went. Apart from that door the walls were plain, unbroken expanses. No windows, grills, or ornaments intruded on the flat planes of pale green paint. All the light in the room came from a hanging doodad—it wasn’t fancy enough to be called a chandelier so Longarm didn’t know what the right name for it ought to be—of coal oil lamps suspended from the ceiling. With no windows, not even a transom over the door to open, Longarm suspected the place could get smoky enough to choke a trout when all the city fathers fired up their cigars.
On the other hand, he had to admire their thinking on the subject. Because while it might get thick inside, there wasn’t any way anybody outside the room could be listening in on what was going on once that one-and-only door was closed. The walls and the door alike were stout and as good as soundproof, he’d noticed.
About the time Lucy Watson was finishing her meal—a pot roast so tender it almost fell apart from a sharp glance, accompanied by spuds and gravy and plenty of soft, yeasty rolls to mop up the excess gravy—the waiter came in again. “What will you folks have for dessert?” he asked.
“Nothin’ for me, thanks. I’m full to the top,” Longarm answered.
“Miss Lucy?”
“Not for me either, Ben. But perhaps the gentleman would like a brandy now?” She inclined her head in Longarm’s direction.
“No brandy, but a touch o’ rye might be nice,” Longarm conceded.
“Rye, Ben, and bring the brandy anyway in case the marshal changes his mind. Oh, and is the coffee hot?”
“I’ll fetch a fresh pot just in case,” the waiter offered.
“Thank you And Ben. Please make sure no one disturbs us. The marshal and I have to talk about business. Never mind what it is he has to ask me in here. This is all supposed to be entirely secret.”
“You can count on me, Miss Lucy. You know I won’t say anything to anybody.”
“I know that, Ben. Thank you.”
There was a distinct sparkle in the pretty lady’s eyes after the waiter left. Longarm looked at her and lifted an eyebrow.
Lucy looked back at him. And burst into laughter. “Ben is a dear. He’s also a gossip. If I hadn’t given him something to tattle on he would have invented something worse. So now he can make up a dandy yarn indeed. Before midnight tonight half the citizens of Picketwire will know that there is a U.S. marshal in town and that he’s asking questions that probably have to do with the United States mail. By morning they probably will have worked out if it’s mail theft you are investigating or mail fraud.”
“We take on theft from the mails, but the Post Office has its own crowd to look into mail fraud.”
Lucy smiled. “Do the good people of Picketwire know that?”
“I see what you mean. I …” He was interrupted by Ben’s return. The waiter placed a heavy tray on the sideboard, quiCKly piled the soiled dishes onto the old coffee tray, and then silently disappeared taking the old tray with him.
Lucy winked at Longarm. And got up to cross the room—it required only a few strides—to draw a stout bolt shut. No one could enter the private room now unless she or Longarm first chose to unbolt the door.
“Mind if I ask what it is we’re doin’ here? Assuming, that is, that it ain’t mail thievery you got in mind.”
Lucy’s smile was enigmatic. She came around the table to stand beside him, plucked the stub of his cheroot from his fingers, and tossed it into a nearby cuspidor.
She took the hand that had held the cigar and placed it onto one warm, soft breast. “Dessert,” she told him softly.
Longarm decided he might be able to handle dessert this evening after all.
Chapter 8
Lucy Watson turned out to be one of those women who look better naked than clothed, a trait that is far from being universal. Her flesh was a pale, velvet texture, very white and very soft. Her breasts were plump and fluid to the touch, shifting without substance when he squeezed them. By the time Lucy was thirty they would sag, and when she was forty they would hang to her waist. But right now they were fine, the skin containing them so tender it was near transparent. Blue veins showed through like so much subsurface lace, and her nipples were sharp-tipped and prominent.
Her waist was as small as if she had whalebone stays built in instead of ribs, and her hips swelled quite fetchingly beneath that tiny waist span. She was a trifle long-waisted, though, her legs shapely but just the least bit short for her height.
She had delicate feet. And possibly the longest toes Longarm had ever seen on any human creature, though there’d been a hawk or eagle now and then with longer talons. Maybe.
It was her mouth, though, that interested him right at the moment. And what she was wanting to do with it.
“Lie down, please,” she whispered.
He sent a skeptical look around the small room. He sure as hell didn’t recall seeing any beds nearby.
“On the table. It’s all right. It’s strong enough.”
That sounded like the voice of experience, but it wasn’t something a gentleman could ask a lady about. Longarm decided to take her word for it and did as she asked, kind of helped along by the fact that the girl was kissing him and guiding him in the direction she wanted him to go while already busy with the necessary buttons and buckles of his clothes.
He let her put him onto his back on the table—she was right, it was plenty strong enough—and failed to object while she sucked on his tongue and finished unbuttoning his britches.
“Oh, my,” she whispered when she felt what was behind that open fly. “I knew you were handsome, dear. I didn’t know you’re hung like a stud horse besides.” She laughed. “It just goes to show the rewards a girl can get
