Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270)

by Roberts, J. R.

  Westin entered the dining room just as Andrea Powell was taking the last of the plates from the table.

  “W-Where are they?” she asked.

  “In the den,” he said. “He told me to help you girls in the kitchen.”

  She smiled.

  “Wait here.”

  She went into the kitchen and told Chelsea, “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Powell,” Chelsea said. “I can do the dishes.”

  Andrea went back into the dining room, grabbed Westin’s hand, and said, “Come on.”

  She pulled him up the back stairs, staying away from the main stairway, down a hall, and into one of the guest bedrooms. Then she pushed him up against the wall and went to her knees in front of him. She undid his trousers, pulled them down to his ankles, then grabbed his cock, and greedily took it into her mouth . . .

  “Ben Randolph and I used to be in business with each other.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A long time.”

  “Okay.” Clint decided to let Powell tell it in his own time.

  “We were in business together years ago, and then I decided that I would be better off on my own.”

  “So you made yourself a fortune, and . . .”

  “And he found me,” Powell said. “Now he wants to cut himself in.”

  “For how much? Half?”

  “All of it.”

  “All?”

  Powell nodded.

  “My cash, and my holdings.”

  “He doesn’t want you to turn your holdings into cash?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Powell said, “he wants my cash, and he wants me to sign over all my holdings.”

  “Did you go to the law?”

  “I—no, no, I didn’t go to the law.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you want me to do, go to the local sheriff?” Powell asked. “The man’s an idiot.”

  “How about a U.S. marshal?”

  “No. Look,” Powell said, “I decided to handle it myself.”

  “By hiring some gunmen?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, that didn’t turn out so good for you, did it?” Clint asked.

  “Not the first time.”

  Clint ignored that.

  “What about Westin?” Clint asked. “He’s your lawyer. What does he say?”

  “He says what I tell him to say.”

  Clint stared at Powell, who was pouring himself another cognac.

  “You want another?” the older man asked.

  FIFTEEN

  Westin was thirty-eight.

  Andrea was fifty-one.

  It didn’t matter as much to him as it did to her.

  When they first met, Westin felt a spark. He could tell she wasn’t happy, and he saw the way Powell treated her. As weeks turned into months, they would talk whenever they got a chance. The one time he rode out to the house to see her, Powell wasn’t around, and it happened. In the kitchen. Chelsea had the night off.

  After that, they saw each other whenever they could. Stolen moments. And she always complained that she was too old for him, that he should be finding some woman his own age.

  He usually used sex to shut her up.

  Now they lay side by side in the guest room bed and she said, “He’ll be looking for us. Both of us.”

  Westin rolled onto his side and put his hand over one of her breasts. She was lovely, even though she thought her body was starting to sag.

  He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her nipples. She reached down and took hold of him again.

  “Okay,” she said, “but let’s make it fast!”

  “How do you expect Westin to represent you when you cut off his balls in front of people?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t answer to anyone about how I treat my employees,” Powell said. “Believe me, I pay him enough for the opportunity to cut off his balls.”

  “His office doesn’t look like you pay him that well,” Clint commented.

  Powell pointed a finger at Clint.

  “He had that office when I hired him, and he chooses to stay in it. I don’t know what he does with the money I pay him. He lives cheap, eats cheap, and never goes anywhere unless I’m paying the freight.”

  Clint couldn’t argue. He didn’t know enough.

  “Can we stop talking about how I treat my lawyer?” Powell asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I need you to get Ben Randolph off my back. I am not giving that man everything I’ve earned and built over the last dozen years.”

  “If I agree to work for you,” Clint said, “you can’t think that you’re going to treat me the way you treat your other employees.”

  “For the amount of money I’m going to pay you,” Powell said, “I’ll have to trust that you know what you’re doing.”

  “We can talk about how much you’re paying me after I agree to work for you.”

  “And when will that be?”

  Clint didn’t answer.

  Gordon Westin gritted his teeth as he exploded inside Andrew Powell’s wife. He grunted loudly, a grunt which otherwise would have been a loud yell. When he opened his eyes and looked down at her, he could see that she was doing the same thing. Then she opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

  “Jesus!” she said.

  He rolled off her, trying to catch his breath. She sat up and reached for her dress.

  “Now he’s probably really looking for us,” she said.

  He reached to the floor for his clothes.

  “I’ll tell him I was outside, walking,” he said. “After the way he spoke to me in front of Adams, he’ll believe me.”

  “I’ll think of something,” she said.

  He watched as she stood up, turned her back to him, and slid her dress over her head. He felt a sense of loss when the dress covered her naked back and ass.

  He knew he could not ask her to leave Powell until he had something to offer her. That was why he spent very little of the money her husband paid him. He saved it. He’d never have as much as Powell, but maybe someday he’d have enough to be able to take her away from him.

  She turned and looked at him.

  “I’ll go down first.”

  “All right.”

  “But before that,” she said, touching her messed-up hair, “I have to find a mirror.”

  She kissed her fingertips and waved to him, then slipped out of the room.

  “Mr. Adams,” Powell said, “I realize that you could go after Ben Randolph and his men to find out who killed your friend, and you could do it on your own.”

  “And?”

  Powell shrugged.

  “I just assumed you’d rather do it and get paid for it,” Powell said. “A lot!”

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “I’ll have another cognac, Mr. Powell.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Ah, Gordon,” Powell said as the lawyer walked back into the den, “have you seen my wife?”

  Seen her, Westin thought, and had her, you old bastard.

  “I think she’s back in the kitchen, with Chelsea,” Westin said. “I was . . . outside. Walking.”

  “Uh-huh,” Powell said, obviously not interested.

  “Well,” Powell said, “I think the ladies will have coffee for us. And pie. I’ll go and check. Gordon, why don’t you stay here and talk to Mr. Adams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Answer whatever questions he has,” Powell added. “I think he’ll make his decision tonight, before you and he leave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clint and Westin watched as Powell left the room.

  “Why do you put up with him?” Clint asked.

  “He pays well.”

  “But he treats you like shit.”

  “And pays me well for the privilege.”

  “Why don’t you have a better-looking office, then?” Clint asked.

  “What does that matter?” Westin asked. “All I need is
a desk.”

  “So . . . you’re saving your money?”

  Westin walked to the cognac and poured himself one.

  “That’s right. And when I have enough money, I’ll tell the old buzzard where to go.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Are you going to work for him?”

  “Well, one way or another I’m going to find out who killed Joe Bags and those other men,” Clint said. “So I might as well let him pay me while I’m doing it.”

  “Kind of sounds like what I’m doing,” Westin said. “Using the old man to get what I want.”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “His wife?”

  Westin almost choked on his cognac. He took a quick look at the door.

  “What—why—how—”

  “I saw the way you were looking at each other at dinner,” Clint said.

  “Jesus,” Westin said. “Oh, Jesus. Do you think he knows—”

  “No,” Clint said, “I don’t think he ever looked at either of you enough to see it. How long has it been going on?”

  “Um, almost a year,” Westin said. “Since we first met.”

  “So that’s what you’re saving your money for, then?” Clint said. “You think she’ll leave him when you have enough?”

  “I hope so,” Westin said. “You—uh, you’re not going to say anything to Mr. Powell, are you?”

  “Why would I say anything?” Clint asked. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I just thought maybe, when you were working for him, you might feel obligated—”

  “I won’t feel any obligation beyond what he’s paying me to do.”

  “So you are going to take the job?”

  “I suppose so,” Clint said, “but I think I’ll hold off telling him until after dessert.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Clint slapped Westin on the back.

  “You might want to be careful with those looks you and Mrs. Powell have been giving each other, though.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Westin said.

  Dessert was as good as the rest of the meal, except Clint felt he might have been getting more attention from Chelsea than he was getting before. He was getting looks, and an occasional hip bunt, the kind he’d experienced before from waitresses who were interested in him.

  He didn’t know much about Chelsea beyond the fact that she cooked for the Powells. He didn’t know where she lived, or what her situation was.

  Chelsea’s attentions were distracting him from watching Westin and Mrs. Powell, but the lawyer did seem to be showing more sense when it came to casting hot and wanting looks her way.

  “Well, Mr. Adams,” Powell said, sitting back in his chair and wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin, “what do you say?”

  “I say okay, Mr. Powell,” Clint said. “I’ll take your money while I’m looking for the killer of Joe Bags.”

  “I’ve told you who the killer is,” Powell said. “Ben Randolph.”

  “I’d like to know who pulled the trigger,” Clint said. “And to get started, I’ll need you to tell me where to find Randolph.”

  “Well, I don’t know that.”

  “Then where are you supposed to get in touch with him? I mean, if you wanted to make arrangements to pay him off?”

  Clint looked at Mrs. Powell, to see if he’d let the cat out of the bag.

  “That’s all right, Mr. Adams,” she said. “I’m well aware of what’s going on. After all, I watched five dead men get dropped on the floor of my house. After that, I insisted on knowing everything that was going on.”

  Clint looked at Powell. He wondered if the man had really told his wife everything.

  “Ben said he’d be coming back here,” Powell said.

  “Did he say when?”

  “No.”

  “Then how am I supposed to know—”

  “How about this?” Powell asked. “Do you have a hotel room?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, give it up and stay here,” Powell said. “You’ll be our houseguest until Ben Randolph shows up again.”

  “And then you can kill him,” Andrea said.

  All the men at the table turned and looked at her. Even Chelsea stopped and looked.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Mrs. Powell,” Clint said. “I am not being hired to kill Ben Randolph.”

  “Then I’m confused,” she said. “Aren’t you a hired gunman? Isn’t that what you do?”

  Clint sat back in his chair and looked at Chelsea. The cook put her hand over her mouth and stared back at him. He didn’t think she was judging him. Rather, he thought she was feeling sorry for him.

  “That’ll be all, Chelsea,” Powell said. “You can finish cleaning the kitchen tomorrow. You can go to your room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They all remained silent until Chelsea had left the room.

  “Andrea—” Powell said.

  “Mrs. Powell—” Clint started.

  They both stopped.

  “Do you mind?” Clint asked Powell.

  “No,” the man said. “Go ahead. Please.”

  “Mrs. Powell—”

  “If you’re about to scold me,” she said, holding up her hand, “I’d prefer you call me Andrea.”

  “Andrea,” he said. “One of the men your husband hired was a friend of mine. My only interest is in finding out who killed him and bringing that man to justice. If I can do something for your husband to help him with his Ben Randolph problem, I will. That might mean killing someone, but only if I have no other choice. I don’t hire out to kill people.”

  “I’m sorry,” Andrea said. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So what about it, Clint?” she asked. “Will you stay as our guest?”

  “That seems to be the way to do this,” Clint said. “I’ll go back tonight—”

  “Nonsense,” Powell said. “We have plenty of rooms in this house. You and Gordon will stay the night, and then he can go back to town tomorrow, check you out of the hotel, and bring your things here. That way you’ll be here tonight and tomorrow . . . uh, just in case Ben returns.”

  Andrea stood up.

  “I better see to your rooms,” she said to Clint and Westin.

  It seemed to Clint she was happier about Westin staying than about him.

  When Clint’s room was ready, Andrea Powell came into the dining room to get him.

  “Your room is ready,” she said. “I’ll show you where it is. After that, you may do as you like, remain in it, or wander the house.”

  “If it’s all right with you,” Clint said to Powell, “I’d like to look at that library of books you have in your office.”

  “You’re a reader?” Andrea asked, showing her surprise.

  “That shocks you?”

  “Yes—well, no—I mean—”

  “That’s all right, Andrea,” Clint said. “I realize it will take you some time to get rid of your view of me as a gunman. Shall we go?”

  Sheepishly she led him from the dining room and up the stairway, leaving her husband and her lover at the dining room table alone.

  “What do you think?” Powell asked the lawyer.

  “About what?”

  “Don’t be dense, man,” Powell said. “Can he get the job done?”

  “I’m sure he can.”

  “Alone?”

  “That’ll be up to him,” Westin said. “I imagine he could get a lot of help if he wanted to.”

  “Help like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson?”

  “We know that he is friends with those men,” Westin said, “but I doubt they would be interested in this particular job. But whoever he brings in, you’ll have to pay for.”

  “Why can’t he pay them from what I’m giving him?” Powell asked.

  “Perhaps that should have been ironed out ahead of time.”

  “Well . . . we haven’t really settled on an amount,” Powell said.

/>   “Then there’s still room to negotiate,” Westin said.

  “Perhaps we can get that done tomorrow,” Powell said.

  “Perhaps we can,” Westin agreed.

  Andrea showed Clint to a guest room that was twice the size of his hotel room.

  “Wow,” he said. “Very impressive.”

  “My husband had the house built, but I furnished it,” she said. “All the rooms but his office.”

  “You have good taste.”

  “Would you like me to find you something to sleep in?” she asked.

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll manage.”

  “I can find you a shirt for tomorrow.”

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  When she hesitated to leave, he knew what was coming.

  “Mr. Adams . . . he and I haven’t talked about it, but I suspect you know about me and . . . Gordon.”

  “I suspected,” Clint said, “but as I told Gordon, it’s not my place to say anything.”

  A look of relief came over her face.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

  “As I told Westin,” Clint said, “just be careful around your husband. If he stops to take a good look, he might see what I saw.”

  “We’ll remember that,” she said. “Good night. I won’t see you again until morning.”

  “Good night, Andrea. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Clint waited about half an hour, giving everyone time to get away from the dining room, off to wherever they were going. When he finally went back downstairs, he hoped he wouldn’t find Powell sitting at his desk in his office. He was in luck—the room was empty.

  He went into the room and started browsing the books. There was a lot of nonfiction, history books, except for one wall, which was fiction. A lot of it was fiction he didn’t recognize, but he did see Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, and others he knew and had read.

  “Impressed?”

  He turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, was surprised to see Chelsea standing in the doorway. She had removed her apron and was wearing a simple cotton dress. The green of the dress went well with the red of her hair.