Gunsmith #359 : 2 Guns for Vengeance (9781101545270)

by Roberts, J. R.

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “Do you spend any time in here?”

  “I’ll tell you,” she said, “if you promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  “I come in when nobody’s around, and read the books,” she confessed.

  “Do you ever take a book with you to read?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Mr. Powell would notice if a book was missing.”

  “Really? With all these books?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He has that type of mind. He sees everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Well,” she said, “not everything.” She looked behind her, to make sure no one was within earshot, then came farther into the room. “He doesn’t see what’s going on between his wife and his lawyer.”

  “But you do?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes wide. “Can I tell you another secret?”

  “Please do.”

  “I saw them, the very first time they were together,” she said. “They didn’t think anyone was around, but I was.”

  “And they did it where you could see them?” he asked.

  “Well, yes,” she said, “considering they were doin’ it in my kitchen!”

  “And you watched?”

  “From the cupboard,” she said. “It was funny, but do you know watching two people have sex is not a pretty sight? I finally had to close the door and just wait there until they finished.”

  “So you never told Mrs. Powell you saw them?”

  “Oh no,” she said, “I don’t know who would die of embarrassment more, her or me.”

  “Probably her.”

  Chelsea giggled behind her hands. In her mid-twenties, she was still able to do that and carry it off as cute.

  “What are you going to read?” she asked, putting her hands behind her back.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought I might take something up to my room, but after what you just told me . . .”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t,” she said. “Not without asking Mr. Powell first.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just pick out a book and sit in here and read it,” Clint said. “He’s not coming back down here, is he?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Not tonight. But he’ll be down early in the morning. He’s always early.”

  “Okay, thanks for the tip.”

  “I know where your room is,” she said.

  He looked at her. He couldn’t tell anything from the expression on her face.

  “Do you want to know where mine is?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s at the end of the same hall,” she said. “Come out of your room, turn right, and it’s at the end of the hall on the right. That’s me. I mean, just in case you need something. You don’t want to have to wake Mr. and Mrs. Powell.”

  “They sleep in the same room?”

  “Yes, they do,” she said. “As far as he knows, she’s his happy wife.”

  “Knowing what you know must stretch your loyalty,” Clint said. “I mean, he pays you, but you’re around her all the time . . .”

  “Believe me,” she said, “they both treat me like an employee. There’s no question of loyalty.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  “Well,” she said, backing toward the door, “I guess I’ll let you find your book.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you be down here long?” she asked. “I mean, reading?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not too long.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you . . . later.”

  She left him standing there, wondering if she was trying to tell him what he thought she was trying to tell him.

  NINETEEN

  Clint was sitting in a comfortable armchair, leafing through a book on European history, when Gordon Westin came walking in.

  “Making yourself comfortable?” the lawyer asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said.

  Westin walked to the sideboard, where Powell kept his liquor.

  “Cognac? Or whiskey?” he asked.

  “Cognac,” Clint said. “I’m more of a beer man than a whiskey man, but I like a good cognac.”

  Westin poured out two snifters, handed one to Clint, who set the book down on the table next to the chair.

  “The boss won’t mind if us lowly peons drink his liquor?” Clint asked.

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Westin said.

  The lawyer sat in another armchair, across from Clint, crossed one leg over the other.

  “Mr. Powell has authorized me to discuss your fee,” he said.

  “I’ll tell him what my fee is,” Clint said. “If he doesn’t pay it, I’ll just go ahead without him.”

  “Well, you’ve been decent to me and to Andrea about . . . what’s going on,” Westin said. He looked around to make sure no one was listening. “You tell me how much you want, and it’s a done deal.”

  Clint studied the young man for a few moments, then said a number.

  “Done.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Powell’s got more money than God,” Westin said. “I’ll tell him we haggled.”

  Westin stood up and extended his hand. Clint stood up and took it.

  “What about other men?” Westin asked.

  “Do we know how many men Ben Randolph has with him?” Clint asked.

  “Twenty, maybe twenty-five.”

  “Then I might need some help,” Clint said. “Powell would have to pay them, too. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me,” the lawyer said, “but they won’t get what you get.”

  “That’s no problem,” Clint said.

  “Then we’re set.”

  “You sure you don’t want something in return?” Clint asked.

  “Like what?”

  “A percentage?”

  “I think you know what I want, Clint,” Westin said. “Your fee is all yours.”

  They finished their drinks. Westin wiped the glasses as clean as he could and put them back.

  “I think I’ll be turning in,” he said to Clint. “Enjoy your book.”

  “Thanks.”

  Westin headed for the door, and Clint sat back down and picked up the book.

  “By the way,” Westin said at the doorway.

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch out for Chelsea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think she likes you,” he said with a smile. “And she’s pretty aggressive.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “The master bedroom is at the other end of the house,” Westin said, “so don’t worry about making too much noise.”

  “I’ll see you at breakfast,” Clint said.

  “Good night.”

  Clint finished leafing through the book about an hour later and returned it to the shelf. He left empty-handed and went to his room. He wondered if Chelsea was aggressive enough to be waiting there, but when he walked in the room, the bed was empty.

  He closed his door tightly, pulled off his boots, and looked for someplace to hang his gun belt where it would be within easy reach.

  TWENTY

  Clint went to bed thinking about Chelsea. She was young and pretty, had been wearing an apron most of the times he saw her. But when she came into the office wearing only a dress, he could see she had a nice body. Her hair was red, her eyes green, always a good combination.

  He rolled over in bed, wondering if he would be overstepping his bounds, taking advantage of his host by going down the hall to Chelsea’s room. But hadn’t she invited him? Or had he misread her?

  He didn’t think that was the case. After all, hadn’t Westin told him she was aggressive? And she was too good at her job to have been accidentally hip-bumping him all through dinner.

  His other problem was, if he did go down the hall, did he bring his gun with him? What if he was in Chelsea’s room when Ben Randolph and his men showed up? If he
came to Chelsea’s room with his gun, she’d just have to understand.

  He grabbed his gun belt, slung it over his shoulder, and left the room to creep down the hall.

  In his own room, Gordon Westin slowly undressed. This was the first time his boss had ever asked him to stay overnight, and he wasn’t comfortable. Was it only because of Clint Adams’s presence, or did Powell suspect something going on between him and Andrea?

  Westin had a gun, although he wasn’t very good with it. It was small caliber and he carried it in his jacket pocket. Before turning in, he placed it under his pillow. He hoped he wouldn’t shoot himself in the head during the night.

  Andrea Powell slept fitfully next to her husband. Usually she slept well enough, but tonight her lover was under the same roof with her husband. Westin’s presence made her nervous. She knew it was due to the fact that her husband wanted Clint Adams to stay, but what if he also suspected something?

  She was afraid to sleep, fearing her husband would rise and do something foolish.

  In her room, Chelsea Piper waited. Had she been obvious enough for Clint Adams? If he didn’t come, she was going to feel silly going to sleep in her flimsy nightgown.

  She’d heard stories about Clint Adams, that he killed men and loved women. She knew he was there to kill men, but she was hoping she could convince him to give her some time.

  It had been a while for her. She didn’t meet many men working and sleeping in Andrew Powell’s house. Westin might have been a possibility, but he took up with the boss’s wife. And the men she met the few times she went into town were filthy and mannerless.

  She sat on her bed, waiting. As time went by, she started to feel foolish, but then a floorboard creaked out in the hall. She waited, listening, then heard some other boards. She knew from experience that someone was walking down the hall.

  She kept herself from getting to her feet and moving to the door. If there was a knock, she did not want to seem too anxious.

  But when the knock came, very gently, she hurried barefoot to the door, waited a moment, and then opened it a crack.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The door opened a crack and Chelsea looked out.

  “Mr. Adams,” she said. “Do you always creep around at night?”

  “I was under the impression I was invited,” he said. “Was I wrong?”

  She hesitated a moment, possibly not wanting to seem too anxious, then said, “No, you weren’t wrong.” She opened the door wide. She was wearing a flimsy nightgown that clung to her, revealing full breasts with large nipples, and a dark pubic patch. “Come in.”

  He entered and she closed the door gently, then turned to face him.

  She smiled and said, “You could have stolen a bottle of the boss’s whiskey.”

  “Will we need it,” he asked, “to get into the mood?”

  “Well,” she said, “I won’t.”

  She approached him, put her arms around his neck, yanked him down, and kissed him soundly.

  They kissed for a long time and then she held him at arm’s length and asked, “Too bold?”

  “No, no,” he said, gathering her back in, “it’s just fine.”

  He kissed her again, and when they came up for air, she was gasping.

  “Oh my . . .” she said.

  He let her go and she backed away, her breasts heaving. Her nipples had hardened and there was a damp patch between her legs. She might as well have been wearing nothing.

  She seemed to notice his gun belt for the first time.

  “Did you really think you’d need that?” she asked.

  He took the belt from his shoulder.

  “You never know,” he said. “I just like to be prepared.”

  “I suppose that’s the way a man like you must live.”

  He walked to her bed, hung the belt on the bedpost. When he turned to face her, she had removed her nightgown and let it fall to the ground. Now he could see every pale inch of her. The space between her lovely breasts was spattered with freckles, and the thatch of hair between her thighs was a darker red than the hair on her head—almost copper.

  Andrea listened to the deep breathing of her husband. She knew from experience that he slept very soundly. Did she dare sneak from the bed, the room? If he caught her, she could say she was going down to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  Slowly, carefully, she pushed the cover down and slipped from the bed. She stood next to it a moment, but her husband’s breathing never varied. She grabbed her robe, donned it, and padded barefoot to the door. She opened it silently, stepped out into the hall, and then closed it quietly.

  She started down the hall, but saw ahead of her, at the far, far end of the hallway, that someone was walking. She stopped. It was Clint Adams, and he was walking away from her, and so he didn’t see her. He stopped at a door and knocked. Andrea held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t look her way.

  He was admitted to the room, leaving her alone in the long hallway. She made her way as far as his door. That was as far as she needed to go to see that he had entered Chelsea’s room. Well, why not? She was young and pretty, and he was a handsome man. Why shouldn’t they spend a night together?

  Between his door and Chelsea’s door was the room that Gordon Westin was in. She had two choices. She could knock on his door, or she could actually go downstairs and have a cup of tea.

  After struggling with herself, she decided to go down and have the tea.

  Gordon Westin rolled around on the bed restlessly, finally got to his feet, and paced. If he’d been a smart man, he would have taken up with the cook, Chelsea, and not with the lady of the house. Then he could have just walked down the hall to her room. This way, knowing that Andrea was only doors away, he couldn’t sleep.

  He put on a robe that Andrea had given him, belted it around his waist, and left the room. As he did, he thought he heard someone going down the stairs. He moved to the head of the stairs and saw Andrea reach the bottom. He stepped back, in case she looked up, and he wondered where she was going. Maybe she was as restless as he was?

  Maybe she was gong to the kitchen, where they had first started their relationship.

  He waited a few moments, then went down the stairs.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint removed his boots and shirt but Chelsea became impatient with him and started tugging at his belt. She pulled his trousers and underwear down and he kicked them away. His penis was already hard and she fell onto it, dropping to her knees and taking it in her hands. She rubbed the hot column of flesh over her cheeks, rolled it between her hands, wet the tip with her lips and tongue. She ran her tongue up and down it, wetting it before finally taking it into her mouth.

  She moaned as she began to suck him, and he groaned and rose up onto his toes in response to the suction of her mouth.

  He placed his hands on her head as she continued to bob up and down on him.

  Andrea had a pot filled with water on the stove, and was just lighting it when Gordon Westin walked in. She jumped.

  “Gordon. You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was . . . restless.”

  “I was just going to put on a pot for tea. Would you like some?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  She took the pot to the pump, added more water, then placed it on the stove and lit it.

  Westin sat at the table and watched her work, pretending she was his, that they were living together in this house. It was a nice fantasy.

  She turned, smiled when she saw him watching her, then sat across from him at the table.

  “What if your husband comes down?” he asked.

  “What if he does?” she asked. “All we’re doing is having tea.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we are just having tea. But I remember a day we did something else in this kitchen.”

  She blushed and said, “That was foolish. We took a big chance that day.”

  “Are you sorry?” he asked.

  “No,�
�� she said, “I’m not sorry.”

  He reached over and took her hands in his.

  Clint took hold of Chelsea by her upper arms and lifted her to her feet. He kissed her mouth, her neck. The freckles between her breasts, and then her breasts and nipples. She shivered as he bore her down to the bed.

  They pressed together and her skin burned him. He loved hot women—women whose very bodies seemed to generate their own heat.

  He slid a hand down between her legs, found her slick and wet. He rubbed her, kissed and sucked her nipples until she began to tremble. Then he slid down between her legs and began to lap at her, licking her up and down while she squirmed and gasped.

  Andrew Powell turned over in bed and noticed that his wife’s side was empty. He placed his hand on the sheet. It was still warm from her. Most likely she couldn’t sleep and had gone downstairs for some tea. He closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, because the last thing he suspected was that his wife would ever be with another man.

  He never gave it a thought.

  In the kitchen Westin and Andrea sat with their cups of tea and talked. They held hands across the table, but always ready to pull their hands back at a moment’s notice—like if they heard footsteps in the dining room.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she said. “And then there’s Ben Randolph. I don’t know the whole story there, Gordon. Do you?”

  “No,” he said. “Your husband keeps it to himself. I know they have a history together, and for some reason, Randolph thinks your husband owes him. But I don’t know why.”

  “Do you think Mr. Adams can solve the problem?” she asked.

  “If he can’t, I don’t think anyone can,” he said.

  “And if he can’t?”

  “Then, if your husband doesn’t pay him, he’ll probably kill him.”

  “Kill Andrew?”

  Westin nodded.

  Andrea squeezed his hand and asked guiltily, “And would that be so bad?”