The Omaha Palace Read online

  Trouble’s Comin’

  The chief of police extended his hand, and Clint shook it.

  “Have a seat.”

  Clint sat down. The chief seated himself behind his desk. “I’d like to thank you for coming in.”

  “No problem. What’s on your mind, Chief?”

  “Well,” the chief said, sitting back in his chair, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave Omaha.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You must admit, you have a reputation for attracting trouble.”

  “I’m not here looking for trouble,” Clint said.

  “I didn’t say you were,” the chief said. “But it’s going to find you, isn’t it?”

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE OMAHA PALACE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / July 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58881-9

  JOVE®.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  More All-Action Westerns from Berkley

  Copyright Page

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  ONE

  Ashley Burgoyne stared down at the naked man in her bed. He was in his twenties, muscular, handsome, well enough endowed to satisfy her—if he knew what to do with his asserts, which he didn’t. And she didn’t have the time to teach him. She had spent years as a whore, catering to the whims and wants of men. Now that she was older—not that thirty-five was old—and had her own place, she was determined that men were going to service her, not the other way around.

  She reached down and took hold of his rigid cock. The skin was smooth and hot, he had good girth and fairly good length, but a man was more than a hard cock. This one had no idea what to do with his hands or his mouth. He was all cock. Stick it in and pump away, that was his style—and that just would not do.

  “Just lie still,” she said to him. “I can see I’m going to have to do all the work.”

  “But Ashley,” he said, “I’ll do whatever you want—”

  “Maybe,” she said, “but right now I just want you to lie still, precious, all right?”

  She had never been a large woman, but she was a bit fleshier in her breasts and thighs these days. Despite that, she was still a beautiful, desirable woman, which was how she got young men like this one to submit to her.

  She straddled him, reached down to hold his cock in place. Then slid down on him, taking him inside her hot, wet pussy. He gasped as her heat enveloped him, and he reached for her, but she slapped his hands away. He’d only annoy her.

  “Lie still!” she said.

  He did as he was told, and she began to ride him, taking her time, finding the right rhythm, okay, okay, there it was, that was good, but then after a while it wasn’t getting any better. If he’d known how to move with her, it would have helped, but he was hopeless in that department.

  She tried a bit longer, but she was getting only a certain degree of pleasure from this, and no more.

  Finally, she dismounted
and said to him, “That’s it. Get dressed and get out.”

  “But Ash—”

  “Just go . . .” She groped for his name but it didn’t come. “Just go!”

  Sadly, with a sullen look on his handsome young face, he got dressed and left her room. Ashley had no choice but to lie back and do the job herself. She reached down between her legs and began to touch, to rub, all the while thinking of Clint Adams . . .

  * * *

  Of course, she had been thinking about Clint Adams for days.

  She had opened her saloon and gaming palace in Omaha, Nebraska, only about a week ago. The attendance since then had already indicated that Ashley’s Palace was going to be a success, but she still had some ideas.

  One idea was the huge opening party she was going to throw in a week. Even though she was already open, that would be the Grand Opening. She had invited every local dignitary she could think of, including the mayor. But the guest she wanted was Clint Adams, and any friends that he might be able to bring along, such as Bat Masterson or Luke Short.

  So she’d sent telegrams all over the West, hoping that one would find him. Denver, Saint Louis, San Francisco, anyplace she thought he might be. Even to Labyrinth, Texas, which he had mentioned to her one time.

  She wondered, if he came, what he would think of her after ten years. When she looked in the mirror, she liked what she saw, but would he? The Ashley—although that wasn’t her name back then—that he remembered would be twenty-five years old.

  She put the finishing touches on her black hair and stood up from her dressing table. She was wearing a lavender dress, low cut to show an appealing expanse of cleavage and shoulder. She knew when she walked through her place that she drew looks from the men, even with younger girls working the floor.

  She went to the door and opened it, feeling only as slight afterglow from servicing herself after her young man had flunked his test. Maybe she’d find another man tonight, perhaps someone older who knew how to please a woman.

  That damn Clint Adams, though—ten years ago he had pretty much ruined her for any other man. Since then she’d never found anyone who made her feel the way he did.

  TWO

  Clint Adams rode into Omaha, Nebraska, three days before the big opening party at Ashley’s Palace. Of course, he didn’t know at the time there was to be a party. He was simply responding—as he often did—to a telegram asking him for help. This telegram was signed with a name he hadn’t seen or heard in over ten years. The telegram had found him in Labyrinth, Texas. He had just ridden in from a few weeks on the road, so he packed some clean clothes and rode out again the very next day.

  South Texas to Omaha, Nebraska, was a haul, and when he rode in, both he and Eclipse were dragging their asses. Council Bluffs, Iowa, was right across the river, and it had long been the jumping-off place for wagon trains traveling west. The first thing they had to do was dismantle the wagons so they’d float across the river to Omaha. There they’d have to stay awhile, get their wagons reassembled, get outfitted for the trip west. Omaha was a much larger city than it had been the last time he was there.

  The hotel he had stayed in then was gone. The livery stable was still there, though, so he stopped there first. He didn’t recall if it was the same man or not, but this one seemed sufficiently impressed with Eclipse, and Clint felt confident leaving the horse in the man’s care.

  “You know a good hotel?”

  “We got lots of hotels, mister,” the older man said. “Cheap or expensive?”

  “Somewhere in the middle,” Clint said.

  “Try the Hotel Aksarben,” the man said.

  “Aksarben?” Clint asked. “What kind of name is that?”

  The man laughed and said, “That’s how you say Nebraska backwards.”

  “I guess that’s kind of clever, then,” Clint said.

  He took his saddlebags and rifle and walked to the Hotel Aksarben. Along the way he got a look at the outside of Ashley’s Palace. It had two stories, peaks on it like a palace, and a big balcony, the kind that could accommodate a lot of girls waving at cowpokes as they rode by.

  The Palace was closed at that time of day, so he turned and went into the hotel to get himself a room.

  * * *

  By the time he had checked in, cleaned up in his own personal washroom, donned a fresh shirt, and gone back down to the lobby, the front doors of the Palace had opened.

  The Aksarben was a modern hotel, with indoor facilities, but they hadn’t gotten around to putting bathtubs in the rooms. There were, however, tubs available on the first floor. Clint would keep that in mind for later.

  He stepped out of the hotel and looked across at the open doors of the Palace. The front windows were ornate, difficult to see through. He had a feeling that was deliberate. He crossed the street and walked up to the batwing doors, looked inside. There was a partition just inside, kept a body from seeing the interior. When you entered, you would have to walk around the partition to finally enter the saloon. The owner certainly didn’t want anyone getting anything for free, and that included a look inside.

  He stepped through the door, and around the partition. The inside was cavernous with high, chandeliered ceilings. The bar wasn’t the longest he’d ever seen, but it was close.

  There were no people except for those who worked there. A bartender was behind the bar, working on it with a rag. There was another man taking chairs down off the tables and setting them on the floor.

  Clint walked to the bar, saw that the bartender was a man in his thirties, stood as comfortable as could be behind a bar.

  “Kinda early,” the bartender said.

  “Doors are open.”

  “They are, and that’s a fact.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I smell coffee. That’ll do for starters.”

  “Comin’ up,” the bartender said, “and no charge.”

  “Why would that be?” Clint asked.

  The bartender put a mug of coffee on the bar and shrugged. “Just too damn early to do business.”

  Clint stepped to the bar and picked up the hot coffee mug.

  “Much obliged,” he said.

  “Just ride in?” the bartender asked.

  “That’s right.” He sipped the coffee. Good and strong. He was able to tell that by the smell.

  “Passin’ through?” The bartender sipped his own coffee. The other man was making noise, dropping the chairs on the floor.

  “Not really,” Clint said. “I’m here looking for a friend.”

  “What’s the fella’s name?”

  “Not a fella,” Clint said. “A girl. Her name is—well, it was—well, her telegram said that her name is Ashley.”

  “Ashley?” the barman asked. “Our Ashley?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  “Well,” the man said, “she don’t usually come down before the afternoon, but I could send Leo there upstairs to tell ’er you’re here. What’s your name?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  “Adams?” the man asked, surprised. “You mean . . . the Gunsmith?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “that’s what I mean.”

  “Well,” the man said, “my name’s Ed Wright. Happy to meet you.”

  They shook hands.

  “Leo,” Wright shouted, “leave those chairs. Go up to Miss Ashley’s room and tell her Clint Adams is here.”

  Leo, a young man in his twenties, looked over at Wright and said, “She don’t like bein’ woke up.”

  “Just do it!” Wright yelled.

  Leo slammed one more chair down on the floor, then trudged upstairs to deliver the news.

  THREE

  Ashley actually was asleep, having chosen the night before to sleep alone. When Leo pounded on her door, she came a
wake with a start.

  “Who is it?” she demanded.

  “Leo, Miss Ashley.” The young man’s tone was tremulous, as he was expecting her to react angrily.

  “Whatayou want?”

  “It ain’t my fault,” Leo said. “Ed sent me up to tell ya somethin’.”

  “Damn it,” she said, “hold on.”

  She stood up, grabbed a nearby robe, put it on, and belted it as she walked to the door. She opened the door a crack so she could see Leo, but he could not see her face, which she had not had time to make up yet.

  “What is it, Leo?” she said.

  “Ed says there’s a fella here to see you.”

  “What fellow?”

  “Name of . . . Allan? I think?” Leo scrunched up his face. “I disremember . . .”

  “Allan?”

  “Clint Allan?”

  “Do you mean Clint Adams?”

  Leo’s face brightened.

  “That’s it!”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she demanded. “Tell Ed to give him a drink—or coffee—or something. I’ll be right down. I’ve got to get dressed!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Leo said. “Whatever you say.”

  “Go!”

  Leo, who was hopelessly in love with Ashley, was not happy about her attitude toward this fella Adams.

  Wait.

  Clint . . . Adams?

  That name was familiar . . .

  * * *

  “Here’s Leo,” Wright said. “You tell ’er?”

  “Yes, sir,” Leo said. “She says to give him a drink or somethin’, and she’ll be down soon.”

  “There ya go,” Wright said to Clint. “I guess maybe she’s the right Ashley?”

  “I guess she is,” Clint said.

  Warm that coffee up for ya?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Clint said.

  * * *

  Ashley spent time picking out the right dress, getting her face just right. She was nervous because she hadn’t seen Clint Adams in ten years. What was he going to think when he saw her?

  She worked on her face with powder, and rouge, and red lipstick. Then she tried on half a dozen dresses before she found the right one. She usually didn’t wear her gowns this early in the day, but she was hoping to hide the years beneath makeup and silk.