Backwoods Bloodbath tt-300

by Jon Sharpe

  Priscilla bent down and sniffed. “I like the big ones,” she said casually, and when she unfurled, she peeked at Fargo from under her long lashes to see if he got the point.

  Talking animatedly about his breeding stock, Clyde steered Fargo to the stable. “Thoroughbreds, all of them,” he boasted of the twenty horses in their twenty stalls. “Some I’ve obtained from as far away as England.”

  “Where is that new stallion you wrote me about?” Arthur Draypool asked, and everyone drifted toward a stall at the end.

  Not Fargo. He hung back, and so did Priscilla. She was patting a mare. He moved over next to her. “Don’t you like stallions as much as you do big ones?”

  An unladylike snort burst from Priscilla’s throat and she covered her mouth to smother it. “My, my, aren’t you naughty?”

  “You’re one to talk.” Fargo lowered his voice. “When and where?”

  “Why, sir, I have no idea what you mean,” Priscilla responded with a blank expression.

  “I don’t play games, girl.”

  Priscilla glanced at the others, then whispered without looking at him, “Neither do I. But I must be careful. If my parents find out, my father will have you shot.”

  “When and where?” Fargo repeated.

  Jace was strolling back toward them.

  “Ten o’clock,” Priscilla whispered. “Under the maple east of the stable. For God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you sneaking out.” Straightening, she said loud enough to be heard, “I ride every day, rain or shine. If you were staying longer, I would show you a wonderful spot for a picnic.”

  “Knowing you, that isn’t all you would show him, dear sister,” Jace lewdly declared.

  “Don’t be crude,” Priscilla scolded.

  “Come now,” Jace said. “You’re the one who has been making cow eyes at him, not me.”

  “I mean it,” Priscilla said.

  Chuckling, Jace nudged her. “You can pull the wool over Mother’s and Father’s eyes, but never mine. You would do well to remember that.”

  “And you would do well to remember that I know about your visits to a certain shack out by the corn-fields. Father would disown you if he ever discovered you are cavorting with a darky.”

  Jace seized her wrist. “Don’t you ever threaten me, you hear?”

  “Oh, please,” Priscilla said in contempt, and pulled free. “We each have our secrets, brother mine, and neither of us will betray the other.” She smiled at Fargo and walked off, her hips swinging invitingly.

  “Damn her!” Jace grumbled. “Damn all women. We should lock them in chains and keep them at the foot of our beds, like dogs.” He glanced at Fargo. “What do you think?”

  “I think I need another whiskey.”

  8

  She was late.

  Fargo had snuck out of the house shortly before ten and had been waiting at the maple tree for almost half an hour. Priscilla had yet to appear. He began to wonder if she had changed her mind, or if something had come up to prevent her from keeping their tryst. He hoped not. He was looking forward to treating himself to her charms.

  The farm lay quiet under the stars. The field hands had long since retired to their shacks, marked by tiny squares of light in the near distance. The wide stable doors were shut and barred for the night, the chicken coop closed, the hogs and sheep in their pens. In a pasture beyond the stable cows dozed.

  The air had cooled with the setting of the sun, but it was too muggy for Fargo’s liking. He preferred the dry air of the mountains and the desert to the humid East.

  From inside the great house music wafted. Margaret was playing the piano. She had treated Fargo and Draypool to a recital after supper, and it had been all Fargo could do to stay awake.

  Shifting, Fargo leaned against the trunk. He would wait five more minutes. If Priscilla did not show by then, he would turn in. He could do with a good night’s sleep in a soft bed.

  Off in the woods an owl hooted. A cow lowed as if in answer. In the stable a horse whinnied. Ordinary sounds in an ordinary night in southern Illinois.

  Fargo sighed and shifted his weight, and spotted Priscilla, framed in a ground-floor window. She was beckoning him. Amused by her antics, Fargo hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and ambled to the back door. She opened it just as he reached it, grabbed his arm, and practically yanked him off his feet pulling him inside.

  “Thanks for keeping me waiting.”

  Priscilla put a finger to her lips and ushered him into a small sewing room. She shut the door and whispered, “Don’t blame me! I was on my way out when I saw him.”

  “Who?” Fargo found it hard to concentrate with her warm, lush body so tantalizingly close.

  “The one who has been spying on you. He’s over by the shed where we store the plow and the harrow.”

  An icy chill that had nothing to do with the temperature rippled down Fargo’s spine. “Describe him.”

  “I can do better than that. It’s Bryce Avril, one of Arthur’s bodyguards.”

  “Is he still out there?”

  “I think so. I saw him run from the far corner of the house to the shed, and he never reappeared. I imagine he has been there the whole time, watching you.”

  “Wait here,” Fargo said, and opened the door a crack.

  Priscilla brushed against him, her hand rising to his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t like being spied on.” Simmering with anger, Fargo bent and began removing his spurs. Avril had to be acting under Draypool’s orders. No doubt they had been keeping an eye on him the entire time, which begged the question, Why? Was Draypool afraid he would change his mind and leave? Or was there more involved? He would sneak out a window and circle around to the shed. “Here.” He handed his right spur to Priscilla.

  “I’ve always wanted to wear a pair of these. But I thought the kind they use out west have bigger rowels.”

  “Some do,” Fargo confirmed, “but they’re more for show than anything else. A good rider doesn’t need to rip his horse to ribbons to get it to go.”

  “Oh, I would never do that to a poor animal,” Priscilla said. “I like the rowels because they are shiny and bright.”

  “The big rowels,” Fargo teased. “Don’t forget you like them big.”

  Priscilla giggled and jangled the spur. “You are worse than naughty! You are deliciously wicked! I am sick to death of the stodgy sorts I must put up with around here day in and day out.”

  “A girl your age?” Fargo had the other spur off and held it out to her.

  “Before young gentlemen can call on me, they must pass my mother’s muster,” Priscilla explained. “And my mother’s standards are not the same as mine. They are the complete opposite, in fact.”

  “Whoever courts you must keep their hands off,” Fargo guessed.

  “Whoever courts me must not even think of touching me because if Mother catches us, I will never see him again,” Priscilla lamented. She brightened and raised a finger to his cheek. “You have a lot of missed opportunities to make up for.”

  Fargo was about to say he was glad to oblige when they both heard the sound of the back door opening. Covering her mouth with his left hand, he peered out. None other than Bryce Avril had just slipped inside. Fargo guided Priscilla to one side and whispered, “Don’t move.”

  Avril came down the hall as if treading on eggshells. He was staring toward the far end, evidently wary of being caught.

  Fargo let him go past the sewing room, then silently opened the door and stepped to the middle of the hall. “Looking for someone?”

  Avril nearly jumped out of his shoes. Whirling, he streaked his right hand under his jacket. “You!” he blurted. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. You’re liable to get yourself shot.”

  “And you shouldn’t spy on people who don’t care to be spied on,” Fargo said. “You’re liable to get yourself hurt.” And with that, he slugged Avril in the gut. He did not use all his strength, but the blow still
doubled the man over and left him sputtering and clutching the wall for support. “Tell your boss that if I ever catch you spying on me again, I won’t be nearly as nice about it.”

  A scarlet tinge spread from Avril’s neck to his hairline. He coiled, with his right hand clawed to draw. “You son of a bitch! No one does that to me!”

  “Try,” Fargo said softly, his own hand next to his holster.

  Something in his tone caused Avril to hesitate. “You had no call to hit me. I was only doing my job. Zeck and me are supposed to take turns watching you.”

  “Not anymore,” Fargo said.

  “But Mr. Draypool was quite specific,” Avril disclosed. “We’re not to let you out of our sight. He’s worried something might happen to you.”

  “Tell Draypool,” Fargo said, still speaking softly, “that if I catch Zeck or you anywhere near me, something will happen to him.” Indulging in threats was childish, but in this instance Fargo could not resist.

  “Mr. Draypool won’t like this. He won’t like it one bit.”

  “You must have me confused with someone who gives a damn,” Fargo responded. He wagged his fingers. “Off you go.”

  Simmering with resentment, Avril backed away. “All right. I’ll do as you want. But if Mr. Draypool orders us to watch you anyway, that’s exactly what we’ll do, mister.”

  Fargo did not move until the man in the frock coat had disappeared around the far corner. Then he slipped into the sewing room, closed the door, and turned, nearly colliding with Priscilla.

  “You were magnificent.”

  “I was mad.”

  “No, really,” Priscilla gushed breathlessly. “You put him in his place. He was scared of you. I could see it on his face.”

  Fargo put his hands on her hips. “Now that he’s gone, we can make up for those missed opportunities of yours.”

  “Here?” Priscilla said in disbelief. “It’s safer outdoors. I know plenty of places where we can be alone and no one will find us.”

  “Does anyone ever use this room at night?” Fargo asked, and kissed her lightly on the neck.

  “Not this late,” Priscilla admitted. “But it’s insane! It’s too dangerous! It could get me in more trouble than I have ever been in.” She paused, and her luscious lips formed a sensual invitation. “What are we waiting for?”

  Fargo fused his mouth to hers and was unprepared for her reaction. A low moan issued from the depths of her being and she flung her arms and one leg around him and clasped him to her as if she were trying to climb inside his skin. Her tongue darted into his mouth and met his in satiny swirls. He felt her fingernails dig into his arms and back.

  Fargo’s hands roved over her hips and her flat belly to the swelling curves of her breasts. He covered them, and Priscilla shivered as if she were cold, when actually her body temperature seemed to jump ten degrees. Her nipples were like tacks straining to pierce her dress. He pinched one and then the other and then both at the same time, eliciting whimpers of joy.

  “You do things to me no man ever has,” Priscilla whispered huskily when she broke for breath.

  Fargo doubted that. He ran the tip of his tongue along her chin to her neck and fastened his lips to an earlobe. She sighed and arched her back.

  “I’m sensitive there.”

  In Fargo’s estimation she was sensitive everywhere. But he lingered, sucking on the lobe and rimming her ear with his tongue. Her knee rose between his legs, sliding up his inner thighs, causing his manhood to become as hard as iron and to bulge against his buckskin pants. She rubbed her knee over him.

  “Mmmmm,” Priscilla breathed. “I was right about you. This will be a night to remember.”

  Fargo hoped she wasn’t a chatterbox. To forestall her from talking, he planted another hungry kiss on her wet mouth and kept his mouth there while his hands caressed and kneaded and molded her upper body as if she were clay and he a master sculptor.

  Priscilla could not stand still. She squirmed, she wriggled, she wrapped a leg around him and unwrapped it and wrapped it around him again. Her hands roamed everywhere she could reach, from the crown of his head to below his belt. She gasped when she touched him down there.

  “You are a stallion!”

  Pressing her against the wall, Fargo hiked her dress up.

  “Standing up?” Priscilla said. “I love it! I just love it! Do with me what you will.”

  Fargo intended to. Once again he covered her mouth with his. He had her dress midway up her legs, and it only took a few seconds to loosen the last obstacle and for his fingers to find her core. She was moist for him. At the contact, she rose up onto the tips of her toes and exhaled all the breath in her lungs.

  “Ohhhhhhhh!”

  Her cotton drawers slid down around her knees. Fargo glided his finger along her slit, and when he touched her knob, she threw her head back and bit her lower lip to stifle a carnal outcry. He slowly inserted his finger, immersing it in molten lava, and felt her inner walls ripple.

  “Yes! Do me! I can’t wait!”

  She would have to. Fargo was not quite ready. He added a second finger. Her sheath clung to them, sparking a deluge of hot, hungry kisses lavished on his face and throat.

  Fargo commenced pumping his fingers, over and over, slightly faster as he went. Priscilla ground against his hand, her thighs clamped tight to imprison it. But that did not stop him from stroking on and on until she abruptly sank her teeth into his shoulder and moaned. She came, her bottom bucking wildly, threatening to snap his hand from his wrist. He waited, and when she subsided, temporarily spent, he slid his fingers out and brought both hands up to her bosom. He had not yet freed her breasts, but now he remedied that oversight and was rewarded when her glorious globes inflated to twice their previous size. Her nipples were irresistible. He inhaled one, switched to the other, then back again.

  “I want you,” Priscilla breathed. “I want you inside of me.”

  Her fingers enfolded Fargo’s member. She guided him between her legs, raised her chemise higher, and had him where she desired him. Eagerly, she ran his dripping knob across her nether lips. Then, rising up, she fed his pole into her, inch by inch by inch. She made no sound until he was all the way in. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and groaned.

  To Fargo’s amazement, tears formed. “Are you all right?”

  “I am in heaven,” Priscilla cooed. “I could do this every hour of every day.” She looked at him. “You don’t know how good this feels. You don’t know what it’s like, being denied for so long. I would shoot my mother if I didn’t love her so much.”

  In one respect she was wrong; Fargo did know how good it felt. He held himself still, letting her savor the moment.

  “I wish—” Priscilla began, and suddenly stopped and stiffened. “Did you hear something?”

  Fargo shook his head.

  “Are you sure?” Priscilla whispered. “I thought I heard a footstep out in the hall. Maybe Avril came back.”

  Fargo leaned as far toward the door as he could, but it was not quite far enough. “Wrap your legs around me,” he directed, and when she had complied, he slid along the wall and peeked out. A maid was moving down the hall away from them.

  “What if she heard us?” Priscilla asked, aghast.

  “Unlikely,” Fargo said.

  They watched until the maid was gone. The woman did not glance back or in any way betray that she knew they were there.

  “Thank goodness!” Priscilla said. “Now where were we?”

  Fargo eased the door shut and braced both legs. He gripped her hips, tucked at the knees, and thrust, the first of many. He did not count them, so he could not say if it was the fortieth or the sixty-first when Priscilla bucked in a wanton frenzy of release. His own explosion was not long after.

  Breathless, they sagged against one another. Eventually Fargo stirred and began to peel himself from her.

  “What do you think you’re doing, handsome?” Priscilla asked, wearing an impish expression. “Th
at was only the main course. I haven’t had dessert yet. Are you up for it?”

  Was he ever.

  9

  Much to Fargo’s annoyance, they did not leave the Mayfair farm until ten the next morning. He was up before daybreak, as was his habit, and ready to head out as a golden crown blazed the eastern sky. But Arthur Draypool wanted to have breakfast with their hosts, and breakfast for the Mayfairs was an affair almost as elaborate as supper. The family gathered around the big table and were waited on by the servants. The fare was worthy of a restaurant: coffee, tea, milk, or juice; ham, bacon, beef, or venison; eggs, flapjacks, johnnycakes, and cracklin’ bread.

  Fargo had no intention of eating a big meal, but once he sipped some orange juice and nibbled at a johnnycake, his stomach imitated an earthquake, prompting him to heap food high on his plate. He blamed Priscilla. She had been insatiable. They had stayed in the sewing room until nearly two in the morning.

  Now she sat across from him, as demure and prim and proper as a true lady was expected to be. She would glance at him every now and then, when she thought no one else was looking, and smile a quick secret smile that only the two of them understood.

  Toward the end of the feast, after Fargo had pushed his plate back and patted his overfull stomach, Clyde Mayfair tapped a glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention and declared, “We wish you all the best in your hunt for the Sangamon River Monster, Mr. Fargo. It is a dangerous enterprise, and I trust you will not take it lightly.”

  “I never take killers lightly,” Fargo said.

  “You must be diligent in the hunt, merciless when you catch him,” Mayfair went on. “If you find your resolve waning, just think of all the poor people that fiend has murdered.”

  The man had gall, lecturing him, Fargo reflected. He nodded and responded, “I know my job.”

  Mayfair glanced at Draypool, then said, “I am certain you do. Yet Arthur tells me that you refuse to shoot the Monster on sight.”

  “I made it plain I don’t kill for money. If that’s what he wants done, he should have hired someone else.”