Under a Turquoise Sky Page 11

  “Well, I—”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Clint Adams,” she said. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  “Well then…yes.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Joe was wearing a man’s shirt and baggy pants, which did nothing to hide the fullness of her body. But Clint’s breath still caught when she allowed him to peel the clothing from her. Her breasts were pale, almost pear-shaped, with large nipples and wide areole. He slid his hands beneath her so that her breasts were resting in his palms, and loved the feel of their weight. Holding them like that, he thumbed her nipples until she bit her lips and squirmed.

  Her face and hands were dark from the sun, but the rest of her body was pale white—so pale that he could see the light blue veins beneath the surface. He pulled off her boots, and then discarded her pants, made her turn so he could run his hands over her buttocks and kiss them, run his tongue up along the crack between her cheeks. She squirmed some more, worked her way over to the bed and crawled onto it. He had no choice but to follow, but she used her feet and her legs to fend him off.

  “Oh no,” she said, “you can’t come into this bed with your clothes on. Take ’em off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was still wearing his gun. There was no bedpost to hang the holster from, so he hung it on the back of a wooden chair and pulled the chair closer to the bed. She watched him do this without saying a word.

  The gun within easy reach, he then removed the rest of his clothes and got into the bed with her.

  Ed Martin traced his forefinger along one of the proposed shafts, explaining his thinking to George Markstein, who listened intently.

  “…then we’d hook up to this one here and cut across this way. By doing that, we come at the deposit from both directions.”

  “Well,” Markstein said as Martin stood straight up, “you certainly know your business.”

  “I’ve been in these mountains for a long time, first looking for gold, then finding copper and mining it and, finally, finding the turquoise. I worked for a long time with Joe and with her father, Walter.”

  “So you must have a good relationship with her,” Markstein said.

  Ed Martin looked at Markstein quickly, to see if he meant anything by that, and was apparently satisfied that he did not.

  “Walter was like a father to me, and Joe’s like a sister. Did you mean what you said about selling her that one percent?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s only fair we be full partners,” Markstein said. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  For a moment Markstein wondered if Martin wanted to make an offer on the one percent. If he was like family to Joe and her father, why did he not own even that much of it?

  “I like what I see here,” Markstein said, turning his attention back to the blueprints, “but I have some questions and some suggestions about—well, here, let me show you…”

  Carl Breckens was sitting alone on one side of the fire while Kemp and Drake were seated across from him. Neither man had said very much to him since he’d shot down Aaron Edwards in cold blood.

  Breckens was angry, and his anger was directed at everyone but himself. It was everyone else’s fault that the dandy from the East wasn’t dead yet, not his. When he got to the camp, he was going to make sure the job got done once and for all, even if it meant shooting Clint Adams in the back first to get him out of the way.

  “You boys take the watch,” he said.

  “Watch for what?” Kemp asked. “They’re ahead of us, right?”

  “Maybe,” Breckens said. “Edwards wasn’t sure which way they’d gone, and I don’t want any surprises during the night. So one of you take first watch and the other one take the last watch. Wake me at first light.”

  “You gonna take the watch at first light?” Drake asked.

  “No,” Breckens said, “we’re gonna get goin’ at first light. You got a problem with that?”

  “Nope,” Drake said.

  “You?”

  “No,” Kemp said, “no problem.”

  “Then get to it,” Breckens said, tossing the remnants of his coffee into the fire. “I’m gonna turn in.”

  Chance couldn’t help but wonder where Clint Adams was at that moment and what he was doing. But he wasn’t about to just stay in camp and wait for him to come back. He decided to go over to Isaac Brown’s tent and have a drink. If the fire went out while he was gone, he’d get it going again.

  He thought about what Clint Adams had said about Joe English. Fact was, Chance had often thought about Joe English the way a man naturally thinks about an attractive woman, but Joe had never given him any indication that she had those thoughts about him, or any man. She was always all businesswoman when he was around—and, he was willing to bet, when he was not around.

  When he got to the tent, there were a few spots open at the small bar, and all of the tables were filled with miners. He got the bartender’s attention and called him over.

  “Hey, Al, gimme a beer, will ya?”

  “Comin’ up, Buck.”

  The bartender set a full mug in front of him and said, “Saw the Gunsmith in here earlier with Joe English. That is, I heard he was the Gunsmith. You rode in with him. That true?”

  “It’s true, all right.”

  “What’s he doin’ around here?”

  “Keepin’ Joe’s new partner alive.”

  “That ain’t gonna make Ed Martin too happy.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was real mad at Hector for not sellin’ his part of the mine to him,” Al said.

  “Did Ed have that kind of money?”

  “No,” the bartender said, “that’s why Hector wouldn’t sell it to him. Ed wanted to work out a deal but Hector wanted his money all at one time.”

  “And Joe had that kind of money?”

  “In a bank in Denver,” Al said. “Left to her by her old man—and who knew he had that kind of cash tucked away?”

  This sounded like something Clint Adams should be made aware of.

  “You see where Adams went?” he asked.

  “Yeah, he left with Joe awhile ago.”

  “With Joe?”

  The bartender nodded, then raised his eyebrows.

  “You don’t suppose him and Joe—Naw, probably not. Although that would make him one lucky man.”

  “Yep,” Chance said, “it sure would.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Joe English’s bed was not very wide, and the mattress was not very thick. It was, however, sturdy, built from good wood, and was able to withstand the punishment it was getting from the two people who were rolling around—jumping around—on it.

  Joe had obviously been without sex even longer than she had indicated. The first time Clint slid his hand down between her legs, finding her wet and ready, she reacted as if she’d been struck by lightning. Her body spasmed and she bit her lip to keep from screaming. Perversely—if it was perverse to give pleasure—he continued to stroke her there, dipping his fingers into her. She shuddered again and said, “Oh, wait…”

  He withdrew his hand, leaned over and kissed one of her big breasts, biting the nipple.

  “Oh my God,” she said, putting her hands up over her head, “it’s been so long since a man’s touched me…but I don’t think a man has ever touched me like that!”

  “Well,” he said, kissing her mouth, “if you liked that, you’re going to love this.”

  He kissed her again, then kissed her chin, her throat, her breasts, and kept working his way down, pausing briefly at her belly button and then continuing on down. When he reached the apex between her legs, she gasped but spread her legs wider for him. He kissed the soft flesh of her inner thighs first, working his way closer and closer until finally he touched the tip of his tongue to her wetness. She gasped and jerked, reached for his head and held it as he licked her and sucked her, eventually sliding one finger inside of her and gliding it
in and out as he sucked.

  He felt her going tense beneath him, moaning out loud, felt her tossing her head from side to side, and, finally, the hands that had been holding him there began to try to pull him away, but he wouldn’t have it. He continued to work on her with his tongue and his mouth until she made a high keening, wailing sound, and went incredibly taut beneath him. For a moment it all stopped and he wondered if something had gone wrong, but then she made a sound—almost as if she were shushing him—and her body let go. She began to buck, pushing him away, and then kicking again with her feet to get him away from her. She curled up at the head of the bed and glared at him with flashing eyes.

  “What the hell,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Are you crazy?” she asked. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Joe—”

  “That felt too damn good, Clint Adams!” she told him. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

  “Well, you said you hadn’t had sex in a long time.”

  “I’ve never had it like this,” she said. “I mean—I’m experienced, but not that experienced. But this…”

  He got to his knees on the bed, his erection jutting out at her. Her eyes went to it and widened.

  “And you haven’t even done anything to me with that yet!” she said, almost accusingly.

  “Joe,” he said, “I can leave if you want.”

  “No!” she snapped, almost desperately. “No, I don’t want you to go. I just—I just don’t want to have a heart attack.”

  She looked so comical, all curled up, her hair tossed all over, her eyes glowing hotly, that he had to start laughing. After a moment she started laughing, too, and slowly unfurled until she was stretched out on the bed again.

  “Okay,” she said, “okay, I’m ready…”

  “For what?” he asked.

  She pointed at his rigid penis and said, “For that!”

  “You seem to know your business, too,” Ed Martin said to George Markstein.

  They had walked away from the desk with the blueprints, and Martin had poured them each a glass of whiskey.

  “I’m very familiar with mining,” he said, “I just haven’t mined turquoise before.”

  “How did you find out about us?” Martin asked.

  “This came across my desk.” He reached in his pocket and took out the stone he’d brought with him from home.

  Martin took it from him and examined it. “It’s rough, spiderweb turquoise,” he said.

  “From this mine?”

  “I’m sure,” Martin said. “A lot of the other outfits are still mining copper, and the ones that are mining turquoise are not getting the quality that we’re getting.”

  He handed the stone back.

  “How’d you find out it came from us?”

  “I did my research, Mr. Martin.”

  “Ed, please,” Martin said. “If we’re gonna be working together, you’ll have to call me Ed.”

  “And I’m George.”

  Ed Martin raised his glass to George Markstein in a toast, and Markstein followed.

  “I think we’re gonna make a lot of money together, George,” he said, clinking his glass against the other man’s.

  Markstein said, “I certainly hope so, Ed.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Wait, wait,” Joe said as Clint positioned himself between her legs.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Joe,” he said.

  She reached down between her legs and took hold of Clint’s penis. She pulled it toward her, touched the spongy head of it to her wet pussy. She rubbed it up and down her wet lips, thoroughly wetting the tip.

  “Okay,” she said, when they were both wet, “now…”

  He let her do it. She pulled him to her, then into her. Once the head of his cock entered her, he pushed the rest of the way, but slowly. She gasped, closed her eyes, bit her lip, and eventually he was completely inside her.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  She smiled with her eyes still closed and said, “Perfect.”

  He lowered himself over her, then began to move in and out slowly. At the same time he leaned down and licked her breasts, kissed her neck and then her lips. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and she accepted it, sucking it in, letting it out. It was as if he was fucking her with his cock and his tongue at the same time.

  “Oooh, oh,” she said, lifting her knees, spreading her legs as he began to move faster.

  Slowly, her legs came down and wrapped around his waist and she began moving in unison with him, matching his tempo. They both began to grunt and they were really testing just how sturdy the wooden bed frame was.

  “Ooh, God, faster, Clint, harder…” she implored him.

  She was a tall, full-bodied woman and he didn’t have to be afraid that he might break her. It was her abstinence from sex that had been causing her to seem almost fragile, but he could feel the power in her legs and thighs, and since she was asking him for more he decided to give it to her. In fact, he decided to lose himself in what he was doing and stop worrying about the effect it might have on her.

  He decided to plow her good.

  Chance had another beer, decided Clint wasn’t coming back to the tent any time soon, and probably wasn’t going to come back to camp, either.

  “Another one?” the bartender asked him.

  “Naw,” Chance said. “I’m gonna turn in.”

  “See ya tomorrow, or you headin’ back?”

  “I should be around.”

  Chance waved and left the tent without talking to anyone else. The miners knew him, but he wasn’t one of them.

  He rebuilt the fire when he got back to the clearing, rolled himself up in his blanket and went to sleep. If Clint came back, it’d probably wake him. If not, he’d sleep ’til about first light, when he usually woke up. The information he had for Clint could wait until then.

  Markstein finished his whiskey with Ed Martin and then took his leave to go back to his quarters. The bed was not wide, but he could see it had been well built by someone who knew what he was doing when it came to wood. The thin mattress had been covered with a clean sheet and blanket.

  He sat on the bed and took out his gun, which he had not had to use yet. He looked at it, then set it down by the bed. He hoped he’d never have to use it on a man because he had lied to Clint. He didn’t know if he’d be able to shoot a man, even to save his own life. It was just not something he had ever considered before.

  He was bone tired, but he thought that he had accomplished a lot. He’d made a good impression, he thought, on both Joe English and Ed Martin, and maybe on some of the miners. It was enough for one day, and he had many days ahead of him.

  He undressed, keeping on his long johns because it was colder in the mountains than it had been in Kingman, and then covered himself with the sheet and blanket.

  After spending the previous night on the hard ground, the bed was so comfortable he fell asleep immediately.

  After George Markstein left the office, Ed Martin had another glass of whiskey. He didn’t like Markstein, or Clint Adams, because both men had made an impression on Joe. Martin still seethed inside about not having had enough money to buy out Hector Ramirez. The old Mex had insisted on all the money up front and refused to broker some kind of deal with Martin. Now here was George Markstein, willing to sell one percent of the mine, actually willing to practically give away controlling interest in the name of being “fair.”

  He poured himself another whiskey, thinking that was no way to run a business.

  Clint slid his hands beneath Joe’s buttocks. It was a position he particularly liked, and he thought she’d like it, too. But once he got her butt lifted off the bed and starting slamming into her, he didn’t care what she liked anymore. He started going at her like a thirsty man to a water hole. She began to pant and grunt, the bed began to make little jumps off the floor, and he started making his own sounds as he felt his release building up in him.

 
Joe felt her nails rake his back as she was also coming close to going over the edge, but at that moment finding her orgasm was her own problem. He was in the throes of his own and when he exploded, he let loose a bellow that, later, he was convinced had to have been heard throughout the camp.

  Especially since it was followed closely by her scream…

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Joe English’s bed was not wide enough or long enough to share with Clint for the night, so as she lay sleeping—hopefully as exhausted as he was—he dressed and left her small cabin.

  He walked through the camp in the middle of the night, alert for any movements. But there weren’t any. The miners had all bedded down, and Isaac Brown’s tent was dark. By the light of the moon he found his way to the clearing he was sharing with Buck Chance. As he was unrolling his bedroll, Chance roused, tipped his hat up from over his eyes and said, “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

  “I’m bushed,” Clint said. “All I want to do is sleep.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “What’s that mean?” Clint asked, getting comfortable.

  “The bartender told me you left with Joe English,” Chance said. “I can guess the rest.”

  “Well…she invited me. Said she needed a man who had no connections up here, and would soon be gone.”

  “Well,” Chance said, “far as I can see that describes you to a T.”

  “Yup.” Clint folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I got some information for you.”

  “Can it wait until morning?”

  “Sure,” Chance said, pushing his hat back down over his eyes. “I’ll get the coffee started.”

  “Good,” Clint said. “Night.”

  “Good night, Clint…you lucky sonofabitch.”

  Clint woke to the smell of coffee—good, strong trail coffee. He rolled out of his blanket and got to his feet, then staggered to the fire on unsteady legs.