Trail to Shasta (9781101622049) (13 page)

FORTY-FOUR

They fell onto the flimsy bed, naked and pressed together. He kissed her neck and shoulders, the freckles on the slopes of her breasts, and then turned his attention to her nipples.

“Down, down,” she said, putting her hands on his head. “You know what I've been waiting for ever since that night.”

He did know because, truth be told, he was waiting for the same thing—to taste her.

He got down between her legs, nestled in that warm, fragrant bush, and pushed his tongue through the tangle. When he touched her, she gasped and clamped her thighs tightly around his head. He began to lap at her then, and she put her hands on his head and writhed beneath him.

“Oh, yes, oh God, yes . . .” she gasped.

He licked her, kissed, sucked her, shook his head, trying to give her as many different kinds of pleasure he could think of. She lifted her knees up, releasing his head momentarily, her feet up in the air as he continued to administer to her. Finally, her entire body shook and he thought she was going to scream and give them away, only she didn't. The scream seemed to catch in her throat as her entire body went taut, and then she exploded beneath him into a flurry of activity. She wrapped his hair into her fingers, drummed on his back with her heels, and rode the waves until her muscles finally relaxed . . .

That was when he withdrew his face from her crotch, mounted her, and drove his hard cock into her, causing her to gasp again, with her eyes wide.

“Oh . . . my. . . God . . .” she gasped as he began to move in and out of her, slowly at first, then faster and faster until, eyes closed, he was straining to find his own release . . .

* * * 

“Oh God,” she said again, moments later.

“I know,” he said. “I'm surprised this bed survived.”

She rolled into him and asked anxiously, “You're not going to leave tomorrow, are you?”

“Well, tomorrow is the wedding, so no, not tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”

“What about finding out who sent those men after us? Won't that take some time?”

“It might,” Clint said. “Ed's giving it some thought now. He should know who hates him that much, though. I think he'll figure it out.”

“And then what?”

“And then it'll be up to him.”

She moved her hand down over his belly until she was holding his penis in her hand.

“Oh, no,” he said, slapping her hand away, “somebody's going to be knocking on my door any minute announcing supper.”

“Oh God,” she said, springing to her feet. “I can't be here when they do.” She started to get dressed.

“Where does Bride think you are?”

“Just taking a walk, giving her time to talk with her groom-to-be and get acquainted.”

“So she's going to go through with the wedding?”

“Of course,” Bridget said, pulling on her trousers. “We did not come all this way, and go through all we went through—all you went through—not to get married.”

“Well,” Clint said, “good for Ed.”

She rushed to the bed and kissed him quickly.

“I will see you at supper.”

She hurried to the door, opened it a crack, peered out, and darted away, closing the door behind her.

Clint sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and took a deep breath. Before he could do anything else, there was a knock on the door.

“Supper, Mr. Adams!” a voice called.

“Be right there!”

FORTY-FIVE

To the delight of Bridget and Bride, supper was thick steaks. Neither girl had grown tired of beef during their trip, and O'Neil was serving the best beef he could find.

They ate in another cabin O'Neil had apparently built for that purpose. Seated at a long wooden table were O'Neil, Bridget, Bride, Clint, and O'Neil's foreman, Bill Tracy. O'Neil's cook was an old chuck wagon cook who found the job with the gold miner when the trail drives petered out.

Ed sat at the head of the table with Clint on his right. Bridget and Bride were seated together at the other end, and it looked to Clint like Bill Tracy was taking an interest in Bridget. And she was returning it. She was glowing, and showing some of the freckles on her chest, which Tracy was drinking in.

“Tracy's a good man,” O'Neil said. “Bridget could do worse.”

“A lot worse,” Clint said. “And she's seen some of the worst on this trip.”

O'Neil nodded.

“Speaking of the worst,” Clint said, “you figure out who sent those jaspers after us?”

“I can only come up with one name,” O'Neil said. “Jock Dewey.”

“Who's he?”

“My biggest competitor,” O'Neil said. “He's been tryin' to absorb my operation for a couple of years. And he hates me.”

“Enough to try and kill two innocent girls?”

“If he thought it would make me easy pickin's, yeah,” O'Neil said. “Probably figures I'd fall apart if my bride-to-be got killed.”

“So how do you want to play it?”

“Well,” O'Neil said, “I can talk to the sheriff and we can go see him. You're welcome to come along, if you want.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Of course, we can't prove it was him,” O'Neil said, “and he ain't gonna admit it.”

“Maybe he will,” Clint said, “if he thinks one if his men gave him up.”

“But . . . they both got killed,” O'Neil said. “I thought they didn't have time to say a word.”

Clint put a thick piece of steak into his mouth, smiled at his friend, and said, “Dewey doesn't know that, does he?”

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