Nevada Nemesis Page 11

  “I haven’t danced with anyone all evening,” Cathy said. “I was hoping to spend it with you.”

  “I’m here now.” Fargo could tell she was not going to go anywhere so he unfurled and stretched.

  “I should be mad at what you did to my brother but Granny says you weren’t to blame. That it was her granddaughter who goaded him on and caused all the trouble.” Cathy touched his cheek. “Thank you for not hurting him.”

  “He thinks he’s in love.”

  “I know.” Cathy scowled. “I’ve tried to talk some sense into him but he refuses to listen.” She gazed toward the front of the trading post where a few of the dancers were visible. “Jared is planning to ask that trollop to be his wife sometime tonight, if you can believe it.”

  “I wouldn’t worry she’ll say yes,” Fargo said.

  “All that worries me is how crushed he will be when she turns him down,” Cathy mentioned. “As brothers go, I have no complaints, and it would sadden me to see him sad.”

  “He’s a grown man,” Fargo said, “and some lessons are only learned the hard way.”

  “Is that the voice of experience speaking?”

  Fargo fished in his saddlebag and held out his whiskey bottle. “Care for a swig?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m not as fond of seeing double as you are.”

  Fargo put the bottle back.

  Tilting her face to the sparkling stars, Cathy took a much deeper breath than she needed to, so that her large breasts swelled to even larger proportions. “It’s a gorgeous night for a walk, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Was that a hint?” Fargo had to grin. The varied and devious ploys women used were unending.

  “If you care to construe it as one,” Cathy parried, and offered her arm. “No true gentleman would refuse.”

  “I’m no gentleman.” But Fargo took her arm anyway and they strolled past the fence and gate and off across the grassy field, away from the music and everyone else and possible prying eyes.

  “Exactly what you are, I haven’t quite made up my mind yet,” Cathy commented. “But you’re not as mean as you make yourself out to be.”

  “You couldn’t convince Peter Sloane of that.”

  “He thinks you’re the devil incarnate,” Cathy said. “He asked Granny to run you off but she refused. My woman’s intuition tells me she’s fond of you, for some strange reason.” At that Cathy laughed.

  Fargo liked how her blond hair shimmered in the moonlight. He also liked the saucy sway to her hips. She was enormously attractive, this farmer’s daughter. Below his belt stirring began.

  “Melissa is another story,” Cathy was saying. “She hates you. I saw it in her eyes. Don’t turn your back on her or you’ll regret it.”

  Stands of trees appeared, islands in the night.

  “How long do you intend to stay with the wagon train?” Cathy inquired.

  “Are you asking? Or is Sloane?”

  “How did you know? He came up to me a while ago and asked me and I answered him truthfully and said I have no idea,” Cathy related. “But I would like to, for my own sake, not for his peace of mind.”

  “I’ll be with you as long as it takes,” Fargo said.

  “As long as what takes, exactly?” When he didn’t answer, Cathy said, “At moments like these I wonder if my trust in you is misplaced. It’s dangerous for a woman to think with her heart instead of her head.”

  Fargo glanced over his shoulder but did not see anyone trailing them. Ahead and to the right a hundred yards were the boulders screening Thorn, if he was still there. Fargo bore to the left.

  “I doubt anyone will miss me,” Cathy informed him. “The women are all having fun and the men are well on their way to being tipsy. By midnight I daresay most will be drunk.” She giggled. “I can’t wait to see their expressions tomorrow when their heads are splitting.”

  “I know how that feels,” Fargo remarked.

  Cathy studied him a moment. “Do you have any idea what to expect on the next leg of our journey?”

  “More of what you’ve been through already.”

  “Mrs. Jurgensen and Mrs. Nickelby are worried, and I can’t say as I blame them. The unknown is always scary.”

  “You’ll reach California,” Fargo said, his conscience pricking him. Who was he to say any of them would?

  They strolled past several more stands, Cathy deep in thought. The canyon walls echoed to the revelry, and even though they were fifty yards from the trading post, it seemed as if they were right there among them.

  Jurgensen began playing a slow song, and Cathy stopped and turned and held out her arms. “Care to dance?”

  “Here?” Fargo would rather do what they came to do, but he indulged her whim. Holding her at arm’s length, as was the fashion, he slowly whirled her in wide circles, her dress switching in the high grass.

  Closing her eyes, Cathy drifted with the music. “My mother taught me to dance when I was seven, and we would go to church socials and the like. But I rarely get to indulge these days.”

  Fargo couldn’t remember the last time he was at a dance.

  “It’s too bad moments like these can’t last forever. I am enjoying myself immensely, Mr. Flint.”

  “Good.” Fargo would enjoy himself more doing something else but he kept on spinning her until the song ended.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Cathy said, sliding her elbow through his. “Where to now?”

  Fargo made for the farthest group of cottonwoods. It would afford the most privacy.

  Leaning against him, Cathy sighed. “Have you ever met someone you thought would make a wonderful wife but destiny conspired to separate you?”

  Where that came from, Fargo could only guess. He changed the subject. “From here on out always keep a gun handy. The Paiutes might try to take a woman next time.”

  “You’re worried about me? I’m touched.”

  “I just don’t want to wear my horse out going after you.”

  “Sure, Mr. Flint. Sure.”

  A few moments more and they were in the cottonwoods, in darkest shadow. Fargo stopped and pressed against her and cupped her bottom. “Did you say something about touching?” he grinned.

  Her mouth rose to his in a lingering, exquisite kiss. “Mmmmmm,” she cooed when she pulled back for breath. “That was nice. Very nice. Something tells me you’ve had a lot of practice. Is that true?”

  There were questions no man should answer and that was one. Fargo kissed her again, sliding his hands up her back and across her thighs to her flat belly. She gave a sharp intake of breath when he cupped her breasts. With his right hand he aroused her while with his left he undid buttons and pried at stays. Soon her wonderful globes burst free. They were huge. Pendulous melons tipped by nipples as hard as nails. He inhaled one and rimmed it with his tongue and she arched her back and gasped.

  “Yes! I like that!”

  So did Fargo. He squeezed one breast and then the other. He nuzzled his face between them and licked her silken smooth skin in small swirls until he was at her nipple again.

  Cathy delicately ran a fingernail along his neck to the underside of his chin and tugged at his beard.

  Kissing her throat and then her shoulder, Fargo remembered to stay vigilant. He scanned the trees and the undergrowth but did not see anyone.

  “Is something wrong?” Cathy asked.

  Fargo placed his hands on her slim waist, lifted her off the ground, and backed her against a tree. Sculpting his hard body to hers, he hitched at her dress until he had it high enough to explore her undergarments. His mouth strayed to her neck and he nibbled and licked.

  Meanwhile Cathy’s left hand fell to his gun belt. She loosened it enough for it to slide down his legs. It ended up around Fargo’s ankles. He tried to kick free but the belt snagged on his spurs. Bending, he slid it off, then straightened and stiffened in pleasure when her hand enfolded his pole. In an instant he was hard and erect.

  “My, my,” Cathy grinned. “You remi
nd me of that stallion our neighbor had. I can’t wait to have you inside me.”

  Farm girls, experience had taught Fargo, were marvelously frank about their physical needs, and she was no exception.

  Cathy rubbed him up and down, saying, “I should warn you. I bite when I’m excited.”

  “Do tell.” Fargo had been with more women than most. Tall, short, blondes, brunettes, redheads. Young and not-so-young. City girls and their country cousins. Indian maidens and white doves. They could all be broken down into two groups: those who lay there like bumps on a log and let the man do all the work, and those who let themselves be caught up in the carnal pleasure of things.

  Cathy Fox was one of the latter. Her lips and hands were everywhere, touching, stroking, inciting ripples of delight. She freed his manhood and rubbed and squeezed until he thought he would explode, then she cupped him, lower down, taxing his self-control to the limit.

  Suddenly sliding his arm under her legs, Fargo lowered her to the ground. The high grass hid them. He brushed a finger across her slit and her nails dug deep into his shoulders. She was wet for him, her thighs drenched. With his middle finger he lightly flicked her swollen knob.

  “Ohhhhhh, Flint,” Cathy breathed, and pressed her face against his shoulder to smother more moans.

  Fargo moved his finger over her. That was all it took for her to clamp her thighs to his hand and grind against him in unrestrained release. She came, and came again, in great shudders, but she did not cry out. Only after she crested did she whisper, “I never—I never—”

  Kissing her, Fargo tasted blood. She had bit her lip so hard, she broke the skin. That did not stop her from mashing her mouth against his and trying to suck his tongue down her throat. Her nails pricked the nape of his neck, her hips were in constant motion.

  How long they lay there, Fargo couldn’t rightly say. They were both hot and panting when he finally spread her legs wide and rubbed his member where she wanted it most. She surprised him by reaching down and slowly feeding him into her until, with a quick grind of her hips, the deed was done. He was buried to the hilt.

  For a while they lay still, only their mouths and tongues working. Then Fargo’s hands rose to her breasts and hers lowered to hold him in her palms. He felt the pressure of her ankles against the small of his back.

  “Now,” Cathy said. “Please now.”

  It would not take much to send Fargo over the edge. When Cathy squeezed him with her inner walls, the inevitable took place. Gripping her hips, he rammed into her. It triggered her own release. Her body came off the ground and she met each thrust with a matching one of her own. Harder and harder and faster and faster they went. Then, suddenly clinging to his chest, Cathy moaned and gushed.

  At length they lay side by side, breathing heavily, Fargo grateful for the breeze. He closed his eyes, content to stay there a while, but the soft scrape of a shoe or boot instantly galvanized him into sitting up.

  Off in the dark someone or something moved.

  Bending, Fargo whispered in Cathy’s ear, “We have company. Don’t make a sound.” Hastily dressing, he strapped on his gun belt, palmed his Colt, and slunk toward the edge of the stand.

  Cathy had rearranged her dress and was right behind him, buttoning the last of her buttons.

  Once more a shoe scuffed the ground, and a figure took shape. A figure Fargo recognized. He let her come within a dozen paces, then demanded, “What are you doing out here?”

  Granny Barnes gave a start. Her hand swooped to the Walker Colt but she didn’t draw it. “Mr. Flint!” she exclaimed. “You about scared me out of a year’s growth, and at my age I can’t afford to lose a single day!”

  Fargo strode out from under the trees. “You haven’t answered me.”

  “I’m looking for that darned granddaughter of mine.” Granny saw Cathy, and grinned. “Well, well. You must be made of honey, the way the ladies have a hankering for your company.”

  “What’s this about Melissa?” Cathy asked.

  “She went off with your brother a while ago and they haven’t come back yet,” Granny said.

  “Uh oh,” Cathy said.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Fox?”

  Before another word could be said, the canyon rocked to the blast of gunfire.

  15

  Fargo reached the front of the trading post first, his Colt in hand, expecting to find the emigrants under attack. Instead, he beheld Peter Sloane and Nickelby and several others firing into the air. They were drunk. So silly with drink, they giggled and tittered and clapped one another on the back at their antics.

  “There’s the North Star!” Sloane bawled. “I’ll try for it.” And so saying, he took aim and fired, then cackled uproariously. “Dang me! Look, boys. It’s still there. I must have missed.”

  “My turn,” Nickelby said, and aimed at another twinkling celestial light. His rifle spat smoke and lead and he laughed and smacked his leg. “I hope I used enough powder!”

  Fargo slid the Colt into his holster. The music had stopped and some of the women were standing about chatting. Others were ushering children to their wagons to tuck them in.

  Cathy caught up, nearly breathless. “Is that all it is? Those fools and their silly antics?”

  Granny came puffing out of the dark. For her age she was spry. “Look at them!” she snapped. “For two bits I’d take a bullwhip to the whole bunch. They can hardly stand up straight, they’ve drunk so much.”

  Peter Sloane heard her and tottered toward them. “There you are! Care to shoot a star out of the sky, Granny?”

  “I’d like to break that rifle over your head,” she rejoined. “Stop all that racket this instant.”

  “We’re just having a little fun,” Sloane protested. “Where’s the harm?”

  “Who knows who might be out there listening?” Granny said.

  Pouting like a small boy whose wrist had been slapped for misbehaving, Sloane declared, “It’s not as if the Paiutes don’t know where to find you. Or are you thinking of someone else?”

  “Out here one never knows,” Granny said, and gestured. “It’s plain you don’t give a fig about your wives and kids.”

  “Now see here,” Sloane said.

  “No, you see here,” Granny barked, poking him. “Your shindig is over as of this minute. Off to bed with the lot of you, and I don’t want to hear another peep until tomorrow.”

  Sloane was inclined to argue but his wife came over and took him by the arm. “Mrs. Barnes is right, dear. We’d better turn in if we want to get an early start in the morning.”

  Several of the men grumbled but when Sloane staggered toward his wagon, the rest took that as their cue to do likewise.

  “Now that the ruckus is over, I’m off to bed too,” Granny said. “I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  That left Fargo and Cathy. She glanced toward Sarah’s wagon as if to assure herself Sarah wasn’t watching, then rose on the tips of her toes and pecked him on the cheek. “Any time you have a hankering,” she huskily whispered, and pranced off humming.

  Fargo had not seen any sign of Jared. He debated hunting for him but decided not to, not after Jared’s antics earlier. Soon he was spread out on his blankets, reflecting on all that had happened since he hooked up with the wagon train. While he had uncovered a few pieces to the puzzle, others remained elusive.

  That was Fargo’s last thought before drifting off. A light sleeper, he awoke twice. Once a vague sound was to blame. He sat up, his hand drifting to the Henry, but the sound wasn’t repeated. The second time was shortly before dawn. The sky was brightening when the Ovaro nickered and Fargo rolled onto his side to find out why and found himself staring into the barrel of a rifle held by Thorn.

  “You’re not the only one good at sneaking up on folks.”

  Shorty came from behind him. “We’re supposed to take you alive, Flint. Which is too bad. If it were up to me, you’d never have woke up.”

  “But we have to do as we’re told
,” said a third man, and from over by the fence came Swink. Careful not to step between Fargo and Thorn’s rifle, he took the Henry and the Colt and gave them to Shorty. “Surprised to see me?”

  “Not really,” Fargo said. He had suspected all along that Swink was working with the outlaws.

  Swink beckoned to someone else. “We have him. It was easier than we thought it would be.”

  “Aren’t they all?” said one of four men who came out of the dark. His voice pegged him as Dixon. With him were Preston and two others Fargo never saw before. But that wasn’t all. On their heels padded four swarthy, muscular figures, three of whom moved with the fluid grace of cats. The fourth had a pronounced limp and a perpetual sneer. Streaks of war paint lent dashes of color.

  “Lame Bear,” Fargo said.

  The Paiute hefted the Sharps Granny had given him in exchange for Mandy. “You hear of me, eh?” He swelled with pride.

  “I hear you steal little girls. It takes a brave warrior to do that.”

  Lame Bear growled and swept the Sharps over his head to bash him in the face but Swink intervened.

  “None of that, damn your red hide! Not if you ever want more ammunition.” To Fargo Swink said, “On your feet. Put your hands behind your back.”

  Fargo still had his Arkansas Toothpick in an ankle sheath on his right leg, but he would be riddled before he got it out. Slowly standing, he did as he had been instructed, and Dixon bound his wrists with a short piece of rope.

  “We came prepared,” Swink bragged.

  Shorty stepped up close and gouged the Henry into Fargo’s spine. “Not a peep, now, you hear? The sun will be up in a while and we have a surprise to spring.”

  Fargo was prodded to the corner of the trading post, then had to watch in helpless anger as the others spread out and silently slunk toward the prairie schooners. He yearned to shout a warning, to do something.

  As if he sensed as much, Shorty warned, “Behave yourself, Flint. We can’t have you spoiling things.”