Slocum and the High-Country Manhunt Read online

  He took a small pull on the whiskey, and damn, it was fine. Being a Southern boy, he was partial to a good bourbon, though how she could have known that just by sizing him up in the lobby, he didn’t know. But it would be something to ask her. A way into a palaver. He’d nearly given up on any conversation with her.

  She came back out of the bedroom, looking slightly less red-faced and more relaxed somehow. He guessed she had washed her face at the pitcher and bowl.

  She accepted the crystal glass of champagne he offered and they clinked glasses. “To better health,” he said, checking his wound. The bleeding appeared to have stopped and the sharp pain had ebbed to a dull throb.

  She set down her glass and rolled up her sleeves. “We must get that shirt off you, Mr. Slocum.”

  “John, please, and no, I’m fine. Nothing a little bourbon and some sleep won’t cure.”

  “No sir, I insist. I did this to you and I . . .” She broke off there, and before he knew what was happening, she’d parted his coat and begun unbuttoning his shirt.

  “See here—”

  “No, John Slocum. I’ll not tolerate any more of your bullheadedness. Now help me slip off this coat and shirt. Oh . . .” When they caught sight of the blood, they both raised eyebrows in concern.

  “I think perhaps we should send for a doctor.”

  “Nope. I’d be hurting a lot worse inside if I needed one.”

  “That’s a peculiar way of looking at it.”

  “Peculiar situation, seems to me.” He shrugged out of the coat, then the shirt, and tossed them across the back of the stuffed wingback chair behind him.

  “Mr. Slocum, your guns . . . shouldn’t you take those off as well?”

  “Only if they’re in the way, ma’am.”

  “Ginny, please.”

  She had lightly warmed a basin of water atop the room’s small stove. She carried it over to him, steam curling from the top, and dipped a washcloth in it. She downed the rest of her glass of champagne and approached him with the cloth, looking at him nervously.

  He took the cloth from her, smiling, and gently dabbed the spot. “I can’t even see it,” he said. “No, wait, there it is—looks like a spider bite.” He washed it some more, then said, “I tell you what, I’ve been slashed by Bowie knives, stabbed by Indian lances, shot, you name it, but this one tickled more than most.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel better, John Slocum, it’s not working.” She took the cloth from him, wrung it out, and dabbed him herself this time. “You are . . . rather scarred for so young a man.”

  She didn’t look up at him as she bent low before him, but he could see her face redden.

  She kept talking. “You are also rather fit. What I mean is . . . you look to keep yourself in good working order.”

  A knock at the door froze them both, as if they were children caught filching cookies from the kitchen. She set the cloth in the bowl and opened the door. “Ah, food. Good. Mr. Slocum, you must be starving.”

  In walked the same fat clerk from before. He glanced at the half-clad Slocum, one eyebrow arched, and his already red face nearly purpled. He cleared his throat and pushed a wheeled cart carrying several silver-domed platters. “Your . . . repast, Miss Garfield.” He turned to Slocum. “Sir.”

  Again, he retreated to the door, hesitated, then stood before it, smiling at some spot between them.

  Miss Garfield retrieved her purse, and came back with several handsome-looking coins, which she then deposited into the man’s outstretched pink hand.

  “My many thanks, Miss Garfield. I hope you”—he looked briefly at Slocum—“enjoy your evening, ma’am.”

  He bowed and pulled the door closed quietly behind him.

  “What do you suppose he meant by that?” said Slocum, knowing full well what the fat man implied, but wanting to see if he could make her blush more just the same. On her it looked especially pretty.

  If she took any notice, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she unscrewed the cap on a bottle of tincture, sniffed it, and wrinkled her nose. “Good Lord, what is this stuff?” She held it up for him to sniff, and he, too recoiled. “Please don’t smear that stuff on me. How about we drizzle a little of that medicinal whiskey on it and call it good.”

  “Nope, not that stuff,” she said. “If it’s as bad as the tincture, which is decidedly possible, then we’re just courting disaster.” She winked at him and he felt his stomach flutter. Nothing but a pretty girl ever made that happen in quite the same way.

  “Now, John.” She looked around the room, then grabbed the bourbon bottle by the neck and led him to the bedroom. “In there, on the bed.”

  “Beg your pardon?” he said, eyes wide.

  “I need to drizzle some of this on your . . . wound. Okay?”

  “No need to waste good bourbon.”

  “Plenty more where that came from, Mr. Slocum. Now, please lie back on the bed.”

  “Miss Garfield,”

  She gave him a stern look.

  “I mean, Ginny, I—”

  She backed him to the bed and stood before him, hands on her hips. “That gun belt is in the way, John Slocum. I can’t get at what I need to.”

  They stood that way, very close, her breasts touching his chest through the soft, shiny fabric of her dress. He looked down at her and knew she had to be one of the prettiest girls he’d seen in a long time, and up this close, she was even more flawless. And she smelled like spring wildflowers—lavender maybe. And in the middle of a Bismarck winter.

  He felt her fingers tugging at his gun belt buckle. He helped, their eyes not leaving each other’s. He held out the gun belt to his left, laid it down on the floor.

  She gently pushed against his chest. He let himself fall backward onto the bed—and what a comfortable bed it was. Beat the hell out of the stable. She stood above him, hands on her hips, and that damn smile.

  Now he was pretty sure he knew where this situation was headed, and he didn’t mind in the least. She seemed ideal in a variety of ways—pretty, healthy, wealthy, and a sharp little thing, too (hat pins and poker-playing abilities aside), but she was a little vexing. He couldn’t take the notion that she was hiding a whole lot of something. What it was, he hadn’t even the first clue. But at the moment, she wasn’t giving him a whole lot of chance to mull it over further.

  She pushed a towel under his side, then gingerly poured bourbon onto the tiny puckered hole. It stung for a fraction of a moment, then felt fine. She held the bottle up and peered close to the wound, concern wrinkling her brow. Slocum took the bottle from her hand and propped himself up on an elbow. He swallowed back a leisurely couple of jolts. “You should be a nurse, Ginny. You have a fine bedside manner.”

  She smiled up at him, a mischievous arch to her eyebrows. “Who says I’m not? I’m not satisfied yet with the job.”

  She unfastened the top few buttons of his fly and eased the waistband of his denims down to expose more of his side. Then she took the bottle from him and began to drizzle more of the whiskey on his side.

  “I think you about got it,” said Slocum, still propped on his elbow.

  “No, no I don’t believe so.” Without looking at him, she gently pushed against his chest and he lay flat again. Then he felt her hands working the rest of his fly and a gasp from her as she freed him. He was already there, full-masted and tight-to-the-hide. He swore he heard her whisper, “Oh my word,” and he closed his eyes, smiling despite himself.

  He heard a slight rustling, then a gurgling sound, then a gentle clunk as if she’d set the bourbon bottle down on the floor. He wanted to look at the proceedings, but didn’t want to interrupt her, lest she grow self-conscious.

  Then he was surprised by the sudden touch of something right on the very tip of his member. Something moist that parted and slipped down over it, numbing it within seconds and wettin
g it at the same time. He looked then, and saw her staring up at him, kneeling before him, her shoulders bare, and her mouth wrapped around him, and what felt like bourbon slowly drizzling out of her mouth onto the length of him. And it felt amazing. He collapsed flat on the bed again. His breath stuttered, then leaked out of him as if he’d been deflated.

  Soon, she began to work him up and down, slowly at first, and even through the slight numbness he felt the edges of her teeth graze him. She paused, explored him all around with her searching tongue, then continued faster. She did the same down lower on his shaft, then beneath, where she cupped and kissed him slowly, then trailed back up to the tip. She opened her mouth and let go of him for a moment, but he guessed she might work her way upward—which she did.

  Gentle kisses trailed up from his root, zigzagging, and pausing near his hat pin puncture, where she ever so gently licked and kissed him in the general region. He didn’t even flinch. Her hair was no longer piled on her head but loose. He knew because he felt it tickling him as she worked her way up his body.

  Then she made her way upward to his chest, neck, chin, then mouth, and he could smell the musky bourbon of her breath.

  As she lay on top of him, he felt her entire body, every hill and valley. He felt her pert, full breasts squash flat against him, felt her heart hammering in her smooth-skinned chest. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly to him, felt her legs part and he slipped in between them, her warmth and wetness inviting. She raised her hips up, up just high enough, wiggled them, and then he felt one hand reach down, grip him, and guide him in.

  She slid down the length of him slowly, her breath draining out of her. On his face it felt like a warm breeze on a hot summer day. She sat up, fully impaled on him, and only then did he look at her. Her long tresses hung silky and luminescent in the dimmed lamp glow of the room.

  She was careful not to let her leg rub against his side, and for that he was grateful—it was still a mite tender. She rode him gently but firmly, clasping him tight with each rise up and down, as if massaging him with unseen hands. Her eyes were half-lidded, and her hair bounced on her firm breasts and pert nipples.

  Slocum could resist no longer and gently caressed them, thumbing the scarlet nibs until they were like pebbles under his hands. She moaned soft noises in the back of her throat, and he pushed his palms against her breasts, gently massaging in a circular motion, and her riding became more strident.

  Then she did a strange thing—she just stopped, stared at him as if she’d just remembered something going on in the next room, and smiled. She raised herself up, and without rising fully off him, she lifted one slender leg, placed the knee, and did the same with her other leg until she was facing away from him.

  Slocum grabbed her perfect hips, sandwiching that pert backside between his hands, and scooched backward to the middle of the bed. And tried to accommodate her by kneeling, but she was having none of it. She gently but firmly eased him back down and resumed her ride, this time facing away from him. He watched the long, muscled plane of her back arch, traced the valley of her spine up to where it disappeared beneath her long hair. She leaned back until she was almost laid out on top of him, her arms planted on either side of his chest, her hair partially in his face, but he didn’t care. He massaged her breasts, inducing more moans until it seemed she couldn’t stand it. She rose up again, only to keep going, and planted herself on all fours before him. This time he sat up, managed to slide his legs out from under hers, and knelt behind her.

  He gripped her about the waist, slid one hand across her belly, and massaged her just where they met. She cried out as he set up a rhythm that would brook no more changes in the program. And judging from the enthusiastic response he received, she didn’t want it any other way.

  For long minutes they worked together, harder and faster, sustaining an intensity and rhythm that he’d not experienced in a long time. She was a vigorous partner, and he worked to match her enthusiasm stroke for stroke. Soon, though, they both sensed something in the other—a tightening and urgent heightening of pleasure that was undeniable.

  They both quickened their paces and, trembling, released a pent-up urgency that held them atop the crest of their sweat-laden wave but a few breathless moments before succumbing to near exhaustion.

  She sagged against him, and he to her. She offered a quiet sigh, the only sound other than their heavy breathing.

  Twenty minutes later found them both sitting up in bed, silver trays balanced on their knees, and each hungrily slicing into steaks, potatoes, salads, and vegetables, which were still surprisingly warm—and cooked, in Slocum’s estimation, to perfection.

  After a few minutes he noticed she had stopped eating and was staring at him. He paused, his mouth full of delicious steak. “What’s wrong?”

  She smiled, ran a hand through her hair, and rested an elbow on her knee. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a man eat. I mean, really eat. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  He felt a little self-conscious. He knew he had decent manners, but the notion of a woman sitting there watching him eat made him feel a little odd. “How long have you been watching me anyway?” he said, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin.

  “Just a minute. I’m stuffed, but you should keep on going. I’m serious, there’s plenty more.”

  “More of what?” he smirked. It turned into a smile when he heard her throaty laugh.

  “You, John Slocum, are a rogue. You have nearly tuckered me out, truth be told.”

  “Nearly?” he said, pouring himself another sip of bourbon.

  She set her tray on the bedside table. “Nearly, sir. But not wholly. Not yet.” She laid a hand on his belly, then it disappeared beneath the sheets, and within seconds the sheets rose.

  “Care for dessert?” she said.

  He set his own dishes on the floor and said, “I do believe I could nibble on a little something.”

  Slocum awoke early the next morning, light angling in through a crack in the drawn drapes, his head throbbing lightly. But what woke him were a couple of short cries of shock.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, oh . . . oh my God!”

  He sat up, wondering what in the hell he was in the midst of, fragments of the previous evening coming back to him. Despite his pulsing temples, he recalled it all with a growing grin. “Ginny? What’s wrong?”

  She was seated at the little mirror-backed table where ladies put on their face, staring into the mirror with a look of mortified horror on her pretty face. She had her hands on her ears and turned to him as he came up behind her. “John,” she said, “when we . . . you know, were . . . enjoying ourselves, did you happen to notice if I was wearing . . . anything?”

  He put a hand on her shoulder, smoothed her soft hair, and admired her bare naked reflection in the mirror. “Girl, as I recall, you weren’t wearing a thing but a smile.”

  Her consternation broke down for a moment, and a small smile lit her pretty face. “Mighty big talk, Mr. Slocum.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Not at all.” Her smile faded. “But John, I need you to think back. Do you remember me wearing both earrings back here last night? I have to know.” She held up one dangling, diamond-laden earring. “They’re my grandmother’s and they’ve been in the Garfield family for a long, long time.”

  He whistled long and low. “Let’s see now.” He sat on the bed, doing his best to recall what had happened before the most interesting events of the prior evening began. “No, no, I definitely remember you wearing, well, at least one earring. And the necklace and that thing on your wrist, as well.”

  He looked at her when she didn’t respond—and saw tears welling in her eyes. He reached for his denims. “You search here, I’ll go out in the street, trace our steps back to where the scuffle took place. It’s early enough that not many folks will have been up, and
I don’t think we were due to get any more snow. If you find it, sit tight. I’ll be back. If I find it, I’ll be back soon. Okay?” He smiled and paused, tugging on his shirt as she hugged him.

  “Thank you, John. I know it’s silly, but—”

  “No need to explain. If it means that much to you, it’s worth putting in a little effort over, right?”

  She nodded and tugged on a dressing gown, already turning from him to rummage in her belongings once again.

  He strapped on his guns and headed out of the bedroom to the front room.

  “You will be back, John?”

  He nodded. “Count on it. With any luck, maybe we can have a bit of celebratory breakfast.” He left the room, tugged on his hat, and headed down the stairs. He half expected to see the fat man at the desk, but he must have been off duty. A middle-aged woman with a bitter, pruned face looked up from a novel she was reading and eyed him. Might as well have a little fun, he thought, and stepped over to the desk. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m a friend of Miss Garfield. I’ll be back in a little while. Need to take in the air.”

  He walked toward the door, waiting to hear her make some remark about the impropriety of it all, but when he glanced back as he opened the door, she was still reading her book. However, this time there was a smile on her face. Maybe it’s a romantic tale, he thought.

  As he let his eyes adjust to the bright sun reflecting off the snow, he noticed with relief that he’d been correct—no new snow had fallen overnight. He also didn’t see any other folks out and about yet. Good. He bent low and studied the sidewalk, then the ground all the way to the spot where they’d tussled. It was easy to locate as the footprints, the scuffed gravel and dirt, and the churned clots of snow were all plainly visible.

  He bent low and only then did he recall being stuck with her hat pin the evening before. He reached under his coat, probed the spot on his side, and was relieved to find it barely hurt at all. Just a harmless puncture, he thought. Surely if something had been damaged inside, he’d know by now. He vowed, however, to steer clear of hat-wearing women in distress.