Bastard, Longarm thought. Miserable, back-shooting little son of a flea-bitten bitch.
Still, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have to worry about George again.
After another minute or so he lit a cheroot and let the flavor of the pale smoke soothe and mollify him. Then he went back to the card game and the inevitable excited questions from the young cowboys, all of whom wanted to be filled in on the case he was working on.
Chapter 22
Ah, those tits. Magnificent. Huge and soft and pale. Blue-veined and pink-tipped. And warm. Oh, yes, they were warm.
She bent low over him. Smiled. Used her hands to press her tits tight on either side of his stiff cock. Smiled even more as he began slowly stroking up and down, his erection sliding between the sweat-slick mounds. That was good, but it got even better when she dipped her head and opened her mouth so that at the end of each stroke he penetrated, just barely, between her moist and waiting lips.
She was something, this redhead. Her hair spilled in bright copper coils that framed perfect features.
He knew her from … he couldn’t remember. Her name was … dammit, he couldn’t bring that to mind either.
But she was beautiful. Big and buxom and as randy as a goat.
And those tits. Fantastic.
The redhead nibbled gently at the tip of his cock, then lifted her chin and smiled at him. She gave him a wink and opened her mouth to speak.
“Marshal. Marshal, sir? D’you want hot water to shave with this morning, sir?”
Longarm frowned. He opened his eyes and sent one peeved glare in the direction of the hotel room door, outside of which the young Jennison was hawking water, then another angry glance toward the front wall, where frost coated the wallpaper a dull and ugly white.
The room was frigid, dammit. His ears and the tip of his nose burned with cold despite the heavy blankets that were drawn high beneath his chin, and when he exhaled, his breath was clearly visible in the air. And that was indoors, dammit. He could just imagine what it must be like outside right now.
“Marshal, sir?”
Longarm sighed. “I hear you, son. Yeah, I’ll have some of that water. Just a minute.”
Longarm steeled himself against the chill that would envelop him as soon as he pushed the covers back—he’d been a helluva lot more comfortable while dreaming about that redhead—and forced himself to do what had to be done.
One nice thing, though. The hard-on that his dream created was no match for the shock of sudden cold that greeted him once he was out from under the blankets. By the time he got to the door to let the kid bring his shaving water in, the flagpole had subsided and Longarm no longer had to worry about embarrassing himself in that manner.
Longarm yawned and stood back while Jim Jennison Junior poured him a generous measure of steaming water. Then Longarm yawned again and reached first for the loose change he’d tossed onto the bedside table, and next for his strop and razor.
“Good morning, sir,” the boy said, accepting the nickel tip Longarm handed him.
“It’s mornin’ anyway,” Longarm reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t so damn sure about it being any sort of good.”
The boy grinned. “Hotcakes and ham for breakfast today, Marshal.”
“I can’t hardly wait,” Longarm groaned. He dipped his shaving brush into the hot water and began working up a soapy lather in his mug.
“Can I ask you something, Marshal?”
“Go ahead, son.” Longarm splashed some water onto his cheeks, enjoying the heat it imparted, and commenced lathering up.
“It’s about, you know, that poor woman Old Man Travis killed?”
“First off, Jim, that wasn’t just a whore that died, it was a girl. She had a family somewhere. Secondly, Mr. Travis wasn’t the one that killed her. He was already gone from home when she was taken there and murdered. So … what’s your question now?”
“I was just … I mean … she really was one of them … you know.”
“Whore? Yes, son, she was that.”
“She didn’t look … I mean, I seen her around town a couple times. On the days those women are allowed to shop. You know?”
Longarm nodded. He leaned close to the mirror hung on a carpet tack above the washstand, used his thumb to wipe away some excess lather, and lightly drew the edge of the razor over his flesh. He managed to bring away a swath of lather dotted with flecks of beard stubble. And no blood was left behind. So far so good.
“She was pretty,” Jim said.
“That she was, son.”
“And not so awful old.”
“Not much older than you,” Longarm agreed.
“Well, what I was wondering … was who killed her.”
