and stake it to the front door. Couldn’t you have found some nice girl to rescue?”

  Fargo chuckled. “I’m not all that big on nice girls,” he said. “Mary is special, H.D., and she needs help. I can’t watch out for her while dealing with all these other snakes, too.”

  Fargo could go sentimental and say that there were whores of the body and whores of the heart. Some “nice” girls harbored attitudes about people that were anything but nice. And some whores harbored thoughts that were downright charitable when it came to helping men in and out of bed. As far as Fargo was concerned, that was one of the problems with this world. The poor had to scramble just to get meals sometimes, and this kind of scrambling made them seem coarse to those more prosperous. But the fancy manners of the rich folks would soon be pitched out the window if they, too, had to scramble to put food on the table. And a whole lot of those “nice” girls wouldn’t seem so nice anymore, either.

  H.D.’s shoulders sagged and Fargo knew the man had given in. “Don’t worry on it too much,” he said. “Your wife will understand a woman needing protection, no matter what she does for a living.”

  His face in his hands, H.D. said, “She’ll kill me, Fargo, the second she finds out. She’ll think I’ve been seeing a sporting lady and now I’ve brought her into our home.”

  “No, she won’t,” Fargo said. “What kind of an idiot does she take you for? No sane man would bring his mistress—even a paid one—into the same house as his wife. One woman is trouble enough, let alone two.”

  “You’d probably know, Fargo,” H.D. said. He held up his hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out. When are you coming back for her?”

  “Thursday, depending on how fast the game runs. Maybe Friday. Just keep her out of sight until I return.”

  Throughout this conversation, Mary had remained silent, but Fargo could see she was all but busting at the seams to say something. “What is it, Mary?”

  “I don’t want to stay with him, Skye. I want to . . . stay with you,” she said. “Miz Hamilton told me that’s what I was supposed to do.”

  Fargo shook his head. “Mary, you can’t. This poker game is liable to get downright dangerous. I can’t do what I have to do if I’m worried about you. You’ll be safe with H.D. He’s a good man.”

  “But what if something happens to you?”

  H.D. laughed. “Girl, that man you’re talking to is the Trailsman. There’s no one in New Orleans more dangerous than he is.”

  Mary looked confused. “He does not seem dangerous to me.”

  “That’s because you haven’t tried to kill him,” H.D. said. “Yet.”

  “What do you mean, ‘yet’?” Fargo asked.

  H.D. grinned evilly. “You just haven’t had a chance to piss her off yet, Fargo. Sooner or later, you will, and she’ll come at you with a pigsticker and try to gut you like a winter hog. You aren’t the kind of man to settle down, my friend. Too many trails yet to ride. Women, in my experience, just hate that.”

  “You . . . you will be leaving?” Mary asked.

  Ignoring his urge to strangle H.D., Fargo said, “Not anytime real soon.”

  She sagged in relief. “I don’t want you to leave, Skye. Not ever.”

  Another one that wants me to settle down, Fargo thought. Why can’t women just enjoy the time and move on? “I guess we’ll see what happens,” he said, then turned his attention back to his meddlesome friend, who was grinning openly. “Thanks,” Fargo said drily. “You sure know how to help a man out.”

 
“Least I could do, Fargo,” H.D. said. “Given the ‘favor’ you’re doing me.”

  Unable to help himself, Fargo chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said. “Just keep an eye on her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “All right,” H.D. said. He stood up from behind his desk and buckled on his gun belt. “Come on, Mary. I’ll show you to where you’ll be staying. You’ll like my wife. She’s a fine woman, a good cook, and she’ll fill your head clean full of ideas on how to hog-tie this fella you’ve set your cap for.”

  “Great,” Fargo said. “Maybe I should have left her in the swamp.”

  “Naw,” H.D. said, “then she’d have ended up taking lessons from the alligators. They know even more evil tricks than my wife.”

  Fargo clasped Mary in his arms and planted a kiss on her lips. “I’ll be back for you in a day or two. In the meantime, listen to what H.D. tells you and stay out of sight.”

  “You . . . Skye, you promise you’ll come back for me?”

  Fargo nodded. “I promise. Now get going.” He gave her a playful swat on the backside and nodded to H.D. in thanks, then turned and left the office.

  He had some scouting to do before the game started. Even in the city, there were trails to follow for a man with the eyes to see them.

  If there was such a thing as the crown jewel of a place as seedy as Basin Street, the Blue Emporium was it. No matter what trail he could find, all of them would lead, he suspected, to this one building.

  From the outside, it didn’t look like much. The building itself was wedged between two others, and was four stories tall. Made of a dark red brick stained with soot, a quick glance would tell a passerby that it was nothing more than a hotel or perhaps a boarding-house. But there were clues that it was something more.

  The concrete steps led up to a set of double doors, which were carved of mahogany. On either side of the doors, a sculpture of a scantily clad nymph in a sea-shell welcomed those who approached. Leaded-glass panes decorated each door, and farther up, the observant man would notice that the windows themselves were not cheap glass, but well made, and with nice curtains offering privacy to each room. Small balconies, large enough for a single person and made of wrought iron that was bolted directly into the brick, stuck out from each window.