East of the River Read online

  “Can you make me feel like a woman again, Clint?” she asked.

  “Maybe, Hannie,” he said, “when this is all over . . .”

  “No, no,” she said, “now, I mean now.” She undid one button on her shirt, then grabbed his hand and slid it inside. He felt the roundness of her breast, the hardness of her nipple against his skin . . .

  “Make me feel like a woman,” she whispered, turning his hand so that her breast rested in his palm.

  “Hannie,” he said in a thick voice, “do you really think this is a good idea?”

  She opened more buttons on her shirt and it fell open. Her breasts were full and round, heavy. He found them cupped in his hands, as if his hands had a mind of their own. He flicked the nipples with his thumbs and she moaned.

  “I don’t care about anything else now,” she said, dropping her shirt to the floor. She slid her arms around his neck and pulled his head down. “Just this.”

  They kissed.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  She may have needed a bath, but to him her skin was smooth and sweet. He stripped her naked, stopping to kiss every inch of her. If she wanted him to make her feel like a woman, he was determined to do a good job of it.

  When she was naked, he took her into his arms and kissed her, long and deep. She moaned into his mouth, reached for him, and started tugging at his clothes.

  “God,” she said against his mouth, “it’s been so long.”

  Together they worked on his clothes until finally he was naked and his erection was prodding the air, demanding attention, which she was only too happy to offer.

  She got on her knees and cooed at him while she embraced him, cupped him, stroked him. Finally he lifted her to her feet and walked her to the bed. The blanket was already pulled down, and they fell onto the sheets together.

  “Oh God,” she said as his hands roamed over her, stroking and poking and prodding. He pressed his fingers into her, found her hot and wet.

  “Oh!” she said, and this time it was like she’d been shocked by lightning. But then he kept stroking and she settled into it. She moved her hips in unison with his strokes and began to enjoy the waves of pleasure that were flowing over her.

  “Don’t ever stop that,” she said.

  “I have to stop,” he told her, “so it can get better.”

  She smiled, stroked his face, and said, “I’ve never felt any better than this.”

  He put his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Just wait . . .”

  Beau got back to the livery and unlocked the front door. He went in and began to see to the stock. It was no surprise to him when Mort and Sam Archer appeared in the doorway. This time Mort already had his gun out.

  “One question, liveryman,” Mort said, “and then we’re on our way and you can keep on doin’ what you’re doin’.”

  Beau eyed the gun in the man’s hand and asked, “Do I have a choice?”

  “No,” Mort said.

  Beau waved his hand and said, “Then ask . . .”

  Clint lifted his head from between Hannie’s legs and looked up at her.

  “Woo-wee!” she said, smiling down at him. “Do that some more!”

  “You’ve had sex before, haven’t you?” he asked. “I mean—”

  “I’m thirty years old,” she said, “and most of the sex I’ve had has taken five minutes. I’ve never been with a man who could do all of . . . this.”

  “You’ve never had a man take his time with you?” he asked. He ran his hands up her body until he was covering her breasts. “No man should ever rush with a body like this.”

  She giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “Oh my,” she said, “I never had a man . . . talk like that.”

  He crawled up until he was lying on top of her. His rigid penis was trapped between them. To her it felt like a white-hot column of flesh.

  “Hold your breath,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “Just hold it.”

  She did.

  He moved his hips, poked, slipped into her very slowly. If she hadn’t been holding her breath, she would have gasped. He went slowly, sliding into her inch by inch until he was fully there.

  “Oh my . . . ,” she gasped, letting her breath out.

  Thomas and John Archer lived above the general store. There was a kitchen, a sitting room, and each had his own bedroom. When the knock came at the door, John got up from the kitchen table and let his brothers Mort and Sam in.

  “We found out who the horse belongs to!” Sam announced excitedly.

  “Sit down, relax,” Thomas said. “Have some stew, and tell us.”

  “You won’t believe—” Sam started, but Mort silenced him with a look.

  “Sit down, Sammy!”

  Sam sat and John put a bowl of stew in front of him. It was a recipe their mother had left behind, and all the brothers knew how to prepare it, except Sam.

  “So?” Thomas asked when they were all seated.

  “The horse belongs to Clint Adams.”

  “Shit,” Thomas said.

  “I saw him talkin’ to Beau in the saloon right after me,” John said.

  “Do you see what he did?” Thomas asked.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “He told Beau to let us know.”

  “Why would he do that?” Mort asked.

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said. “We don’t know why he’s here, but Beau probably told him you were looking for his horse.”

  “And what was he doin’ out at the farm?” Mort asked.

  “We don’t know that either,” Thomas said, “but we gotta find out.”

  “How?” John asked.

  “Somehow,” Thomas said, “and we gotta do it before we do anythin’ else.”

  “I’m with John,” Mort said. “How are we supposed to do that?”

  “Well,” Thomas said, “there’s one obvious way to do it.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “We can ask him.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  They rolled over, still connected, so that Hannie was on top. Her full breasts dangled in his face, so he had no choice but to bite them. She was sweating, and the smell was exciting him even more.

  She rode him hard, grunting each time she came down on him, and soon her eyes were closed and her movements became mindless. He knew she no longer even knew it was him beneath her, she was just bouncing up and down, faster, faster, biting her lip, chasing the orgasm that was just ahead of her, like a carrot on a stick.

  He gripped her hips, slid his hands up her strong, bare back, then pulled her down on him and cupped her buttocks, pulling her to him, trying to move even deeper into her. They writhed against each other, and before long he could feel her body trembling, before going taut as a bowstring. Then the arrow was loosed and she was crying out, grinding herself against him until he exploded inside of her with a loud cry of his own . . .

  “Can you stay all night?” she asked.

  She was lying in the crook of his arm, stroking his thigh with her fingertips.

  “I don’t see why not,” he said. “If I leave, you’ll probably head right for the boardinghouse and draw Doyle out of bed.”

  “We only just met and you know me that well?” she asked.

  “We only just met and we’re naked in bed together?” he asked.

  She stretched and said, “I really needed this.”

  “I figured.”

  She pouted and asked, “Was it so hard on you?”

  “If it hadn’t been hard, we never would have got to this point.”

  “You’re funny.”

  She moved her fingertips from his thigh to his penis. It flinched, then began to extend.

  “Oh my,” she said. “Again, so soon?”

  “Why do most women say that?” he asked. “Is it such a surprise that I’m a man and I react when a beautiful woman touches me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “let’s see.”

  “What are you doi
n’ here?” Sheriff Perry demanded.

  “Take it easy,” Doyle said. “Nobody saw me.” He closed the back door behind him. He walked to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup.

  “So when do you think this woman is gonna come after me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Perry said with a shrug, “maybe in the mornin’.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Just do me a favor,” the lawman said. “Don’t get yourself killed. I can’t very well take off the Archers by myself.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Doyle said, “you got anybody else to help us?”

  “Don’t worry,” Perry said. “I’ll have a few men. But you’re the way in. You ain’t heard from John yet?”

  “No, not yet,” Doyle said.

  “Well, maybe you oughtta get back to the boardinghouse and stay there.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Doyle put the coffee cup down. “I just wanted to stretch my legs.”

  He went to the back door.

  “And when you kill this woman,” Perry reminded him, “make sure it looks like self-defense.”

  “Don’t worry,” Doyle said, “just do your part, and I’ll do mine.”

  “I could use a drink,” Hannie said. “Do you want a drink?”

  “What do you have?”

  She got out of bed. He watched her pad naked to her saddlebags and retrieve a pint of whiskey, then pad back to the bed with it.

  “Here ya go.”

  Clint took a pull from the bottle, then passed it back to Hannie. He watched her long throat work as she swallowed.

  “Ah,” she said.

  “You want to get some rest now?” he asked.

  She stared at him.

  “Do you?”

  “I think you need it.”

  “Do you need it?”

  He laughed.

  THIRTY-SIX

  In the morning Clint met Eddie Randle at the Ox Bow, and together they walked to the bank. Randle had his business account there, so they were taken right in to see the bank manager. Once the door was closed behind them, Randle took out his badge.

  “Mr. Morris,” he said, “my real name is Deputy U.S. Marshal Eddie Reed.”

  “What?”

  “This is Clint Adams.”

  “W-what?” Morris looked totally confused.

  “We need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “A bank robbery.”

  Morris, normally red in the face, grew even redder. His mane of hair was as white as snow. He ran one hand through it.

  “Bank robbery?” he repeated. “W-what bank is being robbed?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “if our plan works, yours.”

  Hannie Welch had watched Clint Adams dress and waited for him to go, then got out of bed herself, washed with the pitcher and basin, and quickly got dressed. She strapped on her gun, took a deep breath, and then went out to find Mrs. Buchanan’s boardinghouse.

  Walter Morris finally calmed down long enough to sit and listen to the plan.

  “And this would just be known to us?” he asked. “The three people in this room?”

  “Deputy Reed is literally putting his life in your hands, Mr. Morris.”

  “And you say it’s the Archer boys who have been pulling these robberies?”

  “No question,” Clint said.

  “That’s shocking,” Morris said. “Those boys seem like nice fellas.”

  “Do they have an account here, Mr. Morris?” Randle asked.

  “All their accounts are here.”

  “And can you tell us what their balances are like?” Clint asked.

  “Well . . . that is confidential information.”

  Randle leaned forward and put his badge on the bank manager’s desk.

  “Ah, yes,” Morris said, “of course. Let me get that information.”

  Doyle rose and came downstairs for breakfast. Mrs. Buchanan was an annoying old battle-ax, but she put out a breakfast he didn’t want to miss. He wore his gun to the table, which got him a hard stare from the old woman, but he didn’t care. If that other woman showed up for him during breakfast, he intended to be ready.

  Morris came back in and sat down. He put some paperwork on the desk that he didn’t show to either man.

  “The figures are not good.”

  “So,” Randle said, “unless they have some cash hidden away, they need to pull a job soon.”

  “You know, I’ve seen that farm and the store,” Clint said. “I don’t think they’ll be able to resist a big score.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Walter Morris said. “I just have to pretend we’re getting a big deposit, right?”

  “Right,” Randle said.

  “And we won’t actually get robbed?”

  “No,” Randle said, “we’ll be here waiting for them.”

  “When do you want me to let this information out?” the manager asked.

  “As soon as possible,” Randle said.

  “Today,” Clint added.

  “Will you do it?” Randle asked.

  Morris leaned forward and squinted at the badge that was still on his desk.

  “Can you get me anything in print—”

  “I can’t send any telegrams, sir,” the deputy said. “That would give me away.”

  “Of course, of course,” Morris said.

  “Sir,” Clint said, “we won’t let anything happen to your bank.”

  “We promise,” Randle said.

  “Well,” Morris said, “very well.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint and Randle stopped just outside the bank.

  “Okay,” the deputy said, “the word goes out today, the Archers hear it, they decide to hit the bank . . . when?”

  “They’ll figure to hit the day the shipment comes in,” Clint said. “That’ll be the end of the week. We’ll have to arrange for a stage to come in.”

  “What if they hit the stage?”

  Clint rubbed his jaw.

  “They probably will hit the stage,” Clint said.

  “Maybe,” Randle said. “So we’re gonna have to cover the stage and the bank.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “This is gettin’ more complicated already.”

  “What’s the closest town with a telegraph office?” Clint asked.

  “There ain’t one,” Randle said, “since this town has one, this is where people come to send telegrams.”

  “If we could send one and have an empty, guarded armored wagon come to town, then they’d have to wait for the shipment to be moved to the bank.”

  “We can’t do that,” Randle said.

  “Okay,” Clint said. “What if we pass the word that the money is already in the bank?”

  “Then folks would wonder when it came in.”

  “And they’d figure it came in at night, when everybody was asleep.”

  “You think?” Randle asked. “They won’t suspect somethin’s wrong?”

  “I think the number we’re putting out there is going to be too big to pass up, Eddie,” Clint said. “Why don’t you go back in and tell Morris what else to say?”

  “And what’re you gonna do?”

  “I’ve got something else to take care of.”

  “The woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do me a favor, then.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get yourself killed.”

  “That is always uppermost in my mind, Eddie,” Clint said.

  Randle went back into the bank and Clint headed for Hannie’s hotel.

  Hannie got directions to Mrs. Buchanan’s boardinghouse and, eventually, was standing right out in front of it. Her options were to storm in with her gun out, or to wait for Doyle to come outside. She didn’t know how many other boarders there were, so she decided not to go in and risk a gun battle with innocent people getting hurt. She was surprised to find herself thinking this way. Up to now her anger had been burning so white-hot that she didn’t c
are if innocent people got hurt.

  Damn Clint Adams to hell.

  When Clint found Hannie’s room empty, he ran down to the desk clerk.

  “Did you see Miss Welch leave?”

  “Welch?” the young clerk asked.

  “Room five?” Clint said. “Tall, lots of brown hair, pretty.”

  “Oh.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, sir, I saw her leave just a little while ago.”

  “Any idea which way she went?”

  “No, sir.”

  It didn’t matter really. He was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get breakfast.

  “How do I get to the Buchanan boardinghouse?” he asked.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  When Doyle finished his breakfast, he decided not to go back to his room. He walked to the front of the house and looked out the window. The tall woman wearing a gun was standing in the middle of the street, waiting.

  He turned and went through the dining room, to the kitchen door.

  “Mr. Doyle, I don’t like my boarders to use the back door!” Mrs. Buchanan shouted.

  He ignored her and went out the door.

  Hannie was out front, getting impatient. She kept her eyes glued to the front door, waiting for it to open. She planned to draw and fire as soon as it did.

  Clint was running down the street toward the boardinghouse. When he came within sight of it, he could see Hannie standing on the street out front, waiting. Good, at least she hadn’t gone rushing in.

  He saw movement on one side of the house and quickened his pace.

  Doyle snuck along the side of the house, and as he approached the front, he drew his gun. He stopped at the end of the wall and peered around. He had a clear view of Hannie Welch, who was staring intently at the front door.

  This was going to be easy.

  Hannie had no idea that Doyle was looking at her from the cover of the wall of the house. She had no idea that he was aiming his gun at her. She was still staring at the front door, flexing her fingers, waiting to draw her gun, waiting to end it. This would be the last one, and then she’d take off the gun for good.