High Country Horror

9

Fargo sat on the bed and Helsa Chatterly sat in the chair. She’d brought two glasses and he had filled them halfway. Now she was studying him over her glass. He pretended not to notice and gazed out the window at a patch of sky sprinkled with stars.

“You puzzle me.”

“Works both ways,” Fargo said.

“I puzzle you too?” Helsa downed the whiskey without bat-ting an eyelash. “In what regard? I’m a widow who runs a boardinghouse. My life couldn’t be any simpler.”

“You’re a good-looking widow who runs a boardinghouse. And good-looking women usually have a man around.”

“My husband was murdered a year ago,” Helsa reminded him sharply. “Which you seem to keep forgetting.”

“A year ago,” Fargo said.

“More than enough time to cope with my grief. Is that what you’re suggesting?” Helsa tipped the glass to her lips. “Some of us take longer than others.”

“It must be lonely.”

Helsa emptied her glass and held out her hand for the bottle. Instead of refilling the glass, she swilled straight from it, several long swallows. She didn’t give the bottle back. “Damn you.”

“I don’t mean to upset you.”

“The hell you don’t. You want me thinking of him and how him and me used to . . . you know.”

“If it bothers you, leave,” Fargo said.

“As if you really want me to. I’ve seen how you look at me. You have one thing on your mind and one thing only.”

“I do?”

Helsa raised the bottle again. After a couple of swallows she said, “Conniving devil. You plan to get me drunk so you can have your way with me.”

“I’d just as soon you were sober.”

“You are full of it up to here.” Helsa raised a hand to her chin. “You must think I’m stupid or gullible.”

“I think you are as fine a woman as I’ve ever met,” Fargo said in earnest. “Your husband was a lucky man.”

“Quit reminding me of him.” Helsa got up and moved to the window and drank more whiskey. “I ache when I think of James. Some nights I curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep.”

“Maybe you really should go.”

Helsa turned and stared at him while taking another swig. “Bastard,” she said.

“You are a mean drunk,” Fargo said.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard.” Helsa came to the bed and stood in front of him. “I could just shoot you.”

“For sharing my bottle?”

“For being so damn good-looking.” Bending, Helsa pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were warm and wet and soft, and she tasted of whiskey. She kissed lightly at first but with increasing ardor as the kiss went on. When she drew back, her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. “That was nice.”

“How about a second helping?” Fargo molded his mouth to hers. The kiss lasted longer, and when they broke for breath, Helsa rested her forehead on his chest.

“Oh my.”

“Am I still a bastard?”

“More than ever.” Yet she kissed him a third time, passionately, fiercely, while her fingers ran lightly over and around his neck and explored his face.

For Fargo’s part, he grew as hard as iron. Sliding his hands behind her, he sculpted her shoulders and her shoulder blades, then ran his hands down her back to her bottom. At the contact of his fingers below her waist, she stiffened and exhaled into his mouth.

Presently Helsa pushed on his chest and turned her face to the ceiling. “My head is swimming,” she said softly.

“The whiskey,” Fargo said.

“No. Not that.” A rueful smile spread Helsa’s lips. “It’s been so long. So very, very long.”

Fargo knew the feeling. Whenever he was off on a scout for weeks at a stretch he craved a woman like some men craved tobacco. He kissed her throat and her ear and nipped at the lobe. He licked her neck, kissed her eyebrow, then glued his mouth to hers anew.

Helsa moaned. She removed his hat and dropped it to the floor and entwined her fingers in his hair. Her body gave off heat like the stove.

Cupping her twin mounds, Fargo squeezed them through her dress. They swelled and firmed and he could feel her nipples like tacks against his palms. He pinched them and she squirmed and cooed.

“God, I want you.”

For Fargo it was mutual.

“One thing, though,” Helsa said, and gripped the front of his shirt. “You’re never to tell a soul, you hear? This is between you and me.”

“You and me,” Fargo repeated.

“I mean it. I pray to God you’re not one of those braggarts who boasts of his conquests. No one must ever know.”

“If I ever tell anyone,” Fargo said, taking her hand, “you can cut this off.” He placed her hand on his rigid pole.

Helsa gasped. She glanced down and breathed, “Oh my God! You’re so big.”

“Like it?” Fargo said, and ran her hand up and down. She didn’t draw away. To the contrary, she fondled and stroked him and her breathing became heavier and heavier. She offered no resistance when he eased her onto her back and slid his arm under her legs and lifted them onto the bed. Stretching out beside her, he unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it to the floor.

Helsa kept one hand between his legs and with her other she cupped his chin.

“You’re magnificent.”

“We’re just starting,” Fargo said.

She kissed him, hard, and scraped his cheek with a fingernail. “I want to forget, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Fargo placed a hand on her thigh.

“You have no notion of what it’s like,” Helsa said. “Wanting someone who isn’t there. Wanting that, but you can’t have it because you’re a lady and ladies aren’t supposed to have that unless they’re married. It’s not fair how we’re treated. Either men put us on pedestals or they treat us like whores.”

“Less jabber,” Fargo said, and to silence her, he kissed her. At the back of her dress was a row of small buttons that resisted his prying. He had half a mind to rip the dress off but that might spoil her mood so he patiently took his time and at last peeled it down her shoulders to her waist. Underneath she had on a thin cotton chemise and long cotton drawers. No petticoats, much to his delight. He loosened the chemise enough to slide his hand up and under, and cupped her breast.

“Ohhhh,” Helsa said.

Fargo massaged and tweaked first one and then the other as their tongues swirled. He sucked on hers and she sucked on his. He lathered her throat and traced the tip of his tongue to her cleavage. The chemise thwarted him. Quickly, he stripped off her dress and her undergarments and tossed them to the floor.

In repose, her face wreathed by her lustrous hair, Helsa Chatterly was breathtaking. Her ample breasts curved to twin peaks, her nipples erect with raw desire. She had a golden thatch to match her golden hair, and winsome legs that seemed to go on forever. Her red lips, puckered in delight, were two cherries waiting to be tasted. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

“Like what?” Fargo had been momentarily distracted by her beauty.

“It embarrasses me.”

“You should be used to it.”

“I’m not a saloon tart. You’re only the second man in my entire life to see me without any clothes on.”

Fargo hadn’t realized. He was so accustomed to tarts, as she’d called them, he tended to forget that some women treated their bodies as a rare treasure only a privileged few were allowed to admire.

“I mean it. Stop staring, consarn you, and do something.”

“Happy to oblige,” Fargo said, and hurriedly shed his boots and pants. Stretching out beside her, he ran his fingertips from her knee to her navel and down the other leg.

Helsa was doing some staring of her own. “You have a lot more muscles than James did. Your stomach in particular.” She pressed her palm to his abdomen. “It’s like a washboard.”

Fargo inhaled her left breast and flicked her nipple. It elicited a loud moan, and she ground her hips against his. Sliding a finger between her legs, he stroked her core; she was wet from wanting him. He went on stroking and she went on grinding until finally he moved between her legs and rose onto his knees. Her eyes hooded with lust, Susannah delicately wrapped her fingers around his member.

“A stallion,” she said huskily.

Inserting the tip, Fargo penetrated her. He thrust, and she mewed. He went on thrusting, ever harder and ever faster, and she met each with a push of her hips. She had been so long without it that she was an inferno between her legs. Gripping her buttocks, he rammed more forcefully.

“Yes!” Helsa said, her nails raking his back. “Like that. Do me. Do me hard.”

Gradually they rose to the summit. The climax came when Helsa arched her back and cried out; it sent Fargo hurtling over the brink. Together they coasted on tides of release. Afterward, Fargo lay by her side, drifting in and out. By the clock it was past ten when he rose on an elbow and drank in the vista of her charms. She was asleep, her breasts rising and falling in rhythm to her breathing.

A faint sound downstairs didn’t gain Fargo’s interest. But a louder sound, the scrape of wood on wood, as of a chair being moved, did. Sitting up, he shook Helsa’s hip. She mumbled something and went on sleeping. He shook again and her eyelids cracked in dreamy contentment.

“What?”

“I thought you said your other boarder wasn’t coming back tonight.”

“He’s not.” Helsa closed her eyes and went to roll over but stopped when he gripped her shoulder.

“Do you have a dog?”

“No. James and I had one when we were first married but it was run over by a wagon.”

“A cat, maybe?”

“Cat fur make me sneeze, so no.”

Fargo shook her some more but she pushed his hand away.

“Let me sleep, will you?”

“Listen,” Fargo said.

“To what?”

In a few moments the scraping was repeated.

Startled, Helsa sat up and covered her breasts with her arms. “What on earth was that?”

“It’s not your dog or your cat.”

“You are not at all funny.”

“It sounds as if you have another visitor,” Fargo suggested.

“Do you honestly think I would come up here with you without bolting both the front and back doors? I couldn’t risk someone like the marshal happening by and walking in on us.”

From downstairs came a creak.

“My God,” Helsa whispered. “Someone is down there. That was the door to the pantry. It always makes that noise.”

“I’ll have a look-see,” Fargo offered. He tugged into his buckskin pants and slipped the Colt from its holster and moved toward the door.

“What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“Going downstairs.”

“Not like that you’re not.”

“Not like what?”

“Not half naked. What if it’s a friend of mine? Finish getting dressed and then you can go.” Helsa slid from the bed and gathered up her dress. “I’ll put myself together and be right down.”

To Fargo it was foolish. But he pulled on his shirt and slid his feet into his boots and jammed his hat onto his head, and with the Colt in one hand and his gun belt in the other, he cat-footed to the head of the stairs.

From somewhere below came a scritch-scritch-scritch.

After the clashes he’d had with the three jackasses, Fargo thought it best to be cautious. He was almost to the bottom when he discerned that the sounds were coming from the kitchen. He rounded the banister and took a step into the hall.

A shadowy shape filled the kitchen doorway.

Fargo caught the glint of metal in the lamplight and flung himself at the floor. Simultaneously, the house rocked to the boom of a large-caliber rifle. A leaden hornet buzzed over his head and struck the front door with a thwack. Fargo brought up the Colt but the shadow was gone. Heaving erect, he raced down the hall. The slam of the back door lent wings to his feet. Cocking the Colt, he was across the kitchen and outside almost before the sound died. He darted to the left and crouched to make a small target but no shots rang out. The backyard was empty. Figuring the shooter had ducked around the side, Fargo flew to the corner and on to the front. The front yard was empty, too. He ran to the gate, pushed it wide, and rushed to the middle of the street.

Other than several townsmen standing in front of the saloon and a rider just leaving town at the far end, the street was deserted.

One of the men in front of the saloon cupped a hand to his mouth. “What’s going on over there, mister?”

Another yelled, “What was that shot we just heard?”

Fargo wished to hell he knew.