“Spicy,” Fargo finished for him. “The last time I was told that here, my tongue almost fell out.” He took off his hat and set it on the counter. “Sounds perfect.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, jotting a note on his pad and heading back to the kitchen.
Fargo helped himself to the pot of coffee on the counter, and waited patiently for the man to return with his meal. It only took a few minutes for the man to appear with a platter heaped with three of the tortilla concoctions and a jar of salsa. “Some folks like to put this on theirs,” he said.
“They make something similar in Mexico,” Fargo said. “Huevos rancheros.”
“Eat,” the man said. “Then we’ll see how our food stacks up against the Mexicans’.”
Fargo slathered the salsa inside one of the tortillas, closed it back up, and took a big bite. There was some kind of cheese in addition to all the other ingredients, and the taste was phenomenal. “Mmm . . .” he said, chewing and swallowing the bite. “That’s good.”
Then the spices hit, and Fargo felt the blood drain from his face. A wave of heat, and then the blood all came rushing back. “Wahhh . . .” he managed, reaching for the glass of water the man was holding out in his hand. He took several large swallows, then tore off a piece of the tortilla and ate that, too. “Good God,” he said. “That’s . . . it sort of sneaks up on a man, doesn’t it?”
The server smiled his big white grin and said, “It sure does, sir. You enjoy your breakfast.” Then he moved off down the counter to serve other customers. Fargo assumed the man stayed close by for the first bite for the entertainment value . . . or maybe to save someone’s life if the heat was too much and they collapsed. His tongue was still burning.
But they were damn good tortillas. He dove back in, drinking copious amounts of water to keep the heat to a manageable level. When he was full, he sat back with a satisfied sigh and pushed his plate away.
The man came by, still grinning, and took it away, then refilled Fargo’s coffee.
Fargo wasn’t sure where he’d go from here. The only thing he knew was that he planned on leaving New Orleans and riding west.
The server said, “You seem kind of restless.”
“It shows, huh?” Fargo smiled.
“Got a brother like that. Can’t stay in one place more than a month or so. Always looking for the big dream to come true.”
“Think it ever will?”
“I doubt it.” He smiled. “But I don’t think that matters to him. It’s the looking he likes. The wandering. I get the sense you’re a lot like that yourself.”
“I guess I’ve done some of that wandering from time to time.”
“Looking for the big dream to come true?”
He shrugged. “Not that so much. It’s just that I like to see what’s over the next hill, I guess.”
He laughed softly. “Yep, peas in a pod. You and my brother.”
Fargo tossed some money on the counter, settled his hat on his head, and left the diner. He was still tired, but he felt better for having eaten. Now what he really wanted was a good long nap.
As he looked around at the people and the buildings, he realized that even a town he disliked as much as this one could probably become home for him if he stayed long enough. A person could get used to just about anything if he gave it enough time. He supposed that most of the good, hardworking people here managed to get used to the corruption and the violence. They just went on with their daily lives and hoped it didn’t touch on them or their loved ones.
The Bayou was quiet and the clerk nodded politely to him as he passed by the desk, saying, “We fixed your door.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Mr. Fargo—” The clerk wanted to say more but it was probably only clerk babble as far as Fargo was concerned. He walked over to the stairs. All he wanted was some rest. Time for clerk chatter when he checked out.
Something felt funny as he approached his door. He paused in the hallway. Listened. But nothing but silence filled his ears. Still and all he sensed something wrong. He’d developed survival instincts over the years that could pick up on the slightest threat.
And he found that his sense of danger was correct.
His door was open a crack. Could one of Parker’s or Beares’ men still be wandering around looking for revenge? He didn’t know, but he pulled the Colt from the holster and eased up to his door to listen.
The room was quiet. He used the barrel of the gun to push the door open even more. The door cried a bit as it opened. Hinges needed some oil. He took a single step forward. And then another step.
Given the small size of the room, it was easy to scan. Easy to spot any kind of threat. He kept his Colt clenched tight in his hand.
Then he smiled. Guess he wouldn’t be needing his Colt after all. The room was empty . . . except for the slender figure on the bed, where Mary was curled up on the blankets, a chocolate ribbon of silk, sound asleep. She hadn’t even heard him come in.
Fargo turned and quietly shut and locked the door, then hung his hat and his gun belt on the dresser. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he took his boots off standing up, then removed the rest of his clothing and tiptoed to the other side of the bed.
It was far too hot and humid in New Orleans to sleep under the blankets, so he contented himself with sliding down next to her, and wrapping her in his arms. She murmured softly in her sleep and he planted a warm kiss on her neck.
He felt her beginning to respond to him and so he whispered in her ear, “Mary, it’s Fargo.”
She arched her back against him and in the sexiest voice he’d ever heard said, “I knew it. I knew you’d be safe, Skye. I prayed for you, too.”
“I didn’t know what happened to you,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Just fine.” She rolled over and planted a very warm, soft kiss on his lips. “But I’d be a whole lot finer if you made love to me, Skye.”
He placed his hands on either side of her face. “Mary, you know I can’t stay here, right? You know I’m moving on?”
Her eyes were dark and serious, then she nodded. “I know, Skye. You aren’t the kind of man to stay around. But I’d . . . can you make me feel safe for just one more day? I know it’s just pretend, but can you make love to me like we did out at the grotto?”
His hands found her breasts and his lips pressed forward on hers. Suddenly, he knew that at least some of his money would go to buy a better life for her. Maybe get her started on a little place of her own somewhere. She could learn about horses and cattle.
“Yes,” she moaned into his ear as he gently squeezed her nipples. “Just like that, Skye.” She opened her legs to him, shifting her hips so that he could enter her. Things moved quickly and soon she was climaxing beneath him, shuddering and moaning. They continued their lovemaking until they were both exhausted, and Mary fell asleep, curled up once more in his arms, feeling safer, no doubt, than she ever had in her life.
Fargo drifted into a light doze himself, thinking that tomorrow he would ride west and see what the frontier might bring him.
LOOKING FORWARD!
The following is the opening
section from the next novel in the exciting
Trailsman series from Signet:
THE TRAILSMAN #320: OREGON OUTRAGE
Oregon, 1860—where Skye Fargo follows