Chapter 1
The beautiful redhead squirmed on Longarm’s lap as he drew her head down to his and kissed her. Her lips parted eagerly, and before his tongue had a chance to slide into her mouth, her tongue was exploring his. At the same time, she dropped her hand to his groin and began massaging his rapidly hardening shaft.
Longarm broke the kiss and said in a husky voice, “I hate to tell you to stop what you’re doing, darlin’, but we are in a public place.”
“No one here will care,” she told him as her fingers tightened on him.
That was true. Nobody else in this Del Rio saloon seemed to be paying any attention at all to what was going on at the table in the back corner of the room. They were too busy laughing and talking and drinking and gambling and doing plenty of carousing of their own.
Longarm sighed. “I reckon you’re right. But I’d still feel a mite more comfortable upstairs in your room.”
She gave his manhood a final squeeze. “All right, Custis, if that is what you wish. Come.”
That was just what he intended to do in a little while, Longarm thought wryly as the redhead took his hand and led him toward the staircase. Other patrons of the place had been trooping up and down the stairs all evening with the rest of the girls who worked there, but the redhead had been concentrating on Longarm alone ever since he’d come in. He didn’t know whether to feel flattered ... Or suspicious.
After all, he was here in Del Rio on business. He wasn’t advertising the fact that he was a United States deputy marshal, but it was no secret either. This assignment wasn’t an undercover job at all—even though under the covers was where he figured to be pretty soon.
Or on top of them anyway. It was too hot here in this Texas border country to be burrowing down under the sheets. A fella needed all the night breeze he could get.
The redhead’s fingers clenched on his with surprising strength as they neared the bottom of the staircase. She stopped and caught her breath. Longarm nearly bumped into her. He asked, “What’s the matter”—then paused, trying to remember her name—“Anna Marie?”
Instead of the redhead’s sultry voice, furious tones that resembled the roar of a grizzly bear provided the answer to Longarm’s question. “What the hell are you doin’ with my woman?”
The slick-haired professor at the piano abruptly stopped playing, and most of the rest of the noise in the room died away as well. Longarm turned his head slowly and saw a huge man standing a few feet away. Behind him was a clear path all the way to the bat-wing doors of the saloon, which were still swinging gently back and forth. Longarm knew from that evidence that the big gent had just come in—and folks had gotten out of his way in a hurry.
“You jawing at me, friend?” asked Longarm in a deceptively mild voice.
“Damn right,” rumbled the man, who probably topped out at six inches over six feet. “Damn right I’m talkin’ to you, you short-growed little runt. Get your damn hand offa Anna Marie.”
Longarm didn’t much appreciate being called a runt, since he was well over six feet himself. Since it was his left hand that the redheaded saloon girl was holding so tightly, he made no effort to disengage it. His right could still reach for the Colt snugly holstered in the cross-draw rig at his waist if need be.
“If the lady wants me to let go of her, I reckon she’ll tell me so,” Longarm pointed out reasonably. As he had suspected, though, the burly bearded stranger was in no mood to be reasonable.
The big man was wearing a sombrero, which made him look even taller, but he wasn’t Mexican despite his swarthy complexion and short dark beard. The muscles of his arms and shoulders strained against a butternut shirt and a black and white cowhide vest. He wore denim trousers tucked into soft leather boots with high fringed tops. The leather-wrapped hilt of what appeared to be a Bowie knife stuck up from the top of the right boot. A gunbelt was strapped around his waist, with a long-barreled, pearl-handled Remington revolver in the holster. He looked like a formidable hombre, thought Longarm.
But the federal star-packer was no shrinking violet himself. Tall and rangy, he wore a flat-crowned, snuff-brown Stetson and the pants and vest from a brown tweed suit; because of the heat, he had left the coat in his hotel room. His white shirt was still fairly crisp, and the string tie around his neck was expertly knotted. Some folks might consider the outfit to be that of a fancy dude, but one look at Longarm’s rugged, mustachioed features, tanned to the color of old saddle leather and weathered by years of exposure to sun and wind and rain, told a different story. So did the ease with which he wore his gun.
The big stranger cuffed the sombrero back so that it hung from the chin strap looped around his thick neck. “Looks like I’m goin’ to have to teach you some manners, mister,” he growled.
Longarm glanced at the redhead. She was pretty, especially for a woman in a profession which aged its practitioners rapidly, and the breasts that were practically spilling out of her dress looked soft and creamy and were dotted with tiny freckles. He could imagine plunging his face between those globes of flesh and gleefully wallowing there for a while ... but would the experience be worth a knock-down-drag-out fight with this bruiser of a Texan?
Probably not, Longarm decided. Besides, he was here in Del Rio to work, not to brawl. The assignment would get under way the next morning, and he wanted to be well rested for it.
All that was really left to consider was his honor, and Longarm decided that it hadn’t been mortally wounded yet. He could afford to be magnanimous about the whole thing.
“I didn’t come here looking for trouble,” he said as he let go of Anna Marie’s hand. “I just wanted a drink before I turned in, so I reckon that’s what I’ll have.” He started to turn away, intending to head back to the table in the corner.
“Haw!” The explosive bark of laughter came from the big man. “I knew that fella would take water. Come on, you damn redheaded slut. I’m in the mood for some lovin’.”
“Leave me alone,” snapped Anna Marie. “You are no gentleman, Lazarus Coffin!”
The odd name would have caught Longarm’s attention even if Anna Marie hadn’t upped and screamed right after saying it. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the big man had hold of her wrist in what looked like a painfully tight grip as he tried to drag her toward the stairs. Anna Marie was hanging back like a balky mule, but she was no match for Coffin’s strength, and no one else in the room was making a move to help her. He hauled her onto the stairs.
Longarm sighed. Looked like things weren’t going to be settled peaceably after all.
“Coffin!” he said, his voice ripping through the uneasy silence that still ruled the room. “Let go of her.”
Coffin stopped on the third step and frowned ominously. “You buttin’ in again, mister? Thought I’d told you to run along like a good li’l feller.”
Longarm walked steadily toward the staircase. “I said let her go. You can say what you want about me, but you ain’t going to mistreat a lady while I’m around.”
“Lady?” Coffin repeated, then gave a braying laugh. “This ain’t no lady. This is just a worn-out old whore.”
Not hardly, thought Longarm. Anna Marie was a long way from that. As if to prove it, she gasped in anger at Coffin’s words and reached up to slap him across the face.
He blinked, more surprised than hurt by the blow. Then his bearded face contorted in an ugly scowl. He raised a ham-like hand to swat her in return.
Longarm palmed the Colt out smoothly and eared back the hammer as he raised the gun and lined the sights on Coffin’s broad chest. “I wouldn’t,” he said quietly.
Coffin’s face flushed an even darker shade of red as anger shook him. With a visible effort, he controlled his rage and said, “You don’t know what you’re doin’, mister. You’d better put that gun up and get the hell outta here whilst you still can.”