LONGARM AND THE DEADLY THAW
By Tabor Evans
Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1995 by Jove Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. ISBN: 0-515-11634-3 Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc. A Jove Book published by arrangement with the author Printing history Jove edition June 1995 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him … the Gunsmith. LONGARM by Tabor Evans The popular long-running series about U.S. Deputy Marshal Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice. LONE STAR by Wesley Ellis The blazing adventures of Jessica Starbuck and the martial arts master, Ki. Over eight million copies in print. SLOCUM by Jake Logan Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel. McMASTERS by Lee Morgan The blazing new series from the creators of Longarm. When McMasters shoots, he shoots to kill. To his enemies, he is the most dangerous man they have ever known.
Chapter 1
Longarm came awake with an alarming sense that he was drowning in a tub of warm water, or … Comprehension came half a second behind wakefulness, and he began to smile. He reached down to his crotch. His searching fingers encountered not his own wiry thatch of pubic hair but a wispy puff of curling softness. It was bright gold in color, he knew without bothering to open his eyes.
He gently stroked the back of Dame Edith’s patrician head while the lady’s lips and talented tongue continued to stroke him. All in all not a bad way to awaken, he decided as he stretched his lean frame. But carefully, so as not to take anything of interest out of the lady’s reach.
And lady she was, at least on the far side of the big water. Edy Dunn had been a showgirl in a small London theater. Dame Edith Fullerton-Welpole was a celebrated society hostess. Also a damned good lay, as Longarm could attest.
As for Lord Matthew, all Longarm knew about him was that he was seventy-four, had rotten teeth and breath like a walrus—how Edith knew what a walrus’s breath smelled like Longarm did not pretend to know and did not want to ask—and was at the moment engaged in a boringly long hunt somewhere in the wilds of Montana. When Edith spoke of the place Longarm was convinced that upper Montana must surely be somewhere on the other side of darkest Africa. Or possibly more distant than that.
And while Lord Matthew was away, his poor darling had languished in solitude here in Denver.
Until, that is, she’d caught Longarm’s eye—or more aptly he’d caught hers—and an invitation had been issued.
And how could a gentleman possibly refuse a lady’s gracious invitation? It would have been churlish in the extreme. And so, no cad he, Longarm now lay in the lady’s high canopy bed and arched his back to accommodate her somewhat muffled demand for “more … deeper … yes.”
He was engaged in a not altogether unpleasant debate over whether to come inside her mouth this time, as Dame Edith herself seemed to prefer, or to tug her astride so she could spear herself on top of him and make it that way.
The debate was set aside at least for the moment by a discreet tapping at the bedroom door.
“Shit,” Dame Edith said loudly.
“Sorry t’ int’rupt, m’lady, but there’s a most persistent gentleman ‘ere t’ see yer, um, visitor,” a woman’s voice said. “Beggin’ yer pardon.”
Edith gave Longarm a look of clear annoyance, but all he could do was shrug. “I didn’t tell anybody where I’d be.”
“I should jolly well hope not.”
“Reckon I’d best go chase off whoever’s there, all right?”
“Make it quickly, luv. I shouldn’t want all my juices to dry up whilst I wait for you. Now would I?”
“No, we sure couldn’t have that,” he agreed. He slipped out of the bed and into his trousers and shift, pulling his black cavalry boots on without the formality of socks. He did not bother with his vest or coat. But before moving to the door he did belt on the big Colt .44 in its cross-draw holster. He would as soon go to the door naked as go without the double-action Colt. No, actually he would rather go naked than without the gun. Embarrassment is so much easier to get over than death, after all.
“This way, sir,” the homely little maid told him, a touch of scarlet putting color into her cheeks when she got a glance at the gentleman who had been entertaining her lady.
It was a reaction that Longarm got from women gratifyingly often, and one he certainly did not mind even though he could not honestly understand it.
The face he saw when he shaved each morning was, in his own opinion, more rugged than classically handsome, with sun-wrinkled features and piercing brown eyes. He had a strong jaw and a huge, sweeping brown mustache, dark brown hair, and a healthily tanned complexion. He stood something over six feet in height, and had broad shoulders that tapered to a horseman’s narrow waist and flat belly.
The little maid—it was Longarm’s observation that women whose power depends upon their beauty generally surround themselves with plain servants and companions—bobbed her head and dropped into a sort of curtsy as she pointed to the door leading into this top-floor suite from the hallway beyond. “If you’d be needin’ anything, sir …”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
The maid backed away far enough to give the pretense of not being able to overhear, and Longarm peeped out to see who was calling.
He frowned.
“Henry! What the hell are you doing here? It’s Sunday morning, for cryin’ out loud, and I’m not on duty again till tomorrow.”
“Wrong,” Henry declared with no remorse whatsoever. The slightly built fellow, whose meek appearance belied a firm resolve whenever push came to shove, was secretary, confidant, and aide to William “Billy” Vail, United States marshal for the Denver District, United States Justice Department. Custis Long, known to his friends and to a good many enemies as Longarm, was Billy Vail’s top deputy. A deputy who at the moment was supposed to be off duty and was not pleased with this interruption.
“Go away, Henry. I’ll see you an’ the boss come morning.”
“Sorry, Custis. He needs you.”
“On a Sunday morning?”
Henry grinned.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s the middle of Sunday afternoon, for one thing. And you haven’t been down to take a meal, nor had one sent in, since yesterday noon. What I think is that the marshal is doing you a favor by calling you back to work. You need the rest.”
“Someday I’m gonna ask you how the hell you find out all the things you do. You know that?”
“Who knows. Someday maybe I’ll answer you if you do ask. So anyway … Can I tell him you’re on your way?”
“Yeah, hell, you know you can. Tell him I’m fifteen …” Longarm glanced behind him in the direction of the bedroom he just left. “Tell him I’m half an hour behind you. Okay?”
“Don’t be any longer than that, Custis. You have a train to catch this evening.”
Before Longarm had a chance to ask for an explanation, Henry was ambling away down the hall.
Longarm stepped back and let the door swing shut, then reached for a cheroot and matches. A train to catch on a Sunday evening? He found that his curiosity was getting the better of him. He felt his chin. Coarse grit and sandpaper. But if he didn’t take time to shave he figured he could make it to the office not more than ten minutes behind Henry.