She laughed loudly, though it didn’t seem to disturb any of the others in the room. In fact, none even seemed to have heard.
“You like ’em young, old, small, fat like myself, or tall like you? I got two with shaved bushes. Got a mulatto with a silver tooth and the softest blowjob lips this side of the Mississippi River.”
“Now, Miss Nora,” Sartain said, joshing the woman, “how would you know that?”
She laughed again. “Oh, mister, I do love that dew-on-the-Kentucky-bluegrass accent of yours. My second husband talked like that, and he could make me come just by callin’ my name. Ha!” She sobered suddenly, almost tearing up, even. “Poor man died in the Little Misunderstandin’, don’t you know?”
“Many did.”
“What kind of a girl would you like this afternoon, Mr. Samuel?” She winked, jovial again and coquettishly pivoting around on her broad hips. “That’s what I’ll call you: Mr. Samuel.”
“Well, Miss Nora, Mr. Samuel’s been foggin’ the lonely trails of late. How ’bout a girl given to waxin’ poetical, or at least one that likes to talk. I like a mattress dance as much as any man, but when you spend as much time alone as I do, it’s nice to talk a while afterwards—you know, instead of just donnin’ my hat and hittin’ the trail again before the bedsprings have stopped singin’.”
Nora smiled and blew peppery smoke into his face. “I have just the girl for you. A real talker. And a pretty girl, too. Go on up to our ‘honeymoon suite,’ but don’t let the name spook you into jumpin’ out a window. Ha! The name’s a joke, but the room’s our very best. We reserve it for special guests.”
“Like the sheriff?” Sartain didn’t want to be nosey right off the bat, especially with Miss Nora, in whom he detected a cunning skepticism, but he couldn’t help asking the question.
Nora’s right nostril flared, and she turned her mouth corners down. “No, not him! He’s over here all the time. Nothin’ special about him. I’m just always grateful when he doesn’t get drunk and break up the place, just like his brother used to do to my old place. The governor’s been to the ‘honeymoon suite’ more than once.”
She chuckled and winked. “Go on up. Third floor, right end of the hall. Frankie will be with you soon. Probably dead asleep, but I’ll wake her.”
“I do hate to disturb the girl’s slumbers, Miss Nora.”
“Oh, hell—she’d sleep all day and all night, given her way. They all would. I’ll give her some smelling salts. Go, now. Go, Mr. Samuel! There should be some water in the pitcher if you’d like to tidy up a bit. And I keep a good bottle of whiskey up there, as well!”
“Obliged, Miss Nora,” Sartain said, lifting his hat to the woman and resting his rifle on his shoulder as he made his way to the stairs at the room’s right rear corner.
Climbing the carpeted stairs, Sartain could hear soft sounds rising from around him. Soft female sounds of low talking, water pouring for a bath, the occasional giggle—the sounds of girls likely helping each other prepare themselves for the coming night ahead.
He could smell them, as well. Beneath the natural, subtle, delicious potpourri particular to the sex, he could detect an intoxicating elixir of perfumes and soaps and scented waters, as well as tobacco and marijuana smoke and the incense tang of opium.
As he walked down the third-story hall, crudely paneled in pine and with no carpet on the floor—by the time the jakes got this far, they were no longer paying attention to the furnishings—he ran into a couple of semi-naked girls talking to each other from open doors on opposite sides of the hall.
They immediately stopped talking when they saw the big man in the pinto vest walking the dim hall lit only by a window at each end. One girl wore only a thin pair of lace drawers and a towel over her head. The other was clad in a man’s over-sized wool shirt. Spying Sartain, both girls looked him up and down, giving him the critical, suspicious eye.
One twisted a lock of hair around her index finger and said softly, “Hi.”
Sartain dipped his chin. “Ladies.”
He continued down the hall to the Honeymoon Suite, which was how the plain wooden door was ornately labeled in painted letters across a varnished pine plank. As he turned the doorknob, he glanced back down the hall. Both girls were still looking at him.
“The Honeymoon Suite, eh?” said the one with the towel on her head, in a slightly funning tone. “Who’re you?”
“Horse buyer’s my guess,” said the other girl. “You buy horses, mister? You’re damn near as big as a horse.”
“How did you know, darlin’?” the Revenger asked, winking. “I don’t remember having had the pleasure of your company, and”—he brashly raked her up and down in the same manner both girls had done to him—“I got a feelin’ I’d remember.”
The girls snorted.
Sartain went into the room and closed the door behind him. It was a large room with a large mountain-lion rug on the varnished oak floor by the four-poster bed. It was nothing like you’d find in one of the better Denver or Cheyenne brothels, but it would do for this far out in the tall and uncut. The air was a little pent up and gamey, he thought, so he pulled the red velvet curtains aside and opened a window to a cool, late afternoon breeze.
He was washing at the washstand when the door clicked. He hadn’t heard the door open but only heard it close. The little blond standing there in only a camisole that reached to the tops of her well-turned thighs pressed her back to the door and widened her eyes as she stared at Sartain.
“My, my—what have we here?” The girl was pretty but not beautiful, and her hair was slightly tangled. But she had exotically shaped gray eyes. “Sorry—I reckon I shoulda knocked, but Miss Nora said we had a secret guest so I didn’t wanna make a big to-do.”
Sartain gave a wry snort. So much for secrecy. Probably every girl in the house was talking about the “secret guest” in the Honeymoon Suite.
The girl came toward him, placing one bare foot down in front of the other. She had a sexy way about her—from the swing of her breasts and hips to the playful flashing in her eyes. A farm girl, the Revenger guessed. He’d grown up around farm girls who could curl a boy’s hair with their earthy demeanors and practical, untethered approach to lovemaking, and he’d bet the seed bull that Frankie was one of those.
She rubbed her temple against his shoulder. She looked up at him sidelong, narrowing a playfully suspicious eye. “Nora said you wanted to be called Samuel.”
She canted her head to indicate down the hall. “Betty thinks you’re Jesse James. Henrietta says you’re the spitting image of pictures she’s seen of Black Bart.” Frankie giggled. “Yeah, that’s who you are. At least, for tonight. Don’t worry—I won’t tell, Mr. Bart.”
“Thank you, Frankie.”
“Ma says you been on the trail a while.”
“You can bet the farm on that.” Sartain hadn’t really been on the trail all that long. Mainly, he’d just been curious, and there was nothing like a doxie to fill him in on the lay of the land. But there was something about this girl he found intoxicating.
“Been a while, has it?”
“A few weeks, yeah.” Sartain nuzzled the girl’s neck and slid the strap of her camisole off her right shoulder. He slid the other strap off her left shoulder, and the entire garment whispered straight down her body to pile up on the floor around her ankles.
She was indeed beautiful. Pink and plump and beautiful . . .
Chapter 9
Sartain unsnapped the keeper thong from over his LeMat so that the pistol was ready to go in case anyone, namely a bounty hunter or a federal lawman who might have spied him on the street earlier, decided to kick his door down and enter firing.
He had to admit, however, the added danger did add to the allure of the imminent transaction. Nothing like a little extra tension to add a spark or two.
He climbed onto the bed, mounting the girl, who spread her knees for him. She wrapped her arms around him, and, propped on his outstretched arms with el
bows locked, he kissed her hungrily. She entangled her tongue with his and then pulled her head back slightly, chuckling.
“You kiss whores, Mr. Bart? Some men don’t, you know.”
“They’re missin’ out on the best part.”
She giggled again. “I like you, Mr. Bart. Despite how many innocent people you likely robbed, and how many lawmen you probably killed . . . ohhh, I like you indeed!”
They’d been causing the bedspring to sigh for a long time when the Revenger saw a shadow move under the door. Alarm bells immediately began tolling in his head. He’d been ambushed so many times that part of his brain was always on alert, even when his other senses were otherwise disposed. He kept an eye on the shadow.
It was still under the door.
That meant someone was standing out there.
It could just be one of the other girls, but Sartain couldn’t afford to think so.
Despite the distraction of the shadow under the door, he felt his blood rise. He calmly, slowly reached up to slide his LeMat from its holster and lay it beside him and the girl on the bed.
Frankie’s eyes were closed, so she didn’t notice.
Sartain glanced at the floor beneath the door again. The shadow was still there, setting his nerves on edge. He brushed his lips across Frankie’s right ear and whispered.
The girl fell silent and stared up at him, wide-eyed.
Sartain winked and nodded at her.
She glanced toward the door and then threw her head back on the pillow and continued to groan and mewl like a mare with a stallion bucking against her. She flopped around on the bed, making the headboard spank the wall and the leather springs screech like hunting owls.
Meanwhile, Sartain grabbed his LeMat, got off the bed, and walked to the door. Clicking the LeMat’s hammer back, he pressed his left shoulder against the wall to the left of the doorframe, nearest the knob. He looked at the floor. The shadow was still there, unmoving.
He frowned, curious.
If the person in the hall was a bushwhacker, what was he waiting for? You couldn’t get a man in a much more defenseless position than when he was enjoying a mattress dance.
Frankie continued to mewl and groan and kick her legs and punch the mattress with her fists, doing a damned good imitation of the deed of topic. But then, most whores were good at faking their pleasure, though Sartain doubted she’d been faking the passion of only a minute before. After all, he’d been taught by the best whores in New Orleans, if not all the United States and its territories.
Sartain placed his thumb over the keyhole. A startled gasp sounded on the other side of the door. He switched the LeMat to his left hand, turned the doorknob, and pulled the door wide. Celeste Chaney stumbled backward, slapping a hand to her chest. Her face was red as burnt clay.
Standing naked in the doorway, Sartain aimed the big LeMat at her, snarling, “You’re damn lucky I didn’t blow a twelve-gauge wad of buckshot through the door while you were peeping through the keyhole, Miss Chaney. Would you like to come inside and watch? You’d have a better view.”
Behind Sartain, Frankie snickered.
“Oh, god!” Celeste said, stammering. “I-I . . . I don’t quite know what to say. I was just . . . I was just wondering when you were going to be finished . . . so we could talk, Mr. Sartain.”
Behind him, Frankie said incredulously, “Sartain? I thought he was Black Bart!”
“Black who?” Celeste said, looking around Sartain. She was busily trying to keep her eyes off his naked body, and he enjoyed her discomfort. That’s why he just stood there—tall and naked and nearly filling the doorway before her.
“I see,” Sartain said. “I guess we weren’t making enough noise for you.” He chuckled and stepped back, while Celeste stood there, hand to her chest above her well-filled corset and looking as though she were about to faint with embarrassment. “My offer stands.”
“What offer?”
He lowered the pistol and stepped back into the room. “Come in?”
“Uh . . .” She glanced around. “Oh, well . . . perhaps. I was hoping to speak to you alone.”
When she’d stepped into the room, looking straight down at the floor now and toying with the black choker to which was attached a small, gold medallion, Sartain closed the door. “Frankie and I have no secrets.”
Celeste looked at the girl now lying on her side on the bed, smiling with interest, her head propped on the heel of her right hand. Her hair was sexily mussed and tangled.
“Oh, no—I’d best come back later.” Celeste turned to the door.
“We could chat through the keyhole if it’d make you feel more comfortable.”
Celeste swung around, angry, her cheeks turning red all over again. “Oh, damn you! Would you please . . .?” She let her voice trail off, uncertain as to how to continue. She seemed to want to defend herself but knew deep down there was really no way to explain peeping through a keyhole. Her tongue might as well have been tied in a knot.
She looked at Sartain. He stared back at her, one brow arched. She looked at Frankie. The pretty whore arched her own brow skeptically.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sartain said, returning the LeMat to its holster. He donned his underwear and sagged into a chair. “We all got our . . . peculiarities.”
“I’m mortified,” Celeste said quietly, staring at the floor. She held a beaded reticule in both hands, the straps dangling from her left wrist. “There is no defense for what I did. I was voyeuristically watching you couple through the peephole, and you caught me, and that’s that.”
She swallowed and met Sartain’s eyes. “I did come up here to speak to you, Mr. Sartain.”
“Does Miss Nora always let folks stroll up here to talk to her customers while said customer is . . . uh . . . bein’ entertained?”
“Miss Nora defers to me,” Celeste said. “You see, I . . . er, we—the Chaneys—own this place. Nora’s own place went bankrupt, so we started this place, and Miss Nora works for my father and brother now.”
“Oh, I see,” Sartain said. “So you can peep through a keyhole any damn time you want. Ain’t that convenient?”
“Mr. Sartain—I have tried to apologize!” Tears of shame dribbled down the young woman’s cheeks as she stared in horror at the floor.
“Now look what ya done!” Frankie scolded him.
She crawled off the bed and wrapped an arm around Celeste. “It’s all right, Miss Chaney. I don’t mind. You can come around here and watch me whenever you like. I know how folks are. We’re all sewn from different cuts of cloth, and all that does is make the world more interesting.”
Her words seemed to somewhat cheer Celeste, who brushed a hand across her nose and smiled at young Frankie, who was about Celeste’s height.
“Why, thank you, Frankie,” Celeste said, still blushing. She touched her hand to her temple and looked at Sartain. “Oh, this is just too embarrassing. Perhaps you and I could go somewhere . . . perhaps grab a bite to eat . . . and talk? It really is a very serious matter, Mr. Sartain.”
Sartain glanced at Frankie, who shrugged a shoulder. The young doxie was beginning to look bored.
Sartain turned back to Celeste. “All right. But only if you call me Mike.”
Celeste smiled.
* * *
Sartain and Celeste departed the upper story by a rear stairs. They left the brothel by a rear kitchen door that opened onto a back alley, so that no one in Bittersweet—especially Celeste’s brother, the sheriff—would start to suspect where she’d been keeping herself.
“I’d invite you to my father’s house for supper, Mike,” Celeste said as they made their way around the near-dark street, maintaining a discreet distance from each other, “but I’ve probably missed supper. We have a wonderful cook, Mrs. Ivan, but my father and brother eat promptly at five. They’re probably all wondering where I’ve been. I’m going to have to make up a story, I’m afraid.”
She clapped both hands to her mouth and laughed. “Oh
, Lord—what a devil I’ve become!”
Sartain was puffing a stogie. “Now, now, Celeste, let’s forget all that.”
“I really should be married, Mr. Sart— I mean, Mike. At my age. Instead, I . . . oh!”
“Some girls wait until they’re married, but I’ll guarantee you that most do not, despite what they might tell you.”
“Most? Really?”
“Well, maybe not most. But a good many of ’em. I can assure you of that. Especially them who make it for as long as you have without getting hitched. It’s a natural act. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. That said . . . I reckon we’d best have our discussion and then part ways before someone sees us together.”
They were at the edge of town, near where a trail twisted up a crease between barren bluffs. Behind them, the lantern-lit windows of Bittersweet splashed dim yellow and amber light out onto the dusty boardwalks.
Horses at hitchracks stamped and blew. A vagrant breeze shunted a couple of tumbleweeds along the street.
Two pianos could be heard pattering away in separate saloons. The main street was nearly abandoned, most everyone either home or enjoying drinks in one of the town’s several watering holes or the doxies in one of the several brothels, though Sartain doubted any man could be having as good a time as the one he’d just enjoyed.
He was exhausted and just wanted to find a hot meal and a pile of hay to slumber in . . .
The Chaney house loomed tall against the starry sky atop one of the bluffs along whose slope the trail meandered.
Celeste placed her hand on his forearm. “Come.”
Sartain followed the young woman up the path. About halfway to the house, a wooden bench sat beneath a lone, sprawling oak.
“My father had this placed here some time ago,” Celeste said. “He always walked to and from town via the path, and by then he was getting old enough that he needed a place to stop and rest.”
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