“Not another heir,” she said. “The heir. You stole all this from your brother, and he was coming to take it back. When you had him killed, his son became the rightful heir.”
Perryman pounded his fist on the table. The cook came rushing out of the kitchen, thinking he wanted her.
“It’s all right, Molly,” he said, waving at her. “Go back into the kitchen.”
When the cook was gone, Veronica said, “Milton, you need to talk to me.”
“I think what we need to do, Veronica,” he said, standing up, “is go upstairs. You need a lesson.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He walked around the table, a raging erection pulsing almost painfully in his pants. He grabbed her arm, dragged her from the dining room, and up the stairs.
* * *
Bowen was the gunhand, but Clint kept his eyes on Cardwell. He was the one who was going to call the play.
“Bowen, your friend is going to do the wrong thing.”
“I did the wrong thing,” Bowen said. “I should’ve killed you when you rode in.”
Clint was about to reply, but Cardwell seemed to take that statement as a signal. He went for his gun.
“Don’t—” Clint started to yell, but it was too late. Bowen knew what was happening and he also went for his gun.
Clint had no choice.
He drew and fired, hitting Bowen first, because he was now the danger. Cardwell was so panicked he almost dropped his gun. When he finally started to bring it to bear, Clint shot him once in the chest.
He rushed to both fallen men, hoping that at least one of them was still alive and, if so, that he’d be the one who could answer his questions.
No such luck.
Both men were dead.
“Damn!”
He stood, ejected the spent shells, replaced them, and put his gun back in his holster, looking around. The town was quiet. Either there was no one there, or no one else wanted any part of this.
He walked to Eclipse, mounted up, and rode out before anyone could change his mind.
* * *
Perryman pulled Veronica into their bedroom and slammed the door. She was still wearing her nightgown and robe from the night’s sleep.
“Milton—”
He growled, reached out, and tore the robe and gown from her body. Her full breasts bobbed into view, their brown nipples already distended. He could see—could smell—that she was as aroused as he was. Teaching her a lesson was always one of his—one of their—favorite things.
“Milton . . .” she said warningly.
He backhanded her across the face, knocking her onto the bed, legs going wide. Her pubic hair glistened with her wetness. She stared at him, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stared at the blood there.
“All right, then,” she said. “Come ahead.”
* * *
Clint rode until he was well past the fallen FERGUSON sign, then stopped and looked back. No one was following him. If there were more men in that dead town, they had minded their own business—and were still doing so.
He urged Eclipse into a gallop. He wanted to get back to Chester as soon as possible.
* * *
He tore off his own clothes and stood there naked. Although ten years older than she was, he was still a fine figure of a man, tall, fit, and virile.
“Come on, come on,” she said, moving back on the bed. “We don’t have all day.”
“You talk too much,” he said.
She smiled at him.
“Then put something in my mouth to shut me up.”
When he reached the bed, he grabbed her ankles and pulled her off, onto the floor. He then lifted her to her knees, grabbed her head, and forced his rigid cock into her mouth. She snorted, but took it and began to suck it.
“That’s my good girl,” he said soothingly.
“Mmmm,” she said, sliding him in and out of her mouth, wetting him thoroughly, then pausing to lick him before taking him in once again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
When Clint rode back into Chester, he went directly to Sheriff Murphy’s office. He entered without knocking. Murphy looked up in surprise, settled back when he saw it was Clint.
“What happened?”
“It was a trap,” Clint told him. “They were waiting for me. Bowen and some men.”
“What happened to Warden?”
“He’s dead,” Clint said. “He was in on it. I had to kill him, too.”
“Too?”
“Yes,” Clint said. He walked to the stove, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then sat down. “I had to kill all of them,” he said after a swallow.
“Bowen?”
“Him, too.”
Murphy scowled.
“Did you get any information?”
“No,” Clint said. “Nothing.”
“So we’re back where we started.”
Clint thought for a moment before answering.
“Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
“Who has enough money to arrange that kind of thing?” Clint asked. He sat forward, warming to his subject. “To pay six men to kill me?”
“Well . . .” Murphy said, giving it a moment’s thought. “A few people, actually—”
Clint shook his head.
“But somebody that I’ve already met.”
“Well . . . Perryman, and maybe the mayor.”
“Not the mayor,” Clint said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t think he would risk something like that this close to the election.”
“So that leaves Perryman.”
“Right.”
“But you can’t prove it,” Murphy said. “Nobody talked to you in Ferguson.”
“That may be,” Clint said, “but Perryman doesn’t know that, does he?”
“You plannin’ on bluffin’ him?”
“Sometimes,” Clint said, “a bluff is your only play.”
“How are you going to work it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“When will you know?”
Clint thought about it for a moment, then said, “After my next cup of coffee.”
Murphy got up and said, “Or maybe I should make another pot.”
* * *
Veronica Perryman needed a bath after her husband left her naked on their bed, bruised and thoroughly fucked. He always felt he was teaching her a lesson when he treated her this way, but she liked her sex rough. On the rare occasion when they did have sex, it went this way. One day he might even kill her. Or the other way around.
She luxuriated in the bath, the hot water easing her aches and, possibly, her tension. She didn’t want anyone taking her husband’s fortune away before she could get her hands on it. When they first heard that Milton’s brother had found out about his inheritance, and was coming with his family, she’d panicked. But she had to give her husband credit—he’d remained calm and come up with a plan. The only thing that had gone wrong was that boy getting away.
They had never had children of their own. For a brief moment she had thought of taking the child in, raising him themselves. Then he would be an heir, one way or the other, only he would be Milton’s heir. But Milton wouldn’t hear of that plan. He wanted the child dead.
She had to give her husband credit. He never shied away from doing what had to be done.
She took her sponge, rubbed it between her legs, her head back on the edge of the tub. Sex didn’t always have to be rough for her. Sometimes she liked it soft.
And sometimes she liked it by herself . . .
* * *
Perryman went back down to the dining room when he was finished with his wife. He didn’t need a bath. After he had taught his wife a lesson, he liked to have her stink on him all day,
to remind him. Even when he was with a whore, he liked having the stink of his wife on him—and then the stench of both women.
He poured himself another cup of coffee, wondered if he’d be hearing from Jess Bowen that day. If the plan had gone as Bowen had mapped out, the big man should be back before dark. If not, if he took longer, his fee was going to go down—drastically.
“Molly!”
The cook appeared at the door. She was a woman in her late forties, a handsome woman who had once been beautiful. Before he married his wife and brought her to his house, he used to fuck Molly. Afterward, he kept her on as his cook.
“Yes, sir?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Do you want something else to eat?”
“No. Tell my wife I went to town.”
“Will you be back for supper?”
“I’ll be eating at the Crystal.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell her.”
“See that you do.”
He turned and left the room. Moments later Molly heard the front door close. She looked at his empty coffee cup. Maybe at the Crystal they’d finally do what she didn’t have the courage to.
Poison him.
THIRTY-NINE
By the time they finished the new pot of coffee, Clint thought he had a plan.
“That’s how you want to play it?” Murphy asked him.
“I can’t think of another way,” Clint said. “Every time we think we’ve got somebody to talk to, they end up dead.”
“Well,” Murphy said, “it was you who killed them this time.”
“I told you I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know, I know,” Murphy said. “But hittin’ Perryman head on with this—”
“How do you think he’ll react?”
“He’ll send some more men after you,” Murphy said. “This time enough to do the job.”
“Or maybe,” Clint said, “enough so that I can keep at least one of them alive.”
“And then you’ve got to get him to talk,” Murphy said. “You might have better luck tryin’ to get somebody inside the house to talk.”
“Wait a minute,” Clint said, “what?”
“I said you might have more luck—”
“How many other people live in his house?”
“At least three,” Murphy said, “all women. His wife, his housekeeper, and his cook.”
“And these three women,” Clint asked, “are they loyal to him?”
“Well,” Murphy said, “to the best of my recollection, they all hate his guts.”
“Oh, Murphy,” Clint said, “this is something you should have told me before . . .”
* * *
Now that Clint knew there were three people inside Milton Perryman’s house who might know what was going on, he had himself a new plan. But first he had to determine where Perryman was for the day.
“The easiest way to do that is to check the Crystal Chandelier,” Murphy said. “That’s pretty much a club for the cattlemen. He drinks there, eats there, and . . . well, pretty much does everythin’ else there.”
“Everything else?” Clint asked. “You mean, girls?”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“And where does he get the girls from?”
“Where else?” Murphy asked. “Maddy’s.”
“Sheriff,” Clint said, “the longer we talk, the more information I find you have to give me.”
“Well,” Murphy complained, “ya never asked me before—”
“I’m asking you now,” Clint said, cutting him off. “Do you have anything else to tell me? Anything helpful?”
Murphy thought a moment, then said, “No, I ain’t.”
“So there’s a whole other way for me to go after Milton Perryman,” Clint said.
“And how’s that?”
“Women!”
* * *
Clint left the sheriff’s office and went to Maddy’s. One of the girls let him in and took him to Lily’s office.
“Here to see me,” she asked with a saucy smile, “or our boy?”
“Your man Cardwell is dead.”
She looked shocked.
“What?”
“Dead.”
“How?”
“I killed him.”
“Okay,” she said after a moment, “why?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Again,” she said, “why?”
“Over you, I suppose,” he said, “but he aligned himself with another man, who was hired to kill me.”
“At the risk of repeating myself,” she said, “why?”
“Why did he align himself, or why was a man hired to kill me?” he asked.
“Well . . . both.”
“I assume the man was hired because of the boy,” Clint said. “Because I’m trying to find out who killed his family.”
She sat back in her chair and looked exhausted.
“I’m going to stop asking questions, and you just go on talking.”
“How about I ask you some questions?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you know Milton Perryman?”
“Everyone knows Perryman.”
“No, I mean, do you know him personally?”
“Well, yes.”
“Does he come here?”
“Did you ask me these questions before?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Can you answer them now?”
She sighed and said, “No, he doesn’t come here. I send girls to him at the Crystal.”
“Girls,” Clint asked, “or a particular girl?”
“Well,” she said, “when she’s available, he likes Neve.”
“Neve?” Clint said. “Have I met her?”
“No.”
“What does he like about her?”
“Well,” Lily said, “the main thing is she’s sturdy, and doesn’t mind being roughed up.”
“Roughed up?” Clint said. “You mean . . . beaten?”
“You might call it that,” Lily said, “but she doesn’t mind as long as he pays for the privilege.”
“Do you know if he does the same thing to his wife?”
“I don’t know for sure,” she said, “but I imagine he does. I mean, why wouldn’t he, if it’s what he likes?”
“Sounds right,” Clint said.
“Why are you interested in Perryman?”
“I think he had the boy’s family killed.”
“But why?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” Clint said. “So far every man who might have helped me is dead.”
“So . . . you’re going to start talking to women?”
“That’s right.”
“Starting with Neve.”
“Yes.”
“And then Mrs. Perryman?”
“Yes,” he said. “What do you know about her?”
“He went to California on business about ten years ago and came back with her.”
“Do you know her?”
“Just in passing. She rarely comes to town, and when she does, she shops.”
“And there are other women in the house?”
“His housekeeper and his cook,” she said. “Only the cook was more than that until he brought his wife home.”
“But now she’s only the cook? Why does she stay?”
“He pays her well.”
“I guess he pays all the women in his life well to endure his abuse,” Clint said.
“Somebody should put a stop to it.”
“Maybe that’s what I’ll do,” Clint said. “What’s his wife’s name?”
“Veronica.”
“And the cook?”
“Molly O’Brien.”
“And the hous
ekeeper?”
“Katy Olson.”
“Do you know them?”
“Like Veronica,” she said, “in passing.”
“All right,” Clint said. “Is Neve here?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see her?”
“She’s upstairs in her room,” Lily said. “I’ll bring her down here.”
“Why here?” he asked. “I can go to her room.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you go to Neve’s room, you’ll end up fucking her,” she said. “Or she’ll fuck you.”
“No I wo—”
“You won’t have much of a choice, I’m afraid,” Lily said, getting up from her desk. “That’s the kind of girl she is. The effect she has on men.”
“You don’t think I’ll be able to control myself?”
“Sure you will,” she said, “but I’ll bring her here and stay in the room anyway. Just to keep her from raping you.”
“Lily—”
“Sit,” she said, pushing him into a chair and then kissing him. “I’ll be right back with her.”
FORTY
About ten minutes later Lily returned to the office with Neve. He saw what Lily meant. She was a solidly built girl, what some men would even call meaty. She had a mass of red hair, big round breasts, and solid hips, and in the nightgown she was wearing she showed lots of freckled cleavage. She reeked of sex, and he could feel himself responding to it.
“Neve, this is Clint,” Lily said.
“Well, hello,” the big girl said.
“And he’s mine,” Lily added, “so just answer his questions and keep your hands off.”
“Keep my hands off?”
“Never mind,” Lily said. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms.
“You’re stayin’?” Neve asked.
“Just answer the man’s questions.”
Neve turned to face Clint and folded her arms beneath her breasts, causing them to swell and almost fall out of her gown.
“What’s on your mind, handsome?”
“Milton Perryman.”
“One of my best customers.”
“I understand he beats you.”
She hesitated, then said, “He gets a little handsy sometimes. But like I said, he’s one of my best customers. What’s this about?”
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