He held her for a moment as her shuddering eased. Then he started moving under her, sloshing the water slowly back and forth in long, rolling waves.
She joined in his movements perfectly, holding him while being careful to not touch his wounds.
Faster and faster they went, the waves on the water becoming like those on an angry lake in a violent storm.
After a moment, Fargo knew he couldn’t hold on any longer and he pushed up into her, emptying himself as she again reached another peak and shuddered with him.
They lay there, she in his arms, he still inside her, letting the waves calm.
All he could think about was how good this felt. How good she felt.
Finally, as he softened and started to slip out of her, she looked up at him and smiled, her green eyes alive and glowing. “You sure know how to make a girl hungry. I think the chef has a couple of special steaks in the kitchen cut just for us.”
He laughed and kissed her. “Woman, I think that fits in to my evening plans perfectly.”
She was right. The steaks were perfect, thick and juicy. And the conversation was even better. Not one word about Sarah or Henry Brant or Cain or Daniel.
They made love again slowly in her feather bed after dinner and the next thing he knew, the sun was coming up again and she was gone. How she managed to get up, get dressed, and leave without waking him was beyond his imagination. Yet somehow she had managed it.
In his own room, he put on his last clean shirt, gently pulling it over his now exposed wounds. Then he left the rest of his clothes in a pile on his bed for Anne’s laundry service to take and clean. After getting shot, he needed a new shirt as well.
With his Colt tied to his hip, he went looking for Anne. He found her happily doing paperwork in her office.
“Morning,” she said. “I was just about to wake you to join me for breakfast.”
“Timing is everything,” he said. “You missed the chance to see me without my britches on again.”
Her eyes twinkled and she smiled slyly. “Oh, I took a look before I left.”
He opened his mouth to say something back and found nothing to say as the image of her standing over him looking at his manhood flashed through his mind.
She laughed and came around the desk, taking him by the arm and escorting him to the dining room.
Over breakfast, the conversation turned to what they had both avoided the night before. And he started it.
“You know, being seen with me could be dangerous for you.”
She nodded. “I know that. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“But I’m not,” he said.
She frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that, Fargo.”
“I was wondering if you would do me a very big favor.”
“I’m listening,” she said, but not agreeing to anything yet.
“I ruined a shirt with two bullet holes. It was a favorite shirt of mine.”
“I can imagine it was,” she said, looking puzzled.
“If I escorted you to the train station in Sacramento, would you be so kind as to go into San Francisco for a few days, maybe a week, to find me a new one? It was a very special shirt.”
She laughed and leaned forward and kissed him. “Why would you think I would do that? I’m not really into running away from a fight, you know.”
“I know that about you,” he said. “It’s one of the many things I admire about you more than I can tell you. However, look around.”
He swept his arm around at the beautiful dining room and hotel before she could say anything. “You have an investment and people here to protect. Reg, for one. Just being known to be close to me will put you and them in danger, especially with what I plan on doing very shortly.”
He took her hands in his across the tablecloth as she stared into his eyes. “I’ve lost one friend this week to these people. I can’t imagine losing you as well, and if you stay here, I’ll be more worried about protecting you than doing what I need to do.”
She stared at him for the longest time, never letting her gaze waver from his eyes. Finally, she said softly, “What color?”
It was his turn now to look puzzled.
“If you’re sending me all the way to San Francisco to shop for a shirt for you, I should at least know what color you want.”
7
An hour later, he and Anne were headed down the road. For the first time since he had seen her in Colorado, she had her riding clothes on. She looked just as good in them as she did in a dress. Maybe better, if that was possible. And she was an expert on a horse, riding smoothly with the animal’s motions, clearly comfortable. There wasn’t much about this woman that Fargo didn’t like. In fact, he couldn’t think of one thing.
Since no one knew she was leaving with him except Reg, and she had told him just a few minutes before she left, Fargo wasn’t too worried about being attacked on their ride. He let himself enjoy it, while at the same time keeping an eye out ahead for any problems.
Along the way, they talked about various things. She outlined a few problems in the hotel business in general, and her fear that Placerville was about to take a turn for the worse. He told her of some of the troubles at Sharon’s Dream. It was a good conversation with a beautiful companion on a clear, warm day. He wished it could have gone on longer, but in what seemed like no time, they had her horse stabled and were at the station, standing in front of the train that was about to depart for San Francisco. She’d earlier stopped and changed into a dress.
“I’ll wire you at the hotel in San Francisco when this thing is over and meet you here when you come back.”
She nodded. “Just be careful.”
“I always am,” he said. “Thanks for doing this for me.”
“It’s a lot to go through for one shirt,” she said, smiling up at him. Then she kissed him full on the lips, pulling him down against her. After a moment she let him go, turned, and without another word climbed on to the waiting train.
He stepped back, the feel of her kiss still on his lips. He was going to miss her, but he felt better with her out of the way. As dirty and nasty as this fight had gotten so far, he had no doubt it was about to get worse. And Anne didn’t deserve to be in the way of it all.
By that evening, he had checked out of the Wallace Hotel. Just in case anyone was looking or would come asking, he made a public show of telling people where he was going.
He moved into a guest room on the second floor of the big house at Sharon’s Dream. He figured there, anyone from the Brant ranch would have the most trouble getting close to him or his horse. And since he was going to make himself the target very soon in this fight, being as protected at night as possible was the best idea.
He had purposely missed Cain and Daniel’s funeral that morning. And neither Hank nor Jim nor Walt had asked him about it. Fargo had never been much for funerals.
No one had moved into the big house besides him. Fargo guessed that none of them felt right doing so, and that was just fine. He felt odd himself, to tell the truth, wandering around in all of Cain’s things, but right now this worked for a place to stay better than anywhere else he could think of.
He asked Hank, Jim, and Walt to join him for dinner to plan the next moves and to make sure the mine was set up with their security measures.
After an hour of talking over a rich beef stew, it was clear to Fargo that the new owners of Sharon’s Dream felt they were ready for just about anything anyone could throw at them. The problem was, they didn’t really understand what was headed their way. They were mostly miners, solid men who didn’t mind a fight, but who also weren’t trained day after day in the business of fighting.
Brant had hired a lot of professionals, and chances were he would be hiring even more before this started. One thing Fargo was convinced of, no matter how prepared they were, the miners of Sharon’s Dream were outmatched in a direct fight against professional trailsmen who were willing to kill to collect their day’s pay.
Fargo was going to try to make sure that fight never got to them.
“Now,” Fargo said, “I need to ask you one favor. I need a room in the stable secured on all sides and reinforced to hold someone. A prison cell. Can you do that? Make something easy to guard and escape proof?”
Jim looked at Hank, who was nodding. Finally Hank said, “Sure, when do you need it ready?”
“Tomorrow sometime, but it may not get used for a few days. It depends on how soon I can track down our future guest.”
“Can I ask who that might be?” Hank said.
“No,” Fargo replied. “I’ll make it a surprise.”
Fargo smiled. The stage was set. Now all he had to do was what he did best—track down his future prisoner, Sarah Brant.
Anne couldn’t enjoy the train trip. She was worried about Fargo. She knew that he was in a battle he might lose. And pay for with his life. Friendship mattered to Fargo. Nothing would stop him.
The train offered the convenience of speed and the inconvenience of noisy children and irritating drummers who thought that their dubious charms just might get them a little fun when nighttime came and trysts were possible in certain parts of the passenger cars.
A man with a ginger mustache that extended at least an inch from both sides of his upper lip abruptly sat down next to her without permission or warning. His checkered suit and cheap cigar marked him as one of the standard-issue peddlers who roamed the West in pursuit of modest fortunes and immodest moments with as many women as they could get their hands on.
He looked over at her and smiled his cold rattle-snake smile and said, “Mind if I sit down?”
“Looks like you already have.”
“Well, I guess I have at that.” He tipped his derby. “Gil Fairbain. At your service. Very nice to meet you.”
She stared at him a moment, not matching his greeting. “There are other seats you could be sitting in.”
His smile revealed cheap false teeth. “But none with a beautiful woman in the seat beside me, madam.”
Then she sat watching the foothills go by in the late afternoon.
Fairbain said, tapping his chest, “I’ve got some good rye here. A whole pint of it. If you’d care to have some.”
“No, thanks.” Still looking out the window.
“Well, then I guess I’ll just have to drink alone.” Silence between them for a time. Rattle and sway of train. Cry of babies. Foot slaps of older kids running up and down the aisle. She concentrated on the scenery. Shadows were forming now, lending the land a purple beauty. He concentrated on his bottle of rye. She could almost hear his mind working like a vast machine, trying to come up with some approach that would make her throw herself into his arms.
Finally, his brain seemed to have settled on a tack to take with this woman who was treating him so coldly. The rye likely helped to convince him that he was about to reap the rewards of his ingenuity.
Her neck stiff from looking out the window, she had to sit back and face forward. This was his call to action.
“You probably couldn’t guess what I am.”
She laughed. “A drummer who doesn’t have the horse sense to quit pestering women who find him obnoxious?”
His inebriated state allowed him to brush away her nasty remark. He even smiled. “That’s the disguise I use. Looking like a drummer. That’s how I can travel around without the law getting me.”
Out of boredom, she decided to tease him some more. “You’re a famous bank robber?”
“Guess again.”
“An Indian chief?”
“You’re not being serious, madam. So I’ll tell you and save you the trouble. I’m a gunfighter.”
Oh, Lord,
she thought,
he’s going to try and convince me that beneath his flabby self beats the heart of a dangerous gunny.
She almost felt sorry for him. “You’ve killed a lot of men then?”
“That’s right,” he said, sitting up in his seat, stretching his shoulders as if his arms were massive and he needed more room. Pathetic. “A lot of men.”
“That must be a scary calling. Facing down killers that way.”
He touched the left side of his long mustache. “That’s one thing I gave up a long time ago.”
“Oh?”
“Being afraid. Nobody scares me now. Nobody.” She could have kissed him. Not because he was desirable but because he’d given her a way to get rid of him. “That’s quite a statement. Nobody scares you.”
“Well, you get that way after you’ve killed a lot of men.”
“It’s funny you’re a gunfighter.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“That’s what my lover is.”
Faint concern shone in his brown eyes. “Is that so?”
“You ever heard of the Trailsman?”
“Sure,” he said, “who hasn’t?” Then, realizing the name she’d just dropped: “You know the Trailsman?”
“We’re practically engaged. In fact, he’s waiting for me in San Francisco. I’ll introduce you to him when we get there. I’ll tell him all about all the men you’ve killed. I know most gunfighters would be afraid of him. But I’ll bet you’re not.”
He offered no good-bye. He jammed his pint of rye back into his suit coat, tamped his derby down, and headed for another empty seat. The rest of the trip she sat blissfully alone.
It took Fargo less than twenty-four hours to track down Miss Brant. The entire town had heard about Cain’s will, so he knew she and her father had heard the news as well. It appeared she had done exactly what Fargo had expected her to do. She had headed to Sacramento to hire more guns to work for her.
From a rock high on the ridge he watched her leave her ranch, riding in a two-seater black buggy with five guards. Ten minutes behind her, he and his Ovaro stallion hit the Placerville road to follow. Four miles down the trail, he cut off to a high ridge on the right, riding fast to get ahead of her.
The black buggy was pulled by two horses and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry, instead deciding to take the bumps and turns in the road a little slower to smooth the ride. She sat comfortably on a padded bench behind a driver, shaded from the sunlight by a fold-up roof. Two guards on horseback in front of the buggy, two behind.