by Evans, Tabor
After a few more minutes of their savage toil, she dropped her hands to the ground at her sides, lifted her chin, and arched her back. Longarm thrust against her and into her once more, rising up on his toes, and felt the sweet release of his seed jetting deep into her womb. At the same time, he closed a hand over her mouth to squelch her shriek.
When they’d finished spasming, he gave each one of her delicious breasts a brusque squeeze, then pulled his cock out of her and stood. Breathing hard, he tossed wood on the fire, then looked at her, lying there and hooking her hands around her ankles, rolling from side to side and staring up at him, moaning.
The fire brazed her beautifully.
Strange, he thought, for one so incredibly beautiful and beguilingly sexy to be as mean and nasty as a bobcat. He’d known bad women before. Plenty. But none that looked as pure and as purely ravishing as Miss Lacy Sackett.
“You won’t tell Daddy, will you?” she said in a frightened little girl’s voice, half pouting, keeping her legs spread for him, fiercely coquettish.
Longarm felt the perspiration from their heated coupling dribble down his back as the fire caressed the backs of his legs with its warmth. As he stared at her—Christ, his eyes couldn’t get enough of her!—he pondered what he was indeed going to tell her daddy. What was he going to do with her? A girl like her could do some serious damage. She damn well needed to be put away. He had to report her to the Jawbone marshal.
But could he do it?
She crawled over to him, climbed to her knees, her head about a foot away from his crotch and his long, thick, drooping member. She leaned forward and kissed its head. He jerked as desire sparked in him once more.
“If what we did earlier didn’t convince you that you really don’t want to tell Daddy about what I did, I bet, given a little more time this evening, Custis, I can make it very plain and simple for you.” She blinked slowly and smiled up at him.
Longarm had to break himself out of the trance she’d put him in. Beginning to believe she was a witch, he stepped away from her and stooped to retrieve his balbriggans. “Enough of that,” he said. “I’m taking you back to Jawbone first thing in the morning.”
“You won’t tell Daddy, will you?” she asked, still kneeling where he’d left her. “I mean, it’s not like he’d believe you, anyway. No one in town would ever believe I’d be capable of such a thing.”
Stepping into his pants, Longarm looked at her. He didn’t doubt that what she was saying was true. Hell, he hardly believed it himself and she’d confessed the whole thing to him! Or maybe it was just that he didn’t want to believe it because of the obvious hold she had on him.
And if she had that hold on him, a stranger, what kind of hold did she have on dear ole Daddy and the Jawbone town marshal and every other red-blooded male in Jawbone? Longarm buttoned his fly and decided he’d have to sleep on what he was or was not going to tell the menfolk of Jawbone about the lovely but troubling Lacy Sackett.
In the meantime, he said, “Get dressed and get to sleep. You stay put. If you try runnin’ out on me, I’ll bind you hand and foot.” He went over and picked up the Remington he’d tossed in the brush. “And it’ll be a long pull back to Jawbone draped belly down across a saddle. Got it?”
“Boy!” she said, cupping her breasts in her hands and looking indignant. “You sure are serious all of a sudden!”
Then she chuckled and started gathering her clothes.
Longarm tossed the Remington through the trees and heard it splash in the creek. When he’d wrapped his own cartridge belt and Colt around his waist, he retrieved the other guns from the two dead men lying at the perimeter of the firelight, then dragged both bodies upstream about fifty yards. The night predators could have them.
As he worked, he kept an eye on the camp. After dressing, Lacy had rolled into Longarm’s blankets and was now curled on her side near the built-up fire and appeared to be sleeping. He walked over and stared down at her. She looked like a damn angel, sleeping with her left cheek resting atop her hands that were in turn resting atop his saddle.
Her cheek was smooth and creamy, silky hair sprayed across it. Her shoulders rose and fell slowly, regularly beneath the blankets.
Asleep, all right. In his blankets. He was about to lie with her again, but he was afraid of the hold she had on him. And getting caught with his pants literally down if Heck Gunn and Orlando Cruz came for her, with more men. Longarm knew they had a good dozen in their group—all gun-savvy desperadoes who looted all across western New Mexico and southern Colorado and then disappeared for long stretches of time either in the Colorado mountains or Arizona. Possibly Mexico.
That’s probably where they’d been headed when Longarm had caught up to them and snatched the girl away. The others were probably still heading south, Gunn having figured that the three he’d sent here were all that was needed to get his precious hostage back. Right now, the rest of the gang was probably well on their way to Mexico.
Longarm made another pot of coffee and sat on a log near the fire but stared into the darkness to save his night vision. He plucked a three-for-a-nickel cheroot from the pocket of his frock coat, fired it with a lucifer, and drank the coffee and smoked the cigar, pondering his situation.
He’d like to try to run down the Gunn and Cruz gang and retrieve the money they’d stolen from Alexander Sackett’s bank in Jawbone. But the girl had thrown a wet blanket over that fire. He had to get her safely back to Jawbone. He had to get her locked up. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be doing his job and he’d only be turning her loose to commit sins similar to those she’d already committed.
Or worse.
He wished he hadn’t fucked her. That made things more complicated. Damn unprofessional, fucking your prisoner.
If only he’d been able to resist her. But she was no ordinary prisoner . . .
He turned his head to look at her sleeping there by the fire, her blond hair glowing as though from celestial light. He shook his head. What man could resist her?
He stared into the night and drank and smoked until his head was relatively clear. He decided that his first task was to get the lusty Lacy Sackett back to Jawbone, inform her father and the local law what she’d done and hope they believed him and not her. Then he’d send a telegraph message to Chief Marshal Billy Vail in Denver, recounting the trouble he’d incurred in Jawbone, and leave it up to his boss to tell him how to proceed from there.
That decided, he tossed the stub of his cheroot into the fire and, with his rifle on his arm, headed off to circle the camp a few times. Deeming the area free of predators—at least the human kind—he came back and shrugged into his heavy mackinaw. He looked down at the girl.
She’d rolled over in her sleep, and the blanket had fallen down her arm. He found himself lifting it back up to her chin automatically and chuckled. She looked as helpless as a newborn kitten, but in her heart of hearts lurked a dangerous wildcat.
“Thanks, Custis,” she said, squirming around and clutching the blanket close about her neck. She smacked her lips, settled herself against the saddle and the ground, and soon she was breathing deeply, evenly once more.
“Don’t mention it,” Longarm said, giving a low growl.
He headed off to scour the trees for enough firewood to get him through the night. He couldn’t sleep now, knowing that more desperadoes might be headed in Longarm’s direction.
With the fire freshly stoked, he sat down against a tree at the edge of the firelight, rifle across his thighs, and sort of half dozed with his eyes open and his ears skinned. When the first light of dawn shone in the east, he rose, rebuilt the fire, then hunkered down against his tree again, waiting for the sun to rise. There was no point starting out until it was full light; he didn’t want to risk injury to either of his two horses. Getting trapped afoot out here would make him easy pickings for Gunn and Cruz.
An hour later, when the sun was lifting above the eastern ridges, he rose, prodded Lacy awake with his boot toe, endured her cussing him a blue streak, then built up the fire. He ordered her to put some coffee on while he saddled the horses.
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” she fairly screamed at him.
“I made that mistake once,” he said, hauling their gear over to where the horses stood in the trees. “Ain’t gonna do it again.”
She stepped into her black boots, grabbing the coffeepot and stomping off toward the creek. When she returned, he’d saddled his own horse and was working on her black.
“Longarm?” she said as she set the pot on the fire. Her tone had changed. It was almost polite, even demure. There’d been a sexy tinkle in it.
“Yes, Lacy?” he said with a wry snort.
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Longarm glanced at her over his shoulder. “I already told you I wouldn’t be doin’ that again, but thanks for askin’.”
“No—that’s not what I meant,” she said, standing by the fire and wringing her hands together shyly.
“I don’t care what you mean,” Longarm said. “Whatever it is, it’s out of the question. You’re headin’ for the Jawbone town jail. We’ll let a judge decide your fate.”
He noticed that the black seemed to be standing a little light on one hoof. When he’d adjusted Lacy’s left saddle stirrup, he pried up the horse’s hoof to inspect it. There appeared to be a small rock lodged beneath the shoe. Just as he was about to pull out his pocket knife, he heard running foot thuds and lifted his head in time to see Lacy running toward him like an enraged lioness, hair flying, face a mask of unadulterated fury.
She had a rock in her hand, and as she drew within ten feet of him, she gave an enraged shriek and hurled the rock with all her might at Longarm’s head.
Chapter 4
“Goddamn your stubborn hide!” the girl screamed as Longarm ducked just in time for the rock to only graze his head while knocking his hat off, then thudding into the saddle stirrup behind him.
She continued at him, fists flying. Longarm straightened and let her pummel his chest while the black shied away with the grullo, both horses nickering and snorting their concern. The girl had landed one punch to his chin before he grabbed her, crouched, and threw her over his shoulder.
“Nope, goddamn your stubborn hide!”
As she kicked and screamed and pummeled his back with her fists, Longarm stomped off through the trees, heading toward the creek.
“Time for a bath, sis,” he growled beneath her screaming and cursing. “Nice cool one. Start the day out right!”
“Put me down this instant, you big bast—!”
What had cut her off mid-curse had also caused him to stop walking. Gunfire. Several distant pops sounding little louder than snapping twigs. But then he saw a handful of riders galloping toward him from the east, tearing down a low hill, smoke puffing from the pistols they were firing into the air.
“Now what the hell . . . ?” Longarm said, holding the girl on his shoulder with one arm, his other hand wrapped around his Colt’s grips as he stared toward the oncoming riders.
“Oh, my God!” Lacy shrieked. “It’s Heck Gunn!” She punched Longarm again, harder, and kicked insistently. “Put me down—it’s Hell-Bringin’ Heck!”
Longarm set her brusquely down, then strode back to the horses tied in the trees. As the five riders pulled within sixty yards and continued closing fast, Longarm slid his Winchester from its saddle boot, racked a cartridge into the chamber, and stepped forward, holding the rifle on his shoulder and scowling toward the newcomers.
When they were within thirty yards, he dropped to a knee, raised the Winchester, and lined up its sights on the lead rider—a blond-headed man outlandishly attired for this neck of the woods in what appeared dark blue cavalry trousers and a fringed elk-skin jacket adorned with what appeared porcupine quills.
An ostentatious dragoon-style mustache curved down both sides of his mouth, and thick muttonchop whiskers framed his pale, freckled face. On his head was a tan cavalry kepi with one side pinned to the crown and a purple feather sticking up from the band on the other side.
Longarm blinked as though to clear his eyes as he kept his rifle’s sights on the man’s jostling figure.
The man’s eyes widened when he saw Longarm, who’d been concealed by the shadow of the tree behind him, and he raised his left hand while with his right hand, which held both his pistol and his horse’s reins, he stopped the long-legged palomino. A finer horse Longarm had never seen.
“Hold it right there, or I’ll blow you all to glory!” Longarm barked, centering his Winchester’s sights on the center of the over-dressed dandy’s elkskin jacket.
The four other riders—all dressed more sensibly for trail riding but bristling with pistols, rifles, and knives—all drew rein behind the fancy Dan, obviously their leader. They kept their horses under tight rein, curveting the mounts and staring warily at Longarm, a couple looking ready to leap out of the saddles and dash for cover.
“Who the hell are you?” Longarm barked. For some reason—they seemed too slick and well attired—he didn’t think they were part of Heck Gunn’s bunch. “And what the hell you think you’re doin’, ridin’ into my camp slingin’ lead?”
Fancy Dan puffed up his chest and started to open his mouth but closed it again when Lacy came running out of the trees, exclaiming, “Dickie! Oh, Dickie—what are you doing here?”
Fancy Dan jerked his head toward the girl jogging toward him, and his pale face turned beet red with apparent relief. “Lacy!” He quickly shoved his pearl-gripped, silver-chased Peacemaker down into its greased holster and swung down from his hand-tooled saddle. He jogged toward the girl who kept exclaiming, “Dickie!” while Fancy Dan said, “Oh, good Lord—after what I’d heard in Jawbone I didn’t think we were going to find you alive!”
“Oh, Dickie!” Lacy threw herself against Fancy Dan and buried her head in his chest, her face toward Longarm, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Oh, Dickie, it was just awful!”
“Lacy!” Fancy Dan exclaimed, squeezing the girl in his arms and pressing his cheek to her head. “Oh, buttercup, I’m so glad you’re alive!”
Longarm scowled incredulously at the pair, wondering if he’d been hit harder than he’d thought by the rock she’d thrown at him, and his addled brain was making all this up. The four other riders, still sitting their horses, stared down at the pair with expressions similar to that of the baffled lawman.
Fancy Dan jerked his indignant eyes to Longarm and said, “We saw this man carrying you like a sack of cracked corn toward the creek, and we thought . . . or I thought that . . .” He didn’t seem to know what to think.
“Oh, that,” Lacy said, glancing at Longarm then, as well. “Oh, he’s . . . he’s . . .” Longarm could see the wheels spinning behind her pretty green cat eyes as she formulated a story, more lies—and just what these would entail he’d be fascinated to learn. “He’s the man who saved me, Dickie!”
She stepped back sort of formally, like she was at some highfalutin fandango at some senator’s digs on Sherman Street in Denver, and swept an arm out in introduction at Longarm, who was still holding his rifle in his hands though aiming it somewhere around Fancy Dan’s polished black boots trimmed with bright, shiny silver spurs.
“Dickie,” Lacy said, beaming, “this is Deputy United States Marshal Custis Long, and yesterday morning at about this very same time, he rescued me from those savage brigands led by the cold-blooded, thieving killer, Hell-Bringin’ Heck Gunn himself!”
Fancy Dan looked at Longarm, frowning, as did the other four men sitting their horses behind him. “Oh . . . yes . . . Marshal Beamer said a man who claimed to be a federal lawman went after you . . . against Beamer’s wishes . . .”
>
“Yes,” Lacy said, scowling. “Heck Gunn told Beamer as we left town—me riding across Gunn’s saddle, which nearly killed me!—that if Beamer brought a posse, he’d be sending them back with my head!”
“So Beamer said,” allowed Fancy Dan, still scrutinizing Longarm through slitted lids. “I don’t understand, though. Why on earth was he carrying you so roughly over toward . . . ?”
“Oh, my horse threw me,” said Lacy quickly, the nubs of her cheeks red as apples, which was probably how they always colored whenever she was lying, which was probably all the time. “And I must have had some kind of a spasm or some such, and the good marshal—Longarm, I call him since we’re such good friends and all—carried me over to the creek, as he thought the cold water would bring me back around. But I reckon your gunfire was the cure!”
She tittered nervously, tapping a hand to her chest over her cleavage.
“You weren’t harmed then, dear?” Fancy Dan said, placing his arms on her shoulders and crouching to stare down at her worriedly. “I mean . . . that awful Heck Gunn didn’t—?”
“Oh, no! Rest assured, Dickie. Nothing like that. Oh, I’m sure he would have, given time. But I reckon the gang was so eager to get south as fast as they could that they were just too tired, the only night we camped together, to . . . to . . . well, you know—to do anything as awful as what you’re thinking, but they didn’t, Dickie. I assure you!”
Longarm heard himself grunt, felt his eyes roll in his head. Christ, what a piece of work this girl was. A true artist of lies and other sundry deceits.
“You’re sure?” Dickie said, shaking her almost violently. “You’re sure he—they—didn’t . . . ?”
“Dickie, I would know, wouldn’t I?”
Dickie stepped back away from her, dropping his lower jaw nearly to the bloodred neckerchief billowing down across the top third of his quill-adorned, elk-skin jacket. “Oh, God,” he said, laughing. “I thought . . . I thought for sure they must have . . . Oh, God!” he fairly squealed, his right hand reaching for the pearl-gripped Colt so quickly that Longarm found himself raising his Winchester defensively once again.