by Jake Logan
“Me telling you how much I love you,” he said. He kissed her. She tensed, then melted into the circle of his arms. Her body pressed warmly against his and then began a more insistent movement as she wrapped one leg around his and began rubbing her crotch against his thigh.
“Think there’s a pile of straw out in the barn?” she asked, her breath hot in his ear.
“We can make do if there isn’t,” he said.
Arm around her waist, he steered her toward the dark barn. They went through a small side door and looked around. She pulled free and dashed toward the ladder leading to the loft. He followed and got a tantalizing sight as her bare legs flashed in the darkness, scissoring as she went up.
He trailed her, enjoying the sight, even if it was mostly hidden in the shadows of her robe and nightgown. By the time he reached the loft, Christine had shucked off the robe and laid it on a pile of hay intended for the horses. She threw out her arms and fell back onto the robe, slowly drew up her knees, and scooted her nightgown out of the way.
Her spread knees looked like gun sights and the target was the dark triangle so wantonly offered to him.
“Open the loft doors,” she said. “The moon’s rising, and I want you to make love to me in the moonlight.”
Slocum flung the doors open and turned back to see an entirely naked woman stretched out invitingly for him. She held out her arms, and he dropped to his knees. She reached over and began stripping off his clothes as moonlight played between the shadows and cast silver pools on her perfect white skin.
He caught one nipple and rolled the hard bud between his forefinger and thumb. She moaned softly. He repeated the effort on the other side, then bent low and suckled. He drew the rubbery tip between his lips and tended it with lips and teeth and tongue until Christine writhed about under him.
He kissed the deep valley between her breasts and moved lower to her navel, where he dallied for only a moment before plunging even lower into forbidden territory now open to him. Tongue laving along the sex flaps, Slocum was treated to suddenly going deaf and blind. The woman’s thighs clamped down hard on either side of his head, holding him in place. There was nowhere else he wanted to go.
Tongue thrusting in and out, licking up and down, he caused her to arch her back and moan so loud that the horses in the stalls below began to turn fitful. He didn’t let up his oral assault on her pink gates. His tongue slid deeper into her and rolled about. Her fingers laced through his lank, dark hair to hold him in place.
Then she tugged hard and pulled him away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“That’s sooo good,” she said in a sex husky voice, “but I want more of you in me. Lots more!” She tugged and pulled him up along her body as her knees rose on either side of his chest.
When the throbbing end of his organ bumped into the area where his mouth had been seconds earlier, the woman let out a tiny shriek, then bit her lip to keep from even louder outcries.
“You like that?” He positioned himself and moved his hips forward a few inches. The purpled end of his manhood parted the nether lips and sank a ways into her. “You like this better?” He teased her with small movements, an inch in fast and then a slow retreat the same distance until he saw a flush rising on her chest.
The moonlight turned her into an angel, a fairy fluttering down to deliver only pure lusty delight.
He levered his hips forward and slowly inserted himself balls deep into her willing core. The heat and wetness around him proved more stimulating than he expected. She was turned on and communicated this to him by tensing and relaxing strong inner muscles. He was wetly, warmly squeezed and then released.
Pressure built in his balls, but Slocum remained hidden full length in her center, not moving more than he had to. This drove Christine’s passions even higher.
“Oh, John, you’re making me crazy for you. I feel you inside. So big, so hard, soooo—”
She gasped and arched her back, cramming her hips down hard as if to split herself in two on his fleshy knife. This was more than Slocum could handle. The grip around him was increasing in power and desire. He began thrusting. He tried to keep a steady rhythm and succeeded for a minute or two, then found himself unable to do anything but stroke wildly. All his desires exploded as he spilled his seed in her.
Christine tried to hold back a long, loud cry of release and failed. Cattle in nearby feed pens lowed in response, a dog barked, and the horses below in the barn began kicking at their stalls. Her fingernails cut into his broad back, and they crammed themselves together at the crotch as hard as they could. And then, passions expended, they sank down to lie side by side in the moonlight.
Sweat beaded Christine’s forehead like liquid silver beads. Slocum reached out and gently whisked them away. She smiled, just a little, eyes still closed. Then she pursed her lips. He kissed them. And just before sunup they finished again.
“Oh, John, I have to get back to the house. Papa will be up anytime now, and I could never explain.”
“If he gives you any woe, I’ll talk to him.”
Christine sat up, eyes wide. She started to say something, then shook her head. Words finally formed.
“He’d kill you.” After a moment’s consideration, she added, “Or you’d have to kill him. I wouldn’t want that.”
He started to say that he would make an honest woman of her, no matter what her pa thought, but she pulled the robe from under them, sending him rolling. When he sat up, she had the robe pulled tightly around her and was heading down the ladder. With only her head still poking up into the loft, she blew him a kiss and then vanished.
Slocum lay back, then found himself warmed by the first rays of dawn. He rummaged about in the hay and found his clothes, finally pulling on his boots and dropping down the ladder just as Mordecai Magnuson came in.
“You’re up early, Slocum. Tendin’ the horses?” Magnuson looked around and saw no work had been done yet.
“Just rolled in from town.” Slocum told him of Garvin’s brush with death.
“That son of a bitch has the worst luck ever followed by good. No, better than good. Never heard of nobody shot in the heart—shooting himself in the heart!—and living to tell of it.” Magnuson grabbed a shovel and tossed it to Slocum. “Get on with the work. Finish it all and get yourself cleaned up if you want to go.”
“Go where?” Slocum asked, bending to the task of mucking the nearest stall.
“There’s a square dance tonight over at the Norton spread.”
“What’s the occasion?” Slocum went cold inside when he saw the broad smile on Magnuson’s face.
“I reckon Josh Junior’s got somethin’ he wants to ask my daughter. And if he doesn’t, then it’s a big dance to celebrate all of us getting our herds to market. Drive starts day after the dance. That’s why I think he wants to ask her now, before we’re all on the trail.”
Magnuson left whistling off-key. Slocum stood with a shovel of shit in his hand and a taste of ashes in his mouth.
8
“Dammit, don’t like being shorthanded this close to the drive,” Magnuson groused. He turned in the saddle and glared at Slocum. “You’re not pullin’ your weight today, Slocum. Something eating you?”
Slocum almost told the rancher about him and Christine, then bit back the words. They had worked under the hot sun all morning. He had thought hard work would burn out the fury growing in him that Magnuson considered his daughter a fair match with the younger Norton boy. Christine didn’t have a good word to say for him, and their marriage would be loveless, an arranged union to combine two large ranches rather than consider the feelings of the couple.
Slocum snorted. He didn’t doubt Josh Junior was all in favor of the marriage. Christine was a lovely woman, feisty and determined. Slocum had the feeling he was a better match for the ranch
er’s daughter than anyone from the Norton spread. Although he didn’t know the boy, Junior, from accounts, had grown up feeling like royalty. Too much money, not enough challenge in his life. At least that was how Christine portrayed him, and Slocum believed her.
“Anxious to get on the trail,” Slocum lied to the rancher.
“We got a good herd this year. Grass was plentiful early in the season, and you and that Garvin fellow kept the rustlers from stealin’ me blind.”
“Too bad he can’t go on the drive,” Slocum said.
“Doesn’t look too promisin’ for Jed either,” Magnuson said, turning somber. “He’s hurtin’ somethin’ fierce. Christine’s a good nurse, but she’s done all she can for him. It didn’t look like it at the time, but those damned rustlers about did him in. I’m thinkin’ Dr. Abbey might fix him up like he did Garvin.”
Slocum didn’t bother saying anything about the miracle of a man having his heart on the wrong side and how this had saved his life. Tom Garvin was a curious mix of good and bad luck, as Magnuson had said that morning. When a man’s luck ran good, everyone crowded close, but Slocum was coming to look at Garvin as a jinx. He wasn’t an especially superstitious man, but there was no harm in keeping his distance from Garvin should his bad luck explode out and rain down on anyone too close.
“We’ll do all right,” Slocum said. He wanted to tell Magnuson about his feelings for Christine, but the rancher suddenly wheeled his horse and galloped away, leaving behind a cloud of choking dust. Slocum spat, then turned back to his work.
By late afternoon, they had brought in the sicklier of the cows to examine. If they couldn’t make the drive, they’d be slaughtered and sold in town right away. Slocum cut out those heifers that would build the herd for the following year and gave orders to keep them apart. Steers and older cattle only were part of the herd going to the railhead.
“Hey, Jonesy, come on over here.” Slocum got one of the older cowboys to join him. “You drove the Bar M herd last year, didn’t you?”
“This’ll be my third year.”
“Anything about the route to the railroad I ought to know?”
“You the trail boss, Slocum? Or you just one of us dust eaters?”
Slocum considered the matter. Magnuson hadn’t given him the job, but whenever something had to be done after Blassingame had been laid up, the rancher had told Slocum to do it. He was acting as foreman, even if he hadn’t been hired on for that job.
“Don’t know what I am,” Slocum said. He forced himself to stop thinking about Christine and the square dance that night. “Doesn’t much matter since the more all of us know about the trail, the better we’ll ride it.”
The cowboy scratched his stubbled chin, pushed his hat back, and finally said, “Hashknife’s got a map. Can you believe that? He worked for the Army as a scout before gettin’ his leg all broke up.”
“He ridden the trail before?”
“As often as Blassingame, maybe more. Jed’s only been here ten years. Hashknife’s born and raised in this country. No idea how long he’s worked for Mr. Magnuson but it was ’fore that daughter of his was born.”
“Goes back a ways, then,” Slocum said. Everything conspired to remind him of Christine. He felt an obligation to do what he could getting the herd to market, but for two cents he would ride back to the ranch house and spirit Christine away. Let Magnuson drag out that old shotgun of his. Slocum was willing to fight for her.
“Hey, Slocum,” shouted another cowboy. “We done penned up the downers and chased off the rest. We got ourselves a herd!”
“There’s a barn dance tonight, over at the Norton spread. Everybody’s invited. Get yourselves cleaned up and in your Sunday best. No blowing off steam, no getting drunk, just a whale of a lot of dancing,” Slocum called.
He had no idea if the dance was open to all the hands, but it didn’t matter much to him. If Magnuson’s entire crew showed up, was Norton going to turn them away? If he tried, there might be some friction between the families. Slocum grinned at that happening. It’d be a shame.
“A damned shame,” he muttered. Then he gave the signal for the cowboys to head back to the bunkhouse. One way or the other, it was going to be a memorable night.
* * *
The dance was held in a meadow some distance from the Norton barn, but Slocum worried he wasn’t dressed well enough for the crowd already gathered. He had been right that Norton hadn’t invited any of the cowboys, just the ranchers and their families. But he and Magnuson had gone to one side and talked at length until Norton slapped Magnuson on the shoulder and the two had returned to the festivities.
Whatever agreement had been reached, Magnuson’s crew was allowed to remain.
The difference in revelers was quickly apparent to some of Slocum’s fellow cowboys. Jonesy came over and expressed his dismay at standing out like tits on a boar hog.
“They’re not chasing us off. Go on, dance,” Slocum urged. He saw the younger Norton across the meadow joking with several friends. They were all dressed fit to kill. Even Slocum’s Sunday best was a poor second to their fancy duds. The more of Magnuson’s cowboys that remained, the better Slocum would feel about the quality of his clothing.
“Reckon that means we kin eat the food and drink the punch?”
“You’re a guest. Enjoy yourself.”
Jonesy let out a whoop of glee and made a beeline for the punch bowl. Slocum doubted it held anything alcoholic but someone hovering near it might have a bottle to add a little nip.
The fiddler struck up a lively song, and the caller bellowed for a Texas Star. Slocum moved around the edge of the crowd watching the dancers, then stopped and watched as Christine danced with Josh Norton. He pushed through the people and waited as the couple swung back past. Christine never noticed him but Norton did. The young man scowled and then hurried across the ring, swung about, and came back to Christine as the fiddler slowed and finally stopped with a flourish.
Before the next song began, Slocum stepped up, interposed himself between Norton and Christine, and said, “My dance.”
“But—”
Slocum ignored Norton’s sputtering protests as the fiddler struck up a new tune. He took her in his arms and pulled her closer than was socially acceptable. She tensed and tried to stiffen her arm to push him away. He didn’t budge against her pressure.
“You didn’t look too put out dancing with him,” Slocum said.
“His pa is holding the dance. I had to, John. Really!”
They swung about, separated, and came back together.
“You didn’t have to look like you enjoyed it so much.”
“Why, John Slocum, you’re jealous. There’s no need to be.”
Slocum started to tell her what he felt, how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, when a commotion from the direction of the caller caused the dancers to miss a beat. Some collided; others just stopped and looked.
“That’s Hashknife,” Christine said. “Looks as if he’s got a snootful of booze.”
The cook began bellowing out conflicting instructions, then turned to berate the fiddler for not playing loud enough.
“You should stop him before he creates more of a scene,” she said.
“Why me?”
“Papa said you were working as foreman with Mr. Blassingame laid up the way he is.”
“Not getting paid to be foreman,” he said, then realized he was getting off the topic burning brightest in his mind. “Let’s get away from here. I want to ask you something—”
“That’s your man,” the senior Norton said, laying his hand on Slocum’s shoulder. “Why not calm him down ’fore some of my men put a bullet in his damn fool head?”
“I have other business.”
“Slocum!” This shout came from Mordecai Magnuson. “Get him o
ut of here ’fore I have to fire him.”
“Go on, John. We can talk later,” Christine said.
Slocum found himself the center of attention, not the drunken cook and his increasingly obscene calls.
“Later,” he said. Slocum backed away, brushing off Norton’s hand. As he headed for the rowdy cook, the younger Norton returned to speak with Christine. It was less a talk than an argument. That soothed Slocum’s ruffled feathers enough to take care of Hashknife.
The cook spun around, using his crippled leg as an axle. One arm waved high in the air and he shouted incoherently now. In the hand not grabbing for the stars, he held a silver flask. Liquor sloshed out as he whirled around and around.
Slocum judged the rotation, stepped forward, and threw both arms around the cook’s shoulders. With a grunt, he lifted Hashknife off the ground. His bad leg twitched, and his good one kicked higher in the air.
“You gonna dance with me, Slocum? Didn’t know you cared.”
“Come on,” Slocum said, carrying the cook bodily away from the party. The meadow was demarcated on one side by a swiftly flowing stream. With a heave, Hashknife was added to the leaves and other debris on the frothy surface.
He splashed around in the cold water, sputtered, and tried to sit up. The swift current forced him flat onto his back. His face disappeared under the water. Slocum waded in, grabbed, and pulled the cook up to keep him from drowning.
“You sober enough to go back to the dance?” Slocum shook him like a terrier would a rat.
The cook sputtered and nodded.
“Behave yourself or next time I won’t bother pulling you out of the water.”
“You’re a prince among men, Slocum. A real prince,” Hashknife said. Slocum gave him a hand when the cook’s bad leg buckled under him. In spite of the dunking, he still smelled of liquor but seemed sober enough for polite com- pany.
Slocum trailed him up the hill to the meadow, where the square dance continued. He looked for Christine but didn’t see her. Magnuson and the elder Norton stood close together by the table holding the punch bowl, speaking in animated terms. Magnuson gestured and snippets of Norton’s loud voice drifted over the music and general merriment to Slocum’s ears. He gritted his teeth and started to hunt for Christine. The two men were talking dowry and marriage.