Lone Star 01 (8 page)

Still fingering her, Ki used his other hand to unbuckle his jeans and open his fly. She reached, clutching the shaft of this erection and stroking him delicately, as he struggled to lower his pants down around his ankles.

“You stay dressed too,” she whispered hoarsely, and wrapped her left arm around his neck, drawing him up and over her, the hand clasping his hardness, guiding it into her warm moisture.

Ki felt himself sinking inside her a long way before he realized how tight she was. He paused then and looked down at her. She was smiling all over. “Don't stop,” she said. “It feels good.”

He lanced deeper into her again, and this time he could almost feel the juice springing out of her. He began to thrust very hard then, and she seemed to grow even tighter around him, until every time he would pound into her, she would gasp, shuddering, from the squeezing impact. Yet she kept smiling and undulating her buttocks on the pile of dirty laundry, eager for more. There was nothing timid or gentle about this union, Ki thought.

Her hips writhed and pumped under him, her thighs clasping him as if she would hold him in her forever. She began to moan, and her eyes closed, her fingers stroking down over his buttocks as she tried to match Ki's quickening movements. Her moans grew deeper, more prolonged, and she caught at his thighs where they were pressed against the undersides of hers, pulling them at her while her mouth opened and closed as if she were gasping for air.

Then, as her moanings became continuous and high-pitched, the girl began babbling, “Fast, fast, fast, fast...” in a cascade of incoherent emotion. Her hands clutched him savagely, digging into his thighs as her face contorted and her whole body shivered in a series of convulsions.

“Ahhh ...” she mewed, as her wet passage compressed around Ki's surging shaft, the force of her orgasm drawing the breath from her lungs in a furious, aching sigh.

As he felt the girl gripping him in her ecstatic release, Ki burrowed deeper, pressing and grinding against her for seconds without pumping his hips. Then he withdrew, thrust slowly in again—and again—and with a final deep thrust, his own climax erupted far up inside her welcoming belly.

Slowly he settled down over her soft warm body, and he lay, crushing her breasts and belly with his weight, until his immediate satiation began to wane. Finally he rolled from her and gently stroked her quivering breasts.

The girl smiled at him with lazy, satisfied eyes. “I guess if Miss Starbuck's and your clothes didn't need washing before,” she whispered, “they sure do now...”

While Ki was down romancing the girl, Jessica was relaxing sleepily in her bath. Eventually stirring from her lethargy, she sat up and began to soap her breasts and loins, every inch of her trim yet voluptuous body. Kneeling then, she lathered her long blonde hair, then bent, with the nipples of her distended breasts brushing the water, to rinse off the lather. Briskly she dried herself with a large, fluffy jacquard towel. Her nude flesh tingled, her skin glowing a burnished pink, as she slipped her wrapper on again, collected her toiletries, and left the bathroom.

Padding barefoot along the corridor again, she unlocked her door and found a man in her room. He was stooping over her trunk, one hand on its open lid, the other pawing through her set-up tray. Hearing her enter, he straightened and turned, his clothes grubby work denims and shirt, his face lean-jawed and the color of old paper.

“Well, well, what have we here?” the man said, ogling.

“A burglar, that's what,” Jessica retorted sarcastically, in no mood to tolerate the way the man was studying her nudity under the clinging wrapper. She drew out her derringer and pointed it at him. “It's a bit early in the evening for larceny, isn't it?”

“Whoa there, lady, let's not be hasty,” the man said, abruptly losing interest in ogling her. “Little mistake in the room, is all. Mayhaps I'm a little drunk too.”

“Get out, and I'll call the matter closed, if not forgotten.”

“Yes, ma‘am, just what I had in mind,” he said nervously, sidling out around her and into the hallway. “Let's leave it at that.”

The man rushed pell-mell down the corridor. Jessica waited until he'd vanished down the staircase, then examined the door lock and jamb plate, finding they hadn't been forced. She wasn't surprised.

Closing and relatching the door, Jessica figured the incident wasn't worth disturbing Ki about. What could be gained? The man was gone, and had gotten nothing except an eyeful and a scare.

Discarding the wrapper, she slid the flowing nightgown down over her head, and discovered that it was a size smaller than her figure demanded. She smoothed it out as best she could, the fabric like a lover's clasp, squeezing her breasts and pressing around her thighs and buttocks. She continued trying to stretch the gown looser, as she stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, brushing her damp hair and pinning it up so she could sleep on it.

Eventually satisfied, Jessica blew out the oil lamp on the bureau and climbed into bed. She was asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.

She was awakened by Ki.

She felt his presence at first and, opening her eyes, saw him moving through the connecting doorway into her darkened room, wearing only his jeans, his bare feet noiseless on the floor. When she sat up, still foggy with sleep, he put a finger to his lips as a signal for absolute silence, and pointed at the window with his other hand.

Jessica froze, breathless. For an agonizing moment she heard nothing, and she realized it was probably sometime between three and five in the morning, in that predawn stillness when most everybody is sleeping their soundest, and those awake are at their most relaxed. And when Ki was at his most alert.

Then, from below the window, against the side of the building, came a slight scraping noise and a soft squeak of stressed wood. Ki was beside the window now, poised motionless, staring intently at the drawn blind like a cat watching a mousehole. Gently, Jessica rose, slipping from the covers and easing over to the other side of the window. Ki gestured for her to back away, but before she could, the sash creaked slowly higher and the blind began to quiver.

A hand raised the bottom edge of the blind. Whoever was out there then stuck his other hand underneath, gripping two dynamite sticks tied together, fuses sparking and hissing.

Ki pounced. He grabbed hold of those two hands by their wrists and thrust them back out the window, leaning way out before letting go with a final shove. The dynamite went with them, and so did the blind, ripping off its roller to flap out like a flying tail.

A startled howl, which had begun at the height of the window, was swiftly falling away and down. Jessica, peering out the window with Ki, saw a tall spindly ladder teetering in an arc away from the hotel wall, its legs firmly rooted in the alley below. The hunching silhouette of a man was perched on its top rungs, clinging helplessly as he was catapulted backwards toward the sheriff's stone office.

The ladder struck the edge of the building, toward the rear of the structure where the jail cells would be. The man was flung onto the roof, his howl cut off as the dynamite detonated with a terrific, brilliant flash. The hotel quivered, glass shattering, while down across the alley, the rear quarter of the sheriff's office hurtled out, stone, beams, and masonry cycloning up and about in a blinding white cloud. The roof collapsed in the hole the explosion had punched, fire blossoming through the wreckage.

By the suddenly sprouting incandescence, Jessica saw Deputy Oakes stumble out the front door, wearing long red underwear and nothing else. Other doors and windows were opening, the street swirling in a confusion of shouting men and women both dashing about, cursing and questioning, gaping at the ruined building that was now being consumed by hungry flames.

Ki turned, surveying Jessica. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, though she was still shaky, still dazzled by the glare, her head whirling from the concussion of the blast. “Somebody doesn't like us,” she said, smiling weakly. “I can't imagine who.”

“And he knew where to find us. If I hadn't been lucky enough to hear that ladder brushing up against the wall, he would've succeeded,” Ki added, slamming the window and starting back to the connecting door. He paused before closing it to say reassuringly, “But I think that's all he'll try for tonight. Sweet dreams.”

Jessica went back to bed and pulled the covers up close around her neck. She listened to the continuing noise from the street, and watched the reflection of the fire in the wavy glass pane of her window, and she wondered what tomorrow would bring in the way of death.

She lay there a long time before going to sleep again.

Chapter 6

The rising sun had scarcely cleared the mountains behind them when Jessica and Ki turned at the fork in the road west of Eucher Butte. They rode for the next two hours through a vast upland basin that was hemmed in by the river to the south, and by granite-toothed and canyon-gashed foothills ahead and to the north, the peaks of the Laramie Range towering beyond, seeming to float above the horizon on a sea of morning mist.

The trail kept to a course that meandered toward the foothills, the broad sweep of the basin slowly falling behind, being replaced by increasingly rugged country of tumbling creeks and high, timbered plateaus. The sun had become hot and bright against their backs by the time the two riders reined in their mounts before a narrow lane that cut away from the trail. A board nailed to a tree beside the lane bore the brand of the Spraddled M.

Heeling their bays into a trot, they followed the rutted lane through a belt of spruce and yellow pine, then down into a verdant swale speckled with the first buds of spring. Along a stream that flowed across one side of the swale were strung the few low buildings of a ranch: a long, thin, cabinlike ranch house; a squarer bunkhouse, against which leaned a grub shack; a clapboard barn and a scattering of sheds; and a pole corral in which a few horses stood.

The Melville spread did not look rich, Jessica thought as they approached the stretch of bare yard in front of the ranch house. But it was neat, and the buildings appeared to be in good repair, showing a desire to work hard and do the best with what there was.

A gallery ran the length of the ranch house. There was a small amount of clutter and discarded saddlery at each end of it, but in the middle, next to the front door, was a rocking chair. Sitting in the rocker was Tobias Melville, clad in a loose-hanging vest and denims of the range, and a plaid shirt not unlike the one Jessica was wearing. A faded bandanna was knotted around his throat, a thatch of white hair peeking from beneath a floppy-brimmed, sweat-stained hat.

Daryl Melville was standing nearby, one boot on the gallery and the other on the ground, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to come or to go. He had on a clean set of clothes, and was hatless, his hair slicked and combed. But he was also wearing, Jessica saw, the same dark scowl as he'd worn yesterday, when he'd been angered at Deputy Oakes, and then later in the saloon.

Daryl and his father were looking at whoever was in the buggy parked alongside the gallery by the rocker. The buggy had a piano-box body and a leather quarter-top, and was hitched to a sleek dapple gray. Because the fancy top blocked their view, neither Jessica nor Ki could tell who was in it until they rode all the way up to the gallery. But they could hear a deep, well-modulated voice coming from within, saying to the Melvilles:

“Let's be realistic. You don't have anything to sell but debts and scarecrow cattle, but I'll take them to secure your range—”

“Hello, there,” Daryl interrupted, smiling as he spotted Jessica and Ki drawing near. “Sure glad you could make it.”

And the words from the buggy came to an abrupt halt.

Two men were sitting in the buggy, their eyes veiled, as Jessica and Ki pulled up to the gallery. The one holding the reins was a bucktoothed, hatchet-faced man with an impassive, secretive expression. The other was middle aged, sporting bristly muttonchops, his once handsome face and deep-socketed eyes webbed with lines of dissipation. And it was obvious from his apparel that he was more accustomed to rich city reveling than hardscrabble ranch life, wearing as he was a pair of flat-heeled patent-leather shoes, a square-crowned Governor hat, and a dark brown town suit of expensive broadcloth, its jacket unbuttoned to relieve his paunch.

The tense silence stretched on, until Tobias Melville rocked back and remarked affably, “Sure got peaceful of a sudden.”

“Yes, well, where're my manners?” Daryl said hastily, clearing his throat. “Dad, I'd like you to meet Miss Jessie Starbuck.”

“Heard something about you this morning,” the father said, grinning. His gaunt face was creased with wrinkles, but his eyes, as black as his son‘s, were sharp and bright as he looked Jessica over. He seemed to like what he saw. “Call me Toby, Jessie.”