Two for Trouble Read online

  “You should stay here, Julie, so we can work together on finding him.”

  “I gotta go,” she said. “Gotta go.”

  She had the big Colt stuck awkwardly into her belt, and the other gun still in her left hand. With her right, she opened the door, and without another word, she stepped out and pulled the door closed behind her.

  He thought about going after her, but in her agitated state she might take a shot at him. Instead he went to the window to see when she hit the street. It only took a few moments and there she was. She had put her gun away and was hurrying across the street.

  She hesitated there, looked up at his window. He didn’t know if she could see him, but he didn’t step back at all. She watched a few more moments, then turned and hurried up the street.

  He dropped the curtain back into place and left the window.

  FOUR

  Clint had his bath, after making sure his door was locked and a chair was slid under the doorknob. He didn’t want Julie sneaking back in with her guns. He took the bath quickly, because the water was cold, but afterward he felt refreshed.

  His telegram from Singleton had said only that he should check into the hotel and wait to be contacted. Now he wondered if that meant contacted by someone other than Singleton himself. And if Julie really worked with Ted, why hadn’t it been her?

  He couldn’t imagine Singleton actually being partnered with the young woman, so the liar had to be Julie. Somehow she knew that Ted had contacted him, and knew he was coming to Sacramento to register in this hotel. But on top of all that, she obviously thought that Singleton was going to give him . . . “it.” Whatever it was.

  Clint got dressed, thought about leaving his gunbelt behind in favor of his little New Line Colt, but in the end he strapped the gunbelt on. After all, someone had already pointed two guns at him.

  Clint decided he’d wonder about Ted Singleton later. If the girl was a liar, then Singleton was still going to contact him. Until he did, he was going to go out and have a steak.

  The woman across the restaurant kept looking at him.

  She was a dark-haired beauty in her thirties, dining alone. He had noticed her as soon as he walked in, and she had apparently noticed him at the same time. Neither of them had been served dinner yet, so Clint decided to make a bold move. What could it hurt? He had nothing else to do.

  He called the waiter over and said, “Would you ask the lady over there if I could join her?”

  “Mrs. Tate?” the man asked.

  “Is that her name?”

  The balding waiter nodded and said, “Yessir.”

  “Does she eat here often?”

  “Quite often.”

  “Alone?”

  “Almost all the time.”

  “Does she live in town?”

  “I think she’s staying at a nearby hotel, sir,” the waiter said. “She’s been in here every night for about a week, but before that I had never seen her.”

  “Well, before our dinners come, would you ask her if I can join her, or if she would like to join me?”

  “Of course, sir,” the waiter said, “and if she asks for your name?”

  “Adams,” Clint said, “my name is Clint Adams.”

  “Yessir,” the waiter said. “I’ll extend your invitation.”

  “Thank you.”

  Apparently, Mrs. Tate had decided to be bold herself. As soon as the waiter spoke to her, she reacted immediately. She stood up and walked across the room to Clint’s table. He saw that she was tall, full-figured, and as she got closer, he put her age at close to forty—but a beauty nonetheless.

  “Mr. Adams?”

  He stood and said, “That’s right.”

  She smiled and extended her hand.

  “Amanda Tate.”

  “Mrs. Tate,” he said, taking her hand. “Will you join me?”

  “I certainly will,” she said. “I hate eating alone, and I have been doing it for days.”

  “Please,” he said, “have a seat.” As she did, he asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “May we have champagne?” she asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said. She was a woman of expensive tastes, but he didn’t mind.

  He called the waiter over and ordered a bottle of champagne. The man fetched it, opened it at the table and poured them each a glass.

  Amanda Tate raised hers and said, “To new friendships.”

  “And exquisite beauty,” he added.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  “How long have you been in Sacramento, Mr. Adams?” she asked.

  “I just arrived today,” he said, “and my name is Clint.”

  “I’m Amanda.”

  “Now that we have that settled—” he said. But before he could finish, the waiter arrived with their dinners. As he set the plates down on the table, Clint saw that she had ordered the same thing, steak dinner with all the trimmings.

  “I see we have something in common already,” she said, staring him straight in the eyes. “This night might not be as boring as I had feared.”

  FIVE

  Naked, her pale breasts were like overripe melons, sagging just a bit as a concession to age. He stripped her down in the center of the room, then lifted each breast to his mouth, first licking the nipples until they were hard and then sucking them into his mouth.

  Amanda sighed and let her head drop back as Clint concentrated his efforts on her breasts. Her nipples were brown, with wide aureoles, and he spent a lot of time on them, squeezing her breasts while he sucked on her, thoroughly enjoying the way the weight felt in his hand, the way her nipples felt in his mouth as he sucked and chewed on them.

  Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore and she pushed him away, gasping.

  “Take off your clothes,” she demanded.

  He smiled at her and said, “You take them off.”

  He did remove his gunbelt himself, and hung it on the bedpost within easy reach, but he left the rest of his clothes for her to remove.

  She eagerly divested him of his clothing until he was only in his underwear. She fell to her knees and peeled those off slowly, until his rigid cock sprang into view. She caught her breath with what sounded like “Um,” then tugged the shorts down to his feet so he could kick them away. Then she took hold of him and pressed him to her soft cheek, rubbed the hot column of flesh all over her face and finally slid her tongue out to taste him. She cupped his balls and licked his shaft, wetting him fully, then opened her mouth to take him in. She sucked him slowly at first, causing him to tense and go up onto his toes. Then her tempo increased and he began moving his hips in unison, and was as much fucking her mouth as she was sucking him.

  When she felt that he was close, she released him from her mouth with an audible pop and pushed him back onto the bed. She crawled up onto it with him, straddled him, and mounted him. As every inch of him sank into her steamy depths, they both sighed, and then began to move together. She rode him hard, her big breasts swaying in his face until he grabbed them, squeezed them together and sucked both nipples at the same time.

  She gasped, her eyes widening, and began to ride him even faster and harder, and he knew she was chasing her orgasm. He took up the chase with her, hoping they’d catch it at close to the same time . . .

  Clint woke with a gun in his face. Holding the gun was Amanda Tate, who was sitting in a chair—still naked—next to the bed.

  “Was I that bad?” he asked.

  “Where is it, Clint?”

  He pushed himself up into a seated position on the bed. His gunbelt was still on the bedpost, but he didn’t want to kill this woman, anymore than he’d wanted to kill Julie.

  “What ‘it’ are we talking about, Amanda?” he asked her.

  “You know.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  The gun she was holding looked like a .32 Colt Patter-son, not too big for her, and she held it very steady. She had he
r knees pulled up so that her breasts were hidden, but that wasn’t the point of the position. She was just comfortable in her skin.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Okay,” he said, “the questions have to become more clear. Why am I here with you? Here in this hotel? Or here in Sacramento?”

  “All three.”

  “Well,” he said, “why I’m here with you is obvious, I think. I mean, just look at you.”

  She actually smiled and said, “Thank you.”

  “Why I’m here in this hotel, and in Sacramento, is to meet my friend Ted Singleton.”

  “So you admit you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in five or six years, but I know him.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since you arrived?”

  “No.”

  “And he didn’t leave something for you?”

  “No.”

  “Something to hold?”

  “No.”

  “Or hide?”

  “No. Are these the right answers?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.”

  “It would help me if I knew what he was supposed to have left me,” he said. “Then, at least, when people stick guns in my face, I’ll know why.”

  “Someone else has stuck a gun in your face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since you got here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Clint saw no reason to lie about any of this. At least, not until he heard something from Ted Singleton.

  “A girl named Julie.”

  “Julie who?”

  “I don’t know,” he explained. “All I got was Julie. She claims she works with Ted. Do you know Ted, by the way?”

  “I know him,” she said, “and I don’t know anything about him working with anyone.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Ted and I are working at cross purposes,” she said, “I can tell you that.”

  “So you’re working against the government?” he asked her.

  “What? No, of course not,” she said, as if he was crazy. “I work for the government.”

  “Secret Service?”

  “Another branch.”

  “But secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you can’t tell me who you work for.”

  “Right.”

  “And you won’t tell me what ‘it’ is.”

  “If you don’t already know,” she said, “you’re safer not knowing at all. Believe me.”

  “I’d believe you, if you were to put that gun down.”

  She looked at the gun in her hand as if she’d just remembered it, then shrugged and set it aside on the table next to the bed.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I just had to be sure.”

  “And you are?”

  “I don’t think you’d lie to me,” she said. “Besides, you could have drawn your gun anytime and shot me. After all, you are the Gunsmith.”

  “So you were testing me?”

  She unfolded her beautiful body and crawled back onto the bed with him.

  “Let’s just say I was . . . well, yeah, testing you.”

  “So if I’d failed the test,” he said, “you’d be dead now.”

  She scratched her head.

  “Guess I didn’t think of it that way.” She leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder and her hot body against his. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Just because you pointed a gun at me?” he asked, reaching for her. “Not a chance.”

  SIX

  At breakfast the next morning in the hotel dining room, Clint once again tried to get Amanda Tate to tell him who she worked for and what “it” was.

  “How am I going to know it if I don’t know what it is?” he asked.

  “And what would you do if you found it, Clint?” she asked. “Give it to me or to Ted Singleton?”

  She had him there.

  “Ah, you hesitated,” she said.

  “I’d have to talk to Ted first, Amanda,” he said. “Find out his side.”

  Around a piece of bacon, she said, “I’m telling you he’s the wrong side, and I’m the right side.”

  “I’m sorry, but I just can’t take your word for that. He’s my friend.”

  “Aren’t I your friend since last night?”

  “Are you here from Washington, D.C.?” he asked.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “You have neither a Western nor a Southern accent,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out where you’re from.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “You didn’t seem to care where I was from last night in your bed.”

  “Everybody knows that when a man and a woman are in bed together,” Clint explained, “the bed is neutral territory.”

  “Everybody knows that?”

  “Everybody who’s ever been in bed with a woman . . .”

  “. . . or a man,” she finished.

  “That’s right.”

  She put down her knife and fork and stared at him. She was either sincere, or very good at appearing sincere.

  “Believe me, Clint, I would tell you if I could,” she said. “Last night I just had to find out if you’d seen Singleton.”

  “And what are you going to do today?”

  “Try to track him down.”

  “Let me come along.”

  “Oh . . . I can’t do that.”

  “I can help,” he said. “I know how he thinks.”

  “You know how Ted Singleton used to think,” she said. “You don’t know the man now.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you tell me,” Clint said, “where is he? Why did he send for me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I’m going to find out. How long will you be in Sacramento?”

  “Until I find out what happened to Ted.”

  She put her silverware down and leaned forward.

  “Just stay here at the hotel today until you hear from me, Clint,” she said. “I really am the one with the best chance of finding him. You don’t know the city.”

  “I’ve been here before, Amanda.”

  “That may be, but you still don’t know it as well as I do.”

  He couldn’t fault her there. It had been a while since he’d been there last, and even then there was a lot of the city he’d never seen.

  But he still didn’t intend to just stay at the hotel and wait—but he didn’t tell her that.

  “All right, then,” he lied. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “Good.”

  “What do I do if you don’t come back?”

  “After last night?” she asked. “Believe me, Mr. Adams, I’ll be back.”

  SEVEN

  After Amanda left, Clint paid the check and went in search of a telegraph office. He stopped at the front desk to ask the clerk where the nearest one was.

  “Two blocks east, sir,” the young man said. “You can’t miss it.”

  Clint missed it, had to turn around and come back to find it, but finally did. He sent a telegram to Washington, D.C., to his friend Jim West, who was a Secret Service agent. He didn’t want to name names, but he indicated there were some people in Sacramento claiming to be agents, and asked if West knew of anyone who might actually be there, in the city, working for the United States government in any capacity?

  He left the name of the hotel he was staying in and asked the clerk to send over any reply extraquick. He gave him some extra money, above and beyond the word count money, and told him there would be more when the reply was delivered.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “You’ll have it as soon as it arrives.”

  He left the telegraph office and stood out on the street in front for a few moments. He had considered following Amanda today, but she had taken that decision away from him. He’d followed her outside, but she had already disappeared. If she was actually worki
ng for the government, she was good. If not . . . well, she was still good.

  With the telegram sent, he decided he was stuck doing just what Amanda had suggested he do: stay around his hotel. For one thing he had to wait for the reply from Washington, and for the other he had to be there when Amanda came back.

  Was she coming back? With any word about Ted Singleton? That remained to be seen. And what about Julie? Where and when would she turn up next, if at all?

  Heading back to his hotel, he briefly considered checking hospitals to see if Ted Singleton was in any of them, but then he dismissed that.

  When he’d known Singleton, the man had been a star packer. He’d worn a badge for over thirty years. Surely that was the kind of man a government agency might want to recruit, but the problem with that was Singleton had always hated anything federal. He’d always said he’d never wear a federal marshal’s badge, because all marshals were pricks. It was the town sheriffs, he claimed, who upheld the law and did all the work.

  Of course, being a member of the Secret Service was nothing like being a federal marshal.

  Or—as far as Singleton would be concerned—was it?

  “Where have you been?”

  Ben Avery looked up from his cards as Amanda Tate entered the small saloon.

  “You mean today?” she asked. “Or last night?”

  “I mean ever,” Avery said. “You just disappeared for a while.”

  “Well, I’m back,” she said. “Buy a girl a drink?”

  Avery looked over at the bartender and nodded, meaning Amanda could have whatever she wanted. He didn’t own the small saloon, but he had that kind of influence in the small place.

  “Brandy,” Amanda said.

  The bartender poured and handed it to her, and she carried it back to the table to sit across from Avery.

  “Black nine on the red ten.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you know who Clint Adams is?”

  “I haven’t spent my life under a rock, Mandy,” Avery said. She hated that name, but she couldn’t get him to stop using it. “We talkin’ about the Gunsmith?”

  “In the flesh.” Of course, he had no idea of the pun involved.

  “Why are we talkin’ about him?”