by JR Roberts
“Oh God,” she said, arching her back.
He smiled at her, leaned down to kiss her breasts and nibble at her hard nipples while he moved his finger in and out of her.
He kissed her neck and shoulders, and then became impatient, himself. Sliding down he positioned himself between her legs, removing his finger and replacing it with his tongue. As soon as the tip of his tongue touched her she gasped and arched her back again.
“Oh God,” she said, as he continued to lick her, “yes, oh yes …”
He slid his hands beneath her to cup her buttocks and lifted her to his mouth. She had a taste all her own that he had never encountered with another woman, much like her smell. And, if anything, she grew even wetter, soaking his face and the sheet beneath them.
Finally, he withdrew and slid up over her, pressed the tip of his penis to her wetness. He had intended to enter her gently, but his own ardor caught up with him and he rammed his penis into her.
Her eyes went wide and she cried out, almost as if in pain.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh God,” she said, wrapping her arms and kegs around him, “I’m just fine!”
Later they were lying in each other’s arms when Clint said, “You have to leave soon.”
“I know. But I don’t want to.”
“Your family is waiting.”
She slid her hand down between his legs to grasp him. Immediately, he started to respond.
“I see you’re not ready for me to go, either.”
“Beth,” he said, reaching down and grasping her hand, “this wasn’t right to begin with. Let’s not make it worse by having your husband come looking for you.”
She brought her hand up from beneath the sheet with his and kissed the back of his.
“All right,” she said, swinging her legs out of bed, “but we’re going to do this again.”
He watched as she got dressed, and she knew he was watching so she went slowly. By the time she was done he was fully hard again and ready to take her back into bed. He reached for her, but she skirted away.
“Oh, no,” she said, “you’re the one who made me get up. It’s too late now.”
She went to the door, then turned back to him.
“I’d kiss you goodbye, but I’m afraid you’d pull me back into bed.”
“You’re right.”
“Get a good night’s sleep,” she said. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
He didn’t want to tell her about the note from Restin, so he said, “I’m not sure.”
“Then maybe I’ll see you.”
“Maybe.”
She started to open the door, then asked, “You won’t leave town without seeing me, will you?”
“I promise,” he said, “I won’t leave town without saying goodbye.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she said, and slipped out of the room.
Chapter Nine
Clint woke in the morning, still unsure about whether or not to ride out to see Restin. He was, after all, a day or two away from leaving town for good. Why get involved in whatever Restin had in mind, because there was no way the man had asked him to come out to his ranch just to apologize. He had something on his mind.
After breakfast his curiosity got the better of him. He decided to saddle Eclipse and take a ride out to Restin’s spread. If nothing else was accomplished, the Darley Arabian would get some exercise.
He saddled Eclipse at the livery and asked the hostler for directions to the Restin spread.
“You better be careful out there,” the old man told him.
“Why’s that?”
“He not only has ranch hands, he’s also got gun hands working for him.” The man looked Clint up and down. “You ain’t lookin’ fer a job, are ya?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, just watch your back out there, is all I’m sayin’,” the man said. “Vance Restin is a hard man.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
He mounted up and rode out.
The Restin spread was called the Bar-VR, which Clint thought didn’t take a lot of imagination. Apparently, just two miles outside of town he crossed onto Restin land, but the house was still three miles beyond that.
He rode up to a two-story house – first story built of logs, and then the second floor added in rough-sawn lumber. There were some hands in the corral, working a good-looking stallion, and nobody paid any attention to him from that direction.
However, there were two men on the porch that he recognized as two of the four gunmen from the day before. They were leaning and sitting, and as he rode up they straightened, their hands hanging down by their guns.
“You boys should relax,” Clint said. “I’m here as an invited guest.”
“That so?” one asked.
“Yeah, it is,” Clint said. “Just ask him.”
“Don’t bother climbing down from that horse,” the other man said.
Clint wondered if this was a trap, but he didn’t sense that anyone was behind him, and he didn’t think these two would face him alone.
“Why don’t one of you run along inside and ask him,” Clint suggested.
“I’ll do that,” the first man said. “Just stay there.”
He went inside, leaving his partner to face Clint alone.
“Where are your other two friends?” Clint asked.
“They’re around.”
They had attracted some attention from the hands in the corral, but Clint still wasn’t sensing any danger to him from behind.
The other man came out of the house and said, “The boss said to let him go inside.”
Clint immediately dismounted.
“Don’t think we’re gonna take care of your horse,” the first man said.
“He’ll take care of himself,” Clint said. He went up the steps until he was on equal ground with the two men, then stopped and looked at them. “He just better still be there when I come out.”
He didn’t wait for a response, and entered the house.
Just inside the door he found the other two gunmen.
“Adams,” one of them said, “I’m Peterson. Mr. Restin is this way.”
Clint pointed at the other man.
“You’re the one who recognized me,” he said. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Stan Rhodes.”
“I don’t know you.”
“We’ve never met,” Rhodes said, “but I saw you once, a while back.”
“You wanna come this way?” Peterson asked. “The boss is waitin’.”
“Peterson,” Clint said. “And what’s your first name?”
“Dave,” Peterson said. “Don’t worry, we don’t know each other, and you never heard of me, either. You comin’?”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “I’m coming. Lead the way.”
Peterson took the lead and Rhodes followed behind, but Clint still didn’t feel he was in danger. His instincts on that were usually good.
He followed Peterson to an impressive office, a large room lined with books. Restin was seated behind a huge desk.
“Ah, Adams,” the rancher said, “I’m glad you decided to stop by. You don’t mind if Mr. Peterson and Mr. Rhodes stay with us, do you?”
“Not at all,” Clint said, then added, “if you feel you need them.”
“I’m sure a man like you understands about … precautions?” Restin asked. “Please, have a seat.”
Chapter Ten
“Can I get you a drink? Or some coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Clint said. “I’m here to find out what’s on your mind, Mr. Restin.”
“Right to the point,” Restin said. “Good. What’s on my mind, Mr. Adams, is a job.”
“A job?”
“A well-paying job.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I’m not a ranch hand, and …” he looked around. “ … I’m not a gun for hire.”
“No, no,” Restin said, “nothing like that, at all.�
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“Then what?”
“My daughter, Terry, is supposed to go to Sacramento to attend college,” Restin said. “She doesn’t want to go.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“That seems old enough to make her own decisions.”
”No!” Restin said. “She’s my daughter, and I’ll make the decisions for her. She’s going to college to get a good education. After that she can do what she likes.”
“What does this all have to do with me?”
“Ah,” Restin said, with a smile, “you’re the man who’s going to see that she gets to Sacramento.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Easy,” Restin said, “you’re going to take her there.”
Clint was slightly stunned for a moment, then said simply, “No.”
“No?”
“Sorry,” Clint said. “I’m not a babysitter.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Restin assured him. “I was thinking of you as more of an … escort.”
“That’s not something I do either, Mr. Restin.”
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.”
“No.”
“Five thousand.”
“Sorry.”
Restin stood up angrily.
“I’m not used to being turned down, Adams.”
Clint stood.
“Then you better get used to it.”
Clint turned and headed for the door.
“Ten thousand!” Restin snapped.
Clint turned and said, “No.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I don’t work for men like you, Restin,” Clint said, “at any price.”
“Men like me?” Restin asked. “You mean rich and successful?”
“No,” Clint said, “I mean arrogant.”
Clint left the room and walked toward the front door.
“Boss?” Peterson said.
“Let him go,” Restin said. “I’ll just have to go to plan B.”
“Plan B?” Rhodes asked. “Why not just pay us to do it?”
“As if I’d trust my daughter to you animals,” Restin said. “No, I have something else in mind.”
“So whataya want us to do?” Peterson asked.
“For the time being,” Restin said, “nothing.”
“So just let him go?”
Restin nodded.
“That’s right,” he said. “Just let him go. Oh, and have my horse saddled.”
“Where are we goin’?” Peterson asked.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Restin said, “but I’m going into town.”
“You can’t go alone.”
“Nonsense,” Restin said. “You just go out front and make sure those other two idiots don’t do anything stupid.”
Clint went out the front door, ignored the two gunmen and walked down the steps to Eclipse, who hadn’t moved. He mounted up, turned the Darley Arabian and rode away from the house.
The two gunmen exchanged an anxious glance, and then the door opened and Peterson came out. Stan Rhodes followed him out.
“We just gonna let ’im go?” Hank Spenser asked.
“That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”
“But … why?” Ted Banks demanded.
“Because that’s what the boss wants us to do,” Peterson said, “and he’s payin’ the bills.”
Banks looked at Spenser, who shrugged and said, “What the hell? When we do get a chance at him maybe it’ll be in town, where everybody can see.”
Banks thought about that and then said, “Yeah, okay, I guess so.”
“What’d the boss want with him?” Spenser asked.
“He offered him a job.”
“One of our jobs?” Banks asked.
“No,” Rhodes said, “somethin’ else.”
“And?” Spenser asked.
“Adams turned him down flat,” Peterson said, “three different times.”
“Ouch,” Spenser said, “I’ll bet Restin didn’t like that.”
“He kept offerin’ him more money,” Rhodes said, “got up to ten thousand.”
“What?” Banks said. “That’s more than we’re gettin’! What the hell—”
“Never mind,” Peterson said.
“Yeah,” Spenser said, “what’s the difference, if he turned it down. Maybe he’ll pay us the ten thousand.”
“I don’t know,” Peterson said. “He says he’s got another plan.”
“Like what?” Banks asked.
“That he didn’t say,” Rhodes said. “He’s goin’ into town. I gotta go and saddle his horse.”
“We goin’ with him?” Banks asked.
“No,” Rhodes said, on his way down the steps, “he’s goin’ alone!”
“Alone?” Banks asked, looking at Peterson.
“He just thinks he’s goin’ alone,” Peterson said. “After he mounts up and rides out you two go and saddle our horses – hurry!”
“We gonna follow him?” Banks asked.
“We’re gonna follow him,” Peterson said, nodding. “I’m not havin’ our meal ticket gettin’ shot.”
Chapter Eleven
When Clint got back to Festus he put Eclipse back in the livery, in the capable hands of the old hostler.
“That didn’t take long,” the old man said.
“How long does it take to say no?”
“You said no to Vance Restin?”
“I did.”
The old man cackled and shook his head.
“He ain’t gonna take kindly to that.”
“What can he do about it?”
The old man shrugged.
“He can put pressure on you in a lot of ways.”
“How?” Clint said. “I don’t have any family or friends in this town. There’s just me.”
“Well,” the man said, “he’ll figure somethin’ out. Just wait and see.”
“I won’t hold my breath, old man,” Clint said. “See to my horse.”
“I’ll take good care of ’im.”
Clint left the livery and went to the saloon.
Moments behind Clint, Vance Restin rode into town on a majestic Palomino. He reined in the horse in front of the sheriff’s office and went inside.
“Moreland!” he snapped. “We need to talk.”
The sheriff had been talking with his young deputy. When he saw Vance Restin in his office he said, “Go do your rounds, Billy.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Billy headed for the door he said, “Hello, Mr. Restin,” but the rancher ignored him.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Restin?” Moreland asked, seating himself behind his desk.
“Clint Adams.”
“What about him?” the sheriff asked. “I understand he’s gonna leave town soon, so you won’t have any problems with him, anymore. I hope you’re not plannin’ on sending your gunnies after him. You just might end up having to hire more.”
“No, no,” Restin said, weaving the sheriff’s words away. “I don’t want Adams dead. I want him working for me.”
“Did you make him an offer?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He turned me down flat.”
“Ooh,” Moreland said, “that must’ve made you mad.”
“You have no idea.”
“And you don’t want to kill him?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
Restin looked around, his eyes stopping at the coffee pot on the pot-bellied stove.
“Give me a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you.”
Just minutes behind Vance Restin, Peterson and his three gunnies rode into town.
“There’s his Palomino,” he said. “In front of the sheriff’s office.”
“What the hell,” Rhodes said. “What’s he doin’ talkin’ to the law?”
“That’s his business,” Peterson said. “I just want to keep him alive so he can keep payin’ us.”
&nb
sp; “So whatta we do?” Bank asked.
“Hide the horses,” Peterson said. “We don’t want him to know we’re here. Then we’ll all find a place to hide ourselves, and watch his back.”
They all dismounted and gave Banks their reins.
“Hide ’em where?” Banks asked.
“Use your imagination,” Peterson said.
Chapter Twelve
Clint was leaning over a beer in the half empty saloon when the sheriff walked in with his deputy.
“Sheriff,” he said. “Join me?”
“No, Mr. Adams,” Moreland said, “I need you to join me.”
“Where?”
Both star packers drew their guns, Billy doing so very nervously. Clint let them, because he instinctively knew they weren’t about to shoot him.
“What’s going on, sheriff?”
“Just stand still,” Moreland said. He looked at the bartender. “Louie, get his gun.”
“What the—” the bartender started.
“Just do it!”
The barman reached over the bar and plucked Clint’s gun from his holster, sayin’ “Sorry, Mr. Adams.”
“Don’t worry about it, Louie.”
“Now let’s take a walk to the jail,” Moreland said.
“No explanation?” Clint asked.
“You’ll get your explanation once we get there.” He waggled his gun barrel. “Move!”
When they got to the jail, Clint was surprised to be put right into a cell.
“What’s going on, sheriff?” he demanded.
“Well, right now you’re in a cell,” Moreland said. “That means I gotta feed ya.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Clint said, “just tell me—” but the sheriff was gone, closing the door of the cell block behind him. Clint was alone to ponder the three walls and bars of his cell.
Sheriff Moreland went over to the Drinkwater Saloon, which was where Vance Restin did his drinking when he was in town – mostly because he owned the place. It was small, expensively put together, and most of the townspeople didn’t like it much, so they didn’t patronize it. That suited Restin just fine. He didn’t even let his own men go into the Drinkwater.