Beyond Squaw Creek

the dresser.

Suds moved in miniature glaciers down her arms and thighs, winking in the wan lantern light. She narrowed her eyes accusingly. “What’re you saying?”

Fargo took a long pull from the bottle then threw his hat on a chair. Unbuttoning his wet shirt, he turned toward Valeria Howard, regarding her coolly, with open appraisal, as he shrugged out of the shirt and threw it onto the floor near the small, cast-iron wood stove in the corner.

She said nothing but only let her eyes flick across his broad chest and muscular arms as he peeled the wet underwear top off his shoulders, then kicked out of his boots and unbuttoned his buckskin breeches.

As he kicked out of the breeches and long underwear bottoms, and stepped toward her naked, her gaze dropped to his jutting member. Her green eyes flickered. A deep flush rose from nearly as far down as her breasts to spread into her cheeks and temples.

Her eyes stayed on his shaft until, grabbing the soap out of her hand, he stepped around behind her, slid his arms under hers, took the soap-slick orbs in his hands, and began to gently massage them, running the soap cake over each.

As he did, she threw her head back, sighing. “Father would have you shot for this,” she breathed, pressing her lips against his shoulder.

Fargo continued working the soap into her breasts, lowering his hands occasionally to caress her taut, smooth belly, dipping as far down as her love nest to evoke a soft groan of pleasure. “And you?”

“And me?”

She placed a hand on his face, kissed him, nibbling his lips, then turned her body toward his, splashing water up around her knees in the copper tub.

“And me?”

It was barely a whisper this time as, slowly bending her knees and running her hands and lips down his body, she kissed his throat, chest, and belly. She cupped his balls in her slender hands, then slid her fingers up around the base of his bobbing member. Her breasts rising and falling heavily, she lowered her head to his shaft, closing her mouth over the engorged head.

A muscle twitched in Fargo’s cheek as the hot moistness of her mouth slid gradually down his organ, her tongue flicking, caressing, probing, tickling.

When she’d taken as much of him as she could, she lifted coy green eyes to his, then slowly slid her lips back up toward the blood-engorged head. Fargo ground his feet into the puncheons and rested his hands in her hair.

She pulled her face away from his organ for just a moment, studying it dreamily, before lowering her head once again. She took him as far down as she could, then pulled back quickly, bathing nearly his entire length in hot saliva before lowering her head once more, faster this time…faster…until she was groaning, grunting, sighing as she ran her lips up and down his iron-hard shaft, head bobbing, her hands pumping when she wasn’t sucking and running her lips around the head or down the side, flicking her ravenous, snakelike tongue.

“Christ…” Fargo groaned, fisting his hands in her hair, spreading his feet, and throwing his head back on his shoulders.

She half choked and groaned with excitement, her body tensing, cupping his balls in her hands as she worked even faster, harder.

When he was on the verge of explosion, he pushed her head away.

She groaned a protest, reaching for him.

“Time we did this good and proper,” the Trailsman grunted.

Her wanton, little-girl eyes stayed with his rock-hard shaft as he lifted her up out of the tub, draped a towel around her shoulders, quickly dried her, then laid her back on the bed, displaying her before him like an exquisite, ivory-handled knife.

She groaned and panted like a she-lion, writhing around on the bed, reaching for him, spreading her legs and bending her knees, hair falling free from the makeshift knot atop her head.

“Hold on,” he said, tossing the towel on the floor near the door, then retrieving his holstered Colt and cartridge belt.

“Skye!” she pleaded, reaching for his erection as he draped the belt around the bedpost nearest the door.

She twisted around on the bed, closing her fingers around his cock. He turned her onto her back as he knelt on the bed, then ran a hand between her spread legs, sliding his fingers through the silky, red down.

As wet as a cat in a rain barrel.

“Skye…!”

The Trailsman mounted her, slid his hands beneath her butt cheeks and pulled her up toward him as he guided his shaft toward the glistening red fur between her legs.

“Ah, Gawd!” she cried as he slid inside, thrusting his powerful hips toward hers and spreading her knees like two halves of split birch.

They started off slowly, in and out, in and out, the bed creaking gently, the girl’s spread legs bouncing, knees bending. After a couple of minutes, Fargo rose up on his arms and began increasing the beat, enjoying the sweet misery, the torture of holding himself back while the blood surged and raged in his loins.

He’d worked himself into a steady rhythm, when his keen ears detected a noise from the stairs.

He slowed the pace, lifted his head.

“No,” she protested, placing her hands on his face and nibbling his lips hungrily. “Don’t slow down…oh, please!…Don’t slow down!”

Another sound rose from the stairs—the squawk of a loose step. Fargo continued thrusting. Valeria Howard groaned and shook her head like a mounted mare as the Trailsman regained his former rhythm, bucking against her wildly.

The girl sobbed and clawed at his shoulders, and the bed pitched like a rowboat on a storm-tossed sea.

Lightning flashed in the window. Rain tapped on the roof.

In the hall, a man laughed cunningly beneath the roar of a near thunderclap, and the thud of approaching boots grew and quickened—the stout, heavy-heeled boots of a mule skinner.

“Oh, Skye, oh, Skye!” Valeria Howard shrieked, digging her fingers into his shoulders and throwing her head back on the pillow.

Fargo gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the corn-shuck mattress as he drove his ripe cock in and out of the girl’s hot, sopping core. Beyond the door, the thunder of running boots stopped suddenly. A man’s guffaw echoed around the hall.

“Skye, don’t stop!” the girl shrieked.

Fargo continued thrusting and the girl continued groaning.

Thunder clapped and lightning flashed.

Supporting himself on his right arm, Fargo thrust his left hand at the bedpost, grabbed his Colt from his holster, and clicked the hammer back.

There was a huge explosion, as though the storm was suddenly inside the room. The door burst open to slam against the wall, slivers from the casing flying in all directions.

The French mule skinner’s big frame filled the doorway, eyes glinting in the lamplight, frizzy red hair spilling down around his shoulders. Laughing wildly and shuttling his head from right to left, looking around the room, he swung his big six-shooter toward Fargo.

Fargo gave one final thrust between Valeria Howard’s legs, and aimed the Colt at the doorway.

The forty-four roared and bucked in his hand. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Valeria Howard drove the back of her head into the pillow, arched her back, and howled as seed jettisoned from the Trailsman’s heaving loins.

At the same time, the French freighter yowled like a lightning-struck bull and flew back out of the room and into the hall, triggering a bullet into the ceiling. He bounced off a wall and hit the floor, the report of his own impact and another thunderclap rocking the entire building.

“Oh, my God!” Valeria Howard bellowed, locking her ankles behind the Trailsman’s back. “Oh, my Gawwwwwwd!”