East of the River (11 page)

“Exactly like that.”

“That'd be Walter Morris,” Randle said. “I'd have to tell him who I really am.”

“Yes.”

“That'd be breaking my cover.”

“Yep.”

“And what about the local law?” Randle asked. “Perry? I don't trust him.”

“I don't trust him either.”

“Why not?”

Clint told Randle about Hannie Walsh and the man named Doyle, and the sheriff's reaction to the name.

“Why you gettin' involved in that?”

“Look, the girl needs help,” Clint said. “She fainted in the street and I helped her, bought her something to eat. Then she told me about her meeting with the sheriff. It's enough to make me not trust him, so no, we'd keep him in the dark. In fact, let him think the same thing as the Archers.”

“And the deputy?”

“Same thing,” Clint said. “The fewer people who know what we're doing, the better.”

“So you, me, and the bank manager.”

“That's it.”

Randle finally unlaced his fingers and sat forward.

“That could work.”

“Okay then,” Clint said. “First thing, you'll have to have a talk with the bank manager.”

“Come with me,” Randle said. “If we're all in on it, we should know each other.”

“Okay,” Clint said, standing up.

“What are you gonna do now?”

“I'm going to walk Beau back to the livery. I want to make sure he doesn't get killed.”

“Okay,” Randle said. “I'll meet you here in the morning.”

“Right.”

Clint left the office and headed for the bar to break up the conversation between Beau and John Archer.

 

“So how's business?” John asked Beau.

“Good,” Beau said.

“Many strangers comin' into town?”

“Some.”

“Lately?”

“A few.”

Beau was being crafty. He thought John Archer was trying to get him to talk about Clint Adams's horse, for his brothers.

“Hey,” he said. “how come I never see your other two brothers in town?”

“Oh, uh, Mort and Sam, they work pretty hard at the farm.”

“Uh-huh. Never come into town to blow off steam?”

“No,” John said, “they, uh, do that out there.”

“Huh.”

Beau saw Clint coming his way.

“Hey, Beau,” Clint said.

“Mr. Adams.”

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

John looked at Clint.

“Adams.”

“Mr. Archer. Nice to see you again.”

“Uh, yeah, likewise.”

“I gotta bed down the stock,” Beau said to John. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Sure, Beau.”

Outside, Clint asked, “What was that all about?”

“We have a beer together once in a while,” Beau said, “but tonight he was trying to get information out of me, only he don't think I'm smart enough to know it.”

“Information?”

“He was asking how business was, if there was a lot of strangers in town.”

“I get it. And you were supposed to tell him about this man who rode in on a big black horse.”

“Only I didn't,” Beau said. “I asked him how come his other two brothers never come to town.”

“You figured that out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Beau said, “them two was his brothers. You don't have to hold my hand, ya know. I got a rifle at the livery. I can bed down the stock.”

“I don't think they'd kill you, Beau,” Clint said. “Not for this, but they might try to make you talk.”

“Let 'em try.”

“Wait a minute,” Clint said, grabbing his arm. “Okay, I'll let you go back to work alone, but if they come back and want you to talk? Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Tell them I own the horse. It's okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I want them to know.”

Beau shrugged and said, “Okay, if that's what ya want.”

“That's what I want. Thanks, Beau.”

“Sure thing.”

As he started away, Clint said, “Hey, wait.”

“What?”

“Those questions John asked you?”

“Yeah?”

“Are there a lot of strangers in town?”

“Not a lot,” Beau said. “You and one other man.”

“A man named Doyle?”

“I don't know his name, but he was looking for a boardinghouse.”

“Not a hotel?”

“Nope,” Beau said. “He asked me about a boardinghouse.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“We got a few in town.”

“And did you send him to one in particular?” Clint asked.

“I, uh . . .”

“I don't care if you're getting a kickback, Beau,” Clint assured him.

“Well . . . yeah,” he said, “I sent him over to Mrs. Buchanan's.”

Clint considered going over to Mrs. Buchanan's and confronting Doyle, but that wasn't his decision to make. He didn't, however, want to tell Hannie where Doyle was tonight. She was probably still weak, still in need of rest. Beau told him that Doyle's horse was still at the livery, so there was little or no danger that the man had left town.

He decided to go to Hannie's hotel to check on her, but not tell her what he had found out.

He knocked on her door and waited. When it opened, she stared out at him a bit blearily.

“Hey,” she said.

“Damn it, I woke you,” he said. “And here I'm the one telling you to get some rest.”

“It's okay,” she said, rubbing her beautiful face. “Come on in.”

Clint entered and closed the door. Hannie stood in the center of the room. She was wearing her trousers—men's trousers—and a loose-fitting shirt. No boots, her feet were bare.

“Did you find out anything?”

He didn't want to lie to her, and he had already hesitated too long, so he decided to go ahead and tell her the truth.

“I think your man, Doyle, is staying at a Mrs. Buchanan's boardinghouse in town.”

She seemed to come awake right away.

“Okay, then, let's go.”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders as she tried to dart by him to the door.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing your gun belt's on the bedpost, and your feet are bare.”

She looked down at her feet, then looked chagrined.

“Oh.”

“You see?” Clint said. “You need to rest tonight and go after him in the morning, refreshed.”

She touched her forehead, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You're probably right.”

“I know I'm right,” he said. “You want to be at your best when you face him.”

She nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll sleep tonight and face him first thing in the morning.”

“I can go with you, if you like,” Clint said, then remembered he had an appointment in the morning. “No, wait . . .”

“That's okay,” she said. “I've taken care of the others alone, I can do this.”

“I'm sure you can,” Clint said. “I'd like to help, though. I just have an appointment in the morning at the bank . . .”

“I don't want to interfere with your plans, or your life,” she said.

“Believe me,” Clint said, “my life is not here. I'm just here helping a friend.”

“Someone else like me?”

“Not like you,” he said. “He's a lot uglier than you are.”

She covered her face and said, “I'm a mess.”

“You look great.”

“You think so?” she asked. “I've been in the saddle so long. I need a bath, my hair's a mess—”

She got up and walked to the mirror, stared at herself.

Clint walked over and stood behind her, slightly to the right. She was too tall for him to see over her head. He put his hands on her shoulders.

“Hannie, you know you're a beautiful woman.”

“I might have been—once,” she said. “Before all this ugliness. Before my sister was killed, before I killed three men . . .”

“You think killing three men changes who you are?” he asked.

“Doesn't it?” she asked. “How many men have you killed over the years? Dozens? How has it changed you?”

“You can't let it change you,” he said. “You have to hold on to who you are.”

She hugged herself and asked, “What if you don't know who that is?”

“Then you figure it out.”

“I don't have time.”

“You will, after tomorrow,” he said. “Is Doyle the last one?”

“Yes.”

“Then that's it,” Clint said. “After tomorrow you can go back to who you were before this all happened. I mean, deep down, who you really are.”

“I was a woman,” she said, “but I don't feel like a woman anymore.” Then he saw something come over her face. She turned to face him, his hands still on her shoulders.

“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.

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.