over him for practically nothing.
Aaron considered running away. He’d always known that some day Noah would no longer tolerate him. Would deal him with a very un-brotherly severity. Had Noah reached that point? Had Noah changed from his reluctant protector into his disgusted enemy? To run away . . . but where? And with what money? He’d be back begging at Noah’s door in no time. Always the same for Aaron—the boy-man who’d never grown up. The boy-man who’d always live at the mercy of his brother.
What did Noah want tonight?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
He walked down the stairs on legs that were now shaking. Patting his hair into place. Daubing at his sweaty face with a handkerchief. His stomach was sour, mean. Damn Noah anyway. Just once Aaron would like to put his brother through this kind of drill and see how
Noah was standing in the center of his study when Aaron crossed the threshold. His smile was almost a smirk. “You’re a very sociable fellow, brother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m told you followed Mr. Fargo when he left here.”
“That damned Manuel. Why can’t he mind his own business?”
“He’s minding
“I wanted to invite him to a party I’m having in town tomorrow night. On the Fourth of July.”
“He accepted your invitation, of course.”
“He said he’d think it over.”
Noah didn’t speak for a time. He just stood there looking at his brother. Aaron was surprised to find an expression of real hurt on his brother’s face. “I’ve taken care of you all of my life, brother. Every single day. I’ve bought you out of jail, I’ve paid off your gambling debts, I tried to wean you off the bottle by paying exorbitant rates at those hospitals you went to. And you’ve never shown me the slightest gratitude. Never a thank you. Never an offer to help me when I was having problems. Never even a friendly word.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a sensitive flower,” Aaron said, and instantly knew that he’d picked the wrong time for sarcasm.
Noah’s face tightened. The expression of hurt feelings shifted now into the more familiar one of cold contempt. “Luckily for me, I don’t give a damn anymore, Aaron. I don’t feel any obligation to protect you—especially since you’re doing everything you can to get me into trouble.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that you know damned well what Fargo was doing here. He wanted to know about the people who’ve gone missing around here. You’re just like my stepson. You’d both be happy to bring me down. And you see Fargo as the man to do it.”
There was a five-step difference separating the two men. Noah crossed it in swift, purposeful steps. Then, without feinting, without warning, he drove his fist so hard into Aaron’s stomach that the man was driven to his knees.
“Now, brother,” Noah said, “you’re going to tell me everything you’ve been able to figure out about my little island. I want to know exactly what Fargo knows.”
14
By the time he reached town, Fargo saw that some of the revelers had already taken to the main street. American flags, bunting, and banners festooned the street. A band consisting of an accordion, trombone, and fiddle played some pretty terrible dance music while drunks of both sexes careened and caromed through big, dramatic steps that looked more like wrestling than dancing.
Light was provided by a small bonfire overseen by a night deputy and his shotgun. You could have fun but not
Just after dawn, this street would be jammed with wagons, buckboards, buggies, and men, women, and children of every kind. The state had entered the Union in 1836 and was proud of it.
Fargo went straight to his hotel. In the morning, he’d contact Liz Turner and share with her what he’d learned from Aaron.
He was one step into his room when a young, seductive female voice said, “No need to turn the lamp up, Mr. Fargo. I’m still on duty so this will have to be fast, I’m afraid.”
Now, how could you turn that down?
Even as he was dropping his trousers, she leaned forward and guided him to the bed with his rigid shaft, which she promptly began to stroke as if it were holy.
When he got on the bed and straddled her, she began to rub his massive tool against her breasts, her nipples coming erect instantly as her hips began to writhe and her throat fill with moans.
Only when her entire body was wracked with desire did she move his unbending rod down to the dark beauty between her legs. Once again, she teased both of them by running the tip of him up and down the lips of her sex. He began to moan as much as she did, sliding his huge arms under her small body and easing himself into her.
She’d wanted it fast and she got it fast, the two of them caught up as one in the play of their bodies. He surprised her by moving them both to the edge of the bed where she sat on his lap and began to bounce up and down on his shaft, biting his shoulder hard to suppress that animal scream yearning for freedom. But such a scream would only get her in trouble. Somebody might report her to the manager.
Fargo wanted to do his own screaming when he poured himself into her, her relentless grinding of his shaft causing him to have a moment that felt a little bit like dying—everything stopped—there was only the searing pleasure of their lust and the exquisite tautness of her buttocks in his hands.
As she was shuddering and falling into him, he blessed her nipples with a quick kiss, and she shuddered all the more.
Fargo had to give them credit. They’d worked out a pretty effective plan.
He woke to the sound of the revelers, wondering what time it was. The drinkers and the dancers were going to be completely spent by dawn. They’d spend the Fourth tending to hangovers instead of getting into the fun.
Darkness. The faint squeak of a doorknob in need of oil as it was turned to the right. Fargo slid his hand to the floor, where he kept his Colt. He filled his hand with it as he came up off the bed, waiting for his intruder.
A silhouette of a man in the tallest western hat Fargo had ever seen. Too bad the man wasn’t as slick at his hat. He came creeping in on cowboy boots with all the grace of an elephant turned ballerina. Always in sight thanks to the flickering sconce in the hall.
The intruder’s eyes obviously hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet.
Fargo said, “Hand the gun over, mister.”
Fargo stepped out of the gloom and slapped the barrel of his Colt across the face of the startled, blinking man.
Since he resented being wakened from a sound sleep, Fargo swatted the man around for a time, hitting him on the jaw, knocking the wind out of him with a punch delivered straight to his sternum. He finished by taking the man’s fancy new six-shooter from him.
He was just busy enough that his mind didn’t quite register the other sound in the room. By the time he started to turn, it was too late.
A man was climbing through the window where there was a fire escape that ran from ground to roof. The man had had no problem.
“Couple of ways we can do this, Fargo. Your way or my way.” He pointed a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun at Fargo. “Toss your gun onto the bed.”
Fargo recognized the voice of the white man who’d been with the Mexican yesterday morning. They’d taken
