Fargo was no such thing but she could believe what she wanted. “Are you done or do you want to find flowers to pick?”
Rachel started to laugh, then caught herself. “Oh, my. When you’re in the mood, you don’t like being put off, do you?”
“I’m male,” Fargo said.
“Thank goodness for that,” Rachel responded, and rising on her toes, she pressed her mouth to his. Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue delicately rimmed his lips. Suddenly pulling back, she grinned and impishly asked, “How was that?”
“It was a start.”
“Your turn,” Rachel teased.
Wrapping an arm around her slender waist, Fargo pulled her close. He kissed her hard and covered her right breast with his hand. She stiffened and gasped but slowly relaxed as he squeezed and kneaded. When he pinched her nipple through her dress, she uttered a low moan.
This time when they parted Rachel was breathing heavily and her voice was husky with craving.
“That was awful nice.”
“It gets nicer.”
They embraced again. His tongue and hers danced a velvet waltz. When he cupped both breasts at once, her breath turned to molten fire and she began to grind her hips against his.
Fargo was growing hot, himself. Hot and hard; his manhood was as rigid as steel. Her rubbing and her cooing and her soft, sweet mouth stoked his inner fire for long, pleasurable minutes, until finally he couldn’t stand to stand there any longer. Suddenly dipping at the knees, he scooped her into his arms and carefully lowered her onto her back.
“Be gentle, remember?”
Fargo had half a mind to rip her dress off and ram into her like a bull elk in rut. But he slowly sank down and eased over her. They had an hour, he reckoned, before the settlers would start to turn in for the night and her parents would start looking for her. He might as well make the most of every minute.
The world receded. The night sounds dimmed. There was Fargo and the winsome woman under him and the trees around them and the grass they lay on, and that was all. Fargo explored her luscious body with his lips and his fingers, undoing buttons and stays where needed, and hiked the hem of her dress to get at her inner charms.
For Rachel’s part, she wasn’t content to lie there and have him do all the exploring. She pushed his shirt up and loosened his pants and lightly ran her fingers around his manhood.
Taking a gamble, Fargo grasped her hand and boldly placed it on his pole. She gasped again, and her whole body become as if carved from stone. For a few seconds Fargo thought he had gone too far. Then Rachel looked down and commenced to run her hand the entire length of his manhood.
“Goodness. It’s so long and so hard.”
Fargo had to cough to say, “It’s supposed to be.” It was all he could do to keep from exploding.
“Do you ever wonder why men and women are so different? I mean, why did God give women holes and men things to stick in them? And why is it women have big bosoms but men—”
Fargo shut her up with another kiss. He sucked on her lower lip. He ran his tongue from her chin to her ear and sucked and nipped her earlobe. Rachel was sensitive there. Squirming, she dug her fingernails into his shoulders. His hand found her knee and he ran his palm along her inner thigh, savoring the satiny feel. The higher his hand rose, the hotter her skin became. He pried at her undergarments and his fingers brushed crinkly hair. A quick flick, and his forefinger was in her moist sheath.
“Ohhhhh.” Rachel threw back her head.
Fargo kissed her to silence her and she moaned into his mouth. He pumped his finger, causing her bottom to rise off the ground. Her legs widened and her ankles hooked behind his back.
The world receded even more. There was only pulsing pleasure that coursed through him as he aroused her to the heights of need. She cupped him, low down, and it was his turn to moan.
At last, the coupling. Fargo paced himself, rocking on his knees, each stroke as precise as a piston. He pumped and pumped and she thrust and thrust and they were panting into each other’s ears when she cried out and spurted. Her release triggered his. He rammed into her hard until he was spent, then collapsed on her twin pillows.
Fargo was on the cusp of slumber when his sluggish senses flared to sharp life. For a few moments he lay still, trying to figure out what had snapped him out of the well of inner darkness. A rustling sound gave him warning. It didn’t come from the trees above but from the nearby undergrowth. Rolling off Rachel, he started to pull himself together. He got his pants up and his belt hitched just as the vegetation parted, disgorging phantom forms. From the noise they made, and the way they moved, he could tell they weren’t Nez Perce.
A few more steps and they were close enough for Fargo to identify. Anger welled, and he balled his fists as the foremost, the largest of the three, bent toward them.
Heaving upward, Fargo planted his fist on Slag’s jaw. The blow rocked Slag onto his heels. The next moment Rinson sprang, seeking to grab Fargo’s wrists. A boot to the gut dissuaded him. Then it was Perkins, flourishing his long-bladed knife.
“Not that!” Rinson barked. “Gore wouldn’t want us to draw blood.”
Perkins glanced at him and swore.
It was the opening Fargo needed. He unleashed a right cross that spun Perkins around and caused him to trip over his own feet.
Rachel chose that instant to sit up, blurting, “What in the world is going on?” She realized others were there, and covering her breasts, shrieked fit to burst their eardrums.
“Oh, hell,” Rinson said.
Slag came in again, apparently determined to repay Fargo for earlier. His big fist swept at Fargo’s face, but Fargo ducked and retaliated with a boot to the knee that sparked a roar of rage and sent Slag tottering.
Yells pierced the night from the direction of the covered wagons.
Perkins had firmed his grip on his knife and was hefting it as if of a mind to disobey Rinson and use it anyway.
Rinson was in a crouch.
Slag had steadied himself for another try.
Fargo discouraged all three by drawing his Colt. “I don’t know what you peckerwoods are up to, but I’ll damn well blow a hole in the next idiot who tries anything.”
“I told you he was fast,” Rinson said.
“I could have cut him if you’d let me,” Perkins complained. “I could have gut him where he stood.”
Rachel slid next to Fargo’s legs and began frantically rearranging her clothes. “How dare you! What was the meaning of this?”
“You hush, girl,” Rinson said.
“If you wanted it so bad, you should have told me,” Perkins said, cupping himself. “I’d be glad to give you a poke.”
Slag simply glared.
Judging by the racket, half the settlers were crashing through the undergrowth. A few more moments and the clearing was hemmed by farmers and their wives. Victor Gore was with them.
“What is the meaning of this? What was that scream we heard?” Lester Winston and his wife pushed through. At the sight of Rachel, both stopped in shock. Then Lester solicitously helped his daughter to stand, saying, “Are you all right? Was that you we heard?”
“I’m fine, Pa,” Rachel declared. Now that she was dressed, she had regained her composure. Waving her hand at Rinson, Slag and Perkins, she said bitterly, “These three ruffians attacked Mr. Fargo.”
“Attacked, hell,” Rinson said. “We were defending your girl’s honor.” He turned to Victor Gore. “I noticed Fargo, here, was missing, so I asked around. One of the kids saw him and Miss Winston walk off together so we came looking for them.”
“And found them here, doing I don’t need to tell you what,” Perkins related with lecherous glee.
Gore said harshly, “That will be enough.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Perkins asked. “The scout and her came out here to fool around. I’m trying to be polite
