Fargo took off his hat and shook the dust out of it. The autumn wind sliced through his sweaty clothing and made him shiver. “Yeah, sunrise.”
“How many miles would you estimate we’ve come,” Ericka chimed in, “since their horses were turned loose?”
“So far, about thirty. By sunrise, maybe thirty-five or a little more. But we’ll be adding more as the day wears on.”
Fargo raised a hand to still them. “I see where this trail is headed—how long will it take them to reach us? Well, those tough little Cheyenne mustangs have had their nostrils slit for extra wind, and they can cover up to forty, maybe fifty, miles a day in this terrain. If all my calculations are correct, they shouldn’t reach us any time before sunset tomorrow. If so, that means another whole day without a fight. But it’s nip and tuck, and we need to be ready.”
The women had climbed out to stretch their legs before trying to catch a little sleep. Rebecca looked at Fargo with a slight flush to her cheeks—a flush Fargo had seen often before.
“Mr. Fargo,” she said, “I would like to gather a few rock samples before we resume our journey. Would you be willing to accompany me?”
Ericka and Jessica overheard this, but the two women only exchanged knowing smiles. Aldritch, however, came shooting out of the coach like an artillery round.
“
“No, thank you,” she said archly. “This is the wild frontier, and I’d prefer someone capable of protecting me.”
“Yes, by God, I know what you
Fargo literally swept him aside with one sinewy arm.
“Lord Blackford!” Aldritch squawked like a schoolyard prissy. “Your sister is ‘walking out’ with Fargo, just as he did with Jessica!”
“I say, Sylvester,” Blackford replied awkwardly, “the girl’s of age, after all, which isn’t always true for your . . . conquests.”
Slappy chuckled. “Why not woo her with a piece of candy,
“You disgusting, ignorant lout,” Aldritch fumed at Slappy. “Look at you—dressed in filthy rags, tobacco stains on your chin, and you break wind in front of ladies. The lowest hod carrier in England is a nobleman compared to you.”
“In America,” Fargo advised him as he took Rebecca’s arm, “it’s always a bad idea to insult the cook. Might be some extra nourishment in your food.”
To emphasize this point, Slappy hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it inches from Aldritch’s right boot. “There’s your supper, silk cravat.”
“Caulk up, you scurvy-ridden whoreson!” Derek growled. “That silk cravat is paying your wages.”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, hangman,” Slappy fired back. “I ain’t paid to take guff from
“Whack the cork, old son,” Fargo advised his friend quietly. “There’ll be time to settle accounts.”
Aldritch looked at Fargo, shook his head in disgust, and returned to the coach.
As the sun blazed, then cast its last feeble rays above the horizon, Fargo led Rebecca toward a ring of rock pinnacles a couple of hundred yards from the conveyances. Her thick blond hair was unrestrained in the popular new “American style,” brushed back behind her shoulders and forming waves down her back.
“You really collecting samples?” Fargo teased her.
“Only one, I hope—you.”
Fargo had a brief picture of the bath she’d taken in front of him and the way she rubbed herself between her legs while watching him with moist, swollen lips. Wanton, taunting, lusting . . . he had a rock sample for her, all right, forcing his buckskin trousers out in a rigid pup tent.
“It’s going to be cold,” he warned her.
“Oh, judging from all that keening and crying out that Jessica did, I believe you’ll keep me warm.”
They entered the ring of pinnacles and found soft ground. Without a word Rebecca pulled her loose cotton dress over her head and stood before him naked, her body willowy but voluptuous. The brisk, cold wind immediately stiffened her pink nipples and formed rings of tight BBs around them.
“I knew we’d have to hurry,” she told him, “and I didn’t want to waste time with clothing.”
While she unbuckled Fargo’s shell belt, he cupped her tits and swirled his thumbs around the nipples. He ran one hand down the satin plane of her stomach and into the blond corn silk above her slit. A few more inches and he was cosseting her hot, ready quim, coaxing little cries of pleasure from her.
“You know just how to touch a woman’s little button,” she said breathlessly. “Most men poke at it hard as if it were made of iron.”
She let the gun belt drop and fumbled open his fly, releasing Fargo’s point man. Her jaw dropped in astonishment. “Oh, in my most torrid fantasies I’ve never tasted anything this big and gorgeous. I must now. Would that be shameless?”
“Absolutely shameless,” Fargo assured her. “Please do.”
