At that, people began clearing out. They didn’t wait for Oscar to get to his feet, to evaluate the damage to his shooting hand, or to see him drag Poppa Ambrose’s pride and joy out of the bar. He left Whitney behind. Maybe the younger Ambrose cousin would make it; maybe he wouldn’t. Probably not.
The last to leave was Juanita, who looked on at Tom in shock. She watched him collect Danny’s pistol from behind the bar, check to see that it was loaded, and do the same for Whitney’s gun. “You should probably leave,” Tom said.
“They’re going to kill you,” Juanita breathed.
“Seems likely,” Tom shrugged. “Three less of ‘em for anyone else to deal with, though. None of them are gonna be gunslingin’ ever again.”
“You don’t have to do this.” She was still in awe. The Ambrose boys had roamed all over those parts for months. She didn’t think anyone would stand up to them, nor did she blame people for not trying.
“It’s done,” Tom said sadly. “Head out. Hopefully I’ll take out one or two more before it’s over.”
He didn’t have long to wait. With only one lunatic piano player to deal with, Poppa Ambrose didn’t wait on the whole gang. Only seven of them came, plus the injured Oscar, all on horses in the dirty street outside the saloon. Everyone else cleared well out of the way.
“Come on out here, Tommy!” Poppa Ambrose said once everyone dismounted. With his usual flair for dramatics, he hadn’t even drawn a gun. Nobody pointed their rifles toward the saloon, nor were pistols drawn. As Poppa told them, this was someone trying to make a stand. Some fool making a show of standing up to the bullies. He’d want to be dramatic, too. There’d be words before the shooting. The townsfolk couldn’t be allowed to see the Ambrose Gang cowed.
They waited outside until Tom appeared with Whitney’s gun belt around his waist. The gun, as Poppa had predicted, still sat in the holster. Poppa Ambrose opened his mouth to speak.
It was just enough of a delay for Tom to whip up the gun he’d held just behind his leg to shoot Dick Ambrose. The bullet hit him squarely in the chest. Poppa’s eldest son was the second-fastest draw in the family after Danny. He got one shot off, striking Tom in the chest, but not in time to save himself.
More gunfire followed. In their surprise and general lack of sobriety, the Ambrose gang’s marksmanship wasn’t exactly sharp. Tom, by contrast, concern himself more with his aim than survival. He got out three more shots; one went wild, but one went straight through Willie Talbot’s gut. The other, planted in Chris Fisher’s leg, wasn’t fatal. The infection that would arise two mornings later finished the job.
Tom Graham died on the steps of the Royale, face down and bleeding out from a dozen bullet holes. Poppa Ambrose watched him die, just as he’d seen the death of his son, Dick. He would later see Whitney die of his wounds. Danny never fully recovered.
There was no one to lynch for it. No one to drag screaming through the streets by horse, no one to make an example of for the town.
There were, however, considerably fewer of the Ambrose gang for the local sheriffs to worry about. The gang lost its vaunted fastest draws that night. A week later, men with badges carried out warrants that had waited in desk drawers for months. With the gang’s numbers so diminished, there were then even fewer of them around to retaliate against the piecemeal arrests until it was too late.
When Dick, Whitney and the others were buried, only the members of the gang who weren’t already in jail showed up.
The whole town turned out for Tom Graham’s funeral. People came from miles around, right in the view of Poppa and Danny Ambrose, to see him laid to rest. His pallbearers included the town marshal, the county sheriff, the mayor, and the town’s preacher. Everyone who knew him came, along with dozens who didn’t.
Everyone except Siobhan.
* * *
Moans and whimpers from across the room woke him. Alex stirred in the big, luxurious bed. Gentle daylight filled the room, mitigated by an overcast morning sky. Taylor reclined on the couch, her head and arms laid against its plush top. Given the tone of Taylor’s voice, Alex had no doubt where his succubus might be or what she was doing.
Alex lay in bed, stretching and listening in appreciation. He used to find the sight of Taylor in someone else’s arms depressing. He felt differently now. He could watch Taylor and Lorelei together for hours-except he’d never resist the option to join in.
Quietly, Alex slipped out of the bed and into the bathroom to freshen up. Taylor didn’t notice. She was somewhere north of Cloud Nine. He took care of business quickly, making a point of brushing his teeth to save everyone from his morning breath.
When he came back out, nothing had changed. Stepping around the couch, Alex found Lorelei kneeling before Taylor with her head buried between the brunette’s legs. He wondered with a smirk how long it had been since Lorelei came up for air and if Taylor cared. Probably not, he decided. He doubted she could think of anything at all.
Figuring Taylor wouldn’t notice him right away, he knelt next to Lorelei, trailing kisses across her back. Lorelei let out a softly audible purr of acknowledgement, but didn’t pull back from Taylor. Alex then shifted up to Taylor, his hands joining with Lorelei’s in caressing the younger woman’s body. Taylor stirred just enough to encourage more. When Alex came up to kiss her, she kissed back eagerly.
“No. Not me. Her,” Taylor breathed out finally. “Give her some attention. She won’t let me.”
Alex pulled away from Taylor to take up a spot on his knees behind Lorelei. Taylor’s eyes fluttered open so she could watch Alex join in.
Lorelei tensed with anticipation as Alex’s hands trailed back over her, caressing her hips and her ass. His fingers soon confirmed that she was more than ready for him. Alex wasted little time. Lorelei let out a moan of approval as he entered her, but she didn’t let up on her other partner. Her energy rose, as did the intensity of her kiss between Taylor’s legs.
The wonderful, lingering torture Taylor shifted, for as Lorelei’s excitement grew her lips and tongue focused on bringing Taylor to orgasm. Treated to such an erotic sight as well as expert attention, it wasn’t long before Taylor went over the edge. When she calmed, she reached down to draw Lorelei into her arms, holding her fondly while Alex took her from behind.
Satisfied as she was, Taylor relaxed and enjoyed the erotic spectacle. Her partners gave in to primal urges and seemingly boundless energy. Even after last night, she never would have expected such shameless lust out of Alex. What blew Taylor’s mind, though, happened as Lorelei’s cries of pleasure became ever louder, ever more compelling…and finally became a single, coherent word, over and over again: “Master.”
Spasms and whimpers wracked the older woman until she collapsed in Taylor’s arms. Alex shifted around, taking up a spot on the couch to gather Lorelei into a tender embrace. Lorelei buried her face in the curve between his neck and shoulder while she held him tightly. It seemed as if she might be crying as he stroked her hair and tried to calm his breathing. “Thank you, master,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Wide-eyed and amazed, Taylor breathed, “’Master?’”
Alex seemed to blush. “There’s…there are some things we need to tell you,” he admitted.
* * *
“We’re not joining your Super Secret Witches’ Club. So fuck off.”