‘‘Here you go.’’
Fargo downed his glass at a gulp and enjoyed the warmth that spread down his throat to his belly. ‘‘Nice.’’
‘‘I don’t buy cheap whiskey.’’
‘‘It is not the whiskey I was talking about.’’ Fargo admired the sheen of the lamp light on Tilly’s hair, admired, too, the twin mounds that thrust against her dress like ripe melons. The swish of her dress against her legs hinted at velvety delights waiting to be discovered. A lump of raw hunger formed in his throat.
‘‘Are you still fixing to leave tomorrow?’’ Tilly asked.
‘‘At first light,’’ Fargo said. Out of habit he was nearly always up at the crack of dawn.
‘‘That early?’’ Tilly sounded disappointed. ‘‘Oh, well. I have to be at the saloon early anyway. A bunch of freight wagons are due in, and those freighters love to drink.’’
Her mention made Fargo think of Cranmeyer. ‘‘Ever hear of the Frazier sisters?’’
‘‘Who hasn’t? Those girls are the talk of the territory. Mule skinners, like their pa was. Where you find one, you find the other two. They do as they please, when they please, and they don’t care who approves.’’
‘‘You sound as if you admire them.’’
‘‘You bet your britches I do,’’ Tilly confirmed with a bob of her chin. ‘‘What woman wouldn’t? They get away with things most of us can only dream of doing.’’ She recited a litany. ‘‘They dress like men. They swear like men. They do a man’s job better than most men can do it. Above all, they never take guff off of anyone, male or female.’’
Fargo set his glass on the table. ‘‘I like my women to look like women.’’ Placing his hands on her hips, he pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. She melted against him, her fingers plying the hair at the nape of his neck. His skin prickled and he stirred below the belt.
‘‘Lord, what you do to me,’’ Tilly said huskily when the kiss ended. ‘‘You have had considerable practice, I suspect.’’
‘‘A little,’’ Fargo conceded. ‘‘But so have you.’’
‘‘I am the first to admit I like men,’’ Tilly said. ‘‘But where a man can be fond of women and nothing much is made of it, when a woman is fond of men she gets a reputation, and the only two places she can find work are a saloon and a sporting house.’’
‘‘Enough chat,’’ Fargo said, and pulled her close. Their second kiss lasted longer, and when they parted, she was breathing heavily and he had a growing bulge.
Sweeping her into his arms, Fargo carried her to the bed. She grinned as he laid her down on her back.
‘‘Goodness gracious, you work fast.’’
Fargo went to slide his legs onto the bed and she poked him in the ribs.
‘‘What do you think you are doing? I will thank you to take off your spurs. I already have one hole in my quilt thanks to that idiot Tibbett. I can do without having it torn to shreds.’’
Fargo couldn’t blame her. Quilts took a long time to make. Sitting back up, he removed his right spur and then his left and dropped them to the floor. He also tugged his boots off. Ordinarily he wouldn’t bother but they were caked with dirt and except for the bullet holes her bed was immaculate. ‘‘Happy now?’’
‘‘Very,’’ Tilly said playfully.
Cupping her chin, Fargo fused his mouth to hers. He rekindled his hunger by roving his hands over every square inch of her he could reach. From her shoulders to her knees, he explored her voluptuous womanliness. She responded with rising ardor. Her fingers kneaded his broad shoulders and then roamed across his chest to his flat stomach.
‘‘You have a nice body.’’
‘‘Not as nice as yours,’’ Fargo said, and nipped another comment in the bud with yet another kiss.
The minutes fluttered by on wings of carnal delight. They probed, caressed, licked and nibbled. Bit by bit her clothes came undone.
Questing fingers roved up under Fargo’s buckskin shirt. She plied his skin as if it were clay, and when she came to his waist, she loosened his belt and resumed plying down under. Fargo nearly gasped when she cupped him. The feel of her hand on his pole was almost enough to cause him to explode.
Enrapt in the release of their passion, they drifted on tides of velveteen arousal. Eventually Tilly was as bare as the day she came into the world, and it was not long before Fargo had shed everything but his bandanna. Their lips were everywhere, retracing the explorations of their hands.
Fargo sucked on a hard nipple and Tilly dug her nails so deep into his back, she drew drops of blood. He smacked her bottom and she squirmed and cooed. She cooed so loud and squirmed with such vigor that he smacked her fanny several more times.
‘‘Oh! Oh! I like that!’’
Fargo liked how she rimmed his ear with the tip of her tongue and then lightly nipped at his lobe. When she ground against him, he returned the favor. They were hip to hip, chest to breast.
On his knees between her legs, Fargo rubbed his member across her nether lips and elicited a squeal of anticipation. He did not keep her waiting. Inch by inch he fed his iron sword into her satiny moist scabbard. Her ankles locked behind his back and she clamped hold of his arms.
Their eyes met.
‘‘Do me, handsome. Do me good.’’
Fargo obliged. He rammed and she cried out and each stroke lifted them another rung on the ladder of mutual release. She spurted first, and hers triggered his. The room dissolved around them and there was only the pure, potent pleasure that Fargo could never get enough of.
Still later, the shack was quiet save for Tilly’s deep breathing. Fargo tried to join her in slumber but his mind was racing from the events of the evening. He got up and dressed and strapped on his Colt. He figured to write a note but he could not find anything to write with.
Fargo quietly let himself out. The saloon was still open. With a little luck he might find a poker game going, and he could sit in. He crossed the street and was almost to the overhang when a pair of shadows detached themselves from the darkness and barred his way.
‘‘Mr. Fargo! We meet again.’’
‘‘Hell,’’ Fargo said.
Timothy P. Cranmeyer had a smile worthy of a patent medicine salesman. ‘‘We keep running into each other. Some would say that is an omen.’’
‘‘Or it could be that Hot Springs is no bigger than a gob of spit and a man can’t turn around without bumping into someone he doesn’t want to bump into.’’ Fargo went to go by but Krupp barred his way. ‘‘I am not in the mood. Move or I will move you.’’
‘‘Now, now,’’ Cranmeyer said. ‘‘Hear me out, if you don’t mind.’’
‘‘I already have. Twice. And I will be damned if I will listen a third time.’’ Fargo shouldered past but a hand on his arm stopped him.
‘‘If Mr. Cranmeyer wants you to hear him out, then that is what you will do,’’ Krupp said.
‘‘The wrong night,’’ Fargo told him.
‘‘Eh?’’
‘‘You picked the wrong night and the wrong man,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I have been imposed on as much as I am going to be.’’ He did not wait for a response. He hauled off and slugged Krupp flush on the jaw.
The mass of muscle tottered, steadied himself and grinned.
‘‘Not bad.’’
‘‘I hate this place,’’ Fargo said. Ever since he rode in it had been one thing after another.
‘‘You will hate it more before I am through,’’ Krupp promised, and swung.
Fargo saw the punch coming and threw up an arm to block it. He succeeded, but the blow was so powerful it rocked him onto his boot heels. Raising both fists, he was about to retaliate when Timothy P. Cranmeyer did what he did best—he butted in.
‘‘Hold on, Mr. Krupp! I did not give my consent for you to brawl like a common ruffian.’’