Nan Ryan (22 page)

“Like this, darling?”

“Mmm … now a little lower … a little lower …”

“Here?”

“God, yes, yes.”

Groaning softly, the naked man rolled up onto his elbows, his eyes humid and half closed. He smiled dreamily with building pleasure.

The beautiful young woman’s long, silky hair fanned out on his belly was a pleasing sight. More pleasing still was her pale, bare bottom pointed skyward as she bent to him, her full, red lips and talented tongue toying with his blossoming erection.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, lay back down, and reached for generous handfuls of her gleaming tresses. He took the blunt-cut ends of her shimmering hair, tickled his distended brown nipples, and sighed with bliss. With her hair deliciously tormenting him and her beautiful mouth licking and loving on him, he became so aroused his heart pounded in his naked chest and his bare toes curled.

When the beauty had brought him to the height of ecstasy, she lifted her head, tossed her hair back from her eyes, and smiled at him with wide, glistening lips.

“Baby, you’re the best,” he murmured, his big, prone body still tingling with tiny aftershocks. “God, I’d like to take you with me.”

Her smile brightened. “You would?”

“Mmm, sure would.”

She was stretched out beside him in an instant, her wet red lips pressing kisses to his tanned face, her hand stroking his broad chest.

“I’d like that very much,” she cooed. “I want to go with you. Will you take me, really?”

“Tell you what,” he said, a hand gliding down her slender back. “I’ll make you a deal. Get me hot again in the next ten minutes, and I’ll take you with me.”

Her head shot up. “Oh, darling, I can. I will.”

She did.

Using methods even he was not familiar with, the beautiful woman had him hard and throbbing within minutes, so excited he anxiously flipped her onto her back, spread her pale legs wide, and anxiously moved between. With his weight supported on stiffened arms, he drove into her with fierce, deep thrusts.

As nimble as an acrobat, she tilted her pelvis up to meet his driving force and at the same time leaned up to kiss and bite his chest until he quickly exploded within her.

Sagging down atop her, his body still joined with hers, he felt her fingernails scraping possessively over his firm buttocks, heard her say softly, “Lover, what’s your name?”

“Phil Lowery,” he replied, short of breath, heart racing, “known professionally as the Kid. The Cherokee Kid.” He levered himself off her, fell heavily over onto his back.

“Kid,” she repeated, “I like it. Kid. My name’s Mary Louise Douglas, but I’m called Honey.” She giggled and added, “I just thought of something funny. Isn’t it true that all kids love honey?” She rose up on an elbow and tossed her long platinum white hair back over her shoulder.

He chuckled. “Sure, all kids love honey. This Kid sure loves his Honey.”

“Oh, Kid,” she said, and laughing happily, pressed her head to his shoulder and hugged him tightly, “when do we leave?”

“We?”

Her blond head shot up. “You promised if I could make you—”

“Now, Honey, I was teasin’ you. You know that” He gently pushed her away, sat up, and swung his legs to the plush scarlet carpet of the garish gold and red bedroom. “I’d love to take you along, but I can’t.”

The platinum-haired Honey quickly scooted off the bed and fell to her knees between the Kid’s legs. Her hands gripping his muscular thighs, she said, “Why not? I wouldn’t be any trouble, Kid. I can cook and play the piano and—”

He leaned down and kissed her to shut her up. Then he playfully ruffled her white hair and said, “Honey, there’s no kitchens or pianos where I’m going. I’m heading up into the high country to search for a missing woman. I should be on the trail right now. But this big old Kid loves his Honey so much it’s hard to break away.” He gave her his most winning smile, then added, “I really have to go, darlin’. My two compadres are waiting downstairs.”

“Who is this woman?” Honey asked petulantly.

“The lady I’m going to marry,” said the Kid matter-of-factly, “and if she knew I had been here in the Boulder-ado Bordello, tasting my sweet, gooey Honey”—he bent to her, kissed her pouting mouth—“she’d be plenty jealous.”

“I hope so,” said Honey. “What happened to this woman? How do you know you’ll find her?”

“I’ll find her,” said the Kid, rising and reaching for his pants. “You remember I told you I own a famous wild west show?” Honey sat back on her heels and nodded. “Well, to get even with me, one of my Indian performers kidnapped my raven-haired fiancée.” He pulled on his trousers.

Honey rose to face him. “What did you do to him that made him want to—”

Ignoring her question, he interrupted. “We have some good leads. A rancher four miles south of Boulder says they came by his place, stole a stallion from his remuda. I’ll track ’em down.”

“Well, Kid,” said Honey, twisting a long platinum curl around her finger, “you had sure better hurry.”

The Kid grinned. “Don’t tell me my sweet Honey is suddenly anxious to get rid of me.”

Honey grinned back at him. “No, I was thinking of your missing sweetheart.”

He said, “This wasn’t her fault, so no matter what happens, I’ll still want her.”

“Well, Kid, that’s not exactly what I meant.” Her emerald eyes twinkled, and she added naughtily, “After that Indian has made savage love to her, will she still want you?”

The Kid’s grin instantly vanished. His suntanned face flushed with fury. He reached out and grabbed the smiling woman by her hair. Honey winced with shock and pain when the Kid hauled her up to him, viciously twisting her long white hair around his hand.

“You—you’re hurting me,” she complained, tears rushing to her eyes.

“Am I?” snarled the Kid. He slammed her naked body hard against his solid length, forcefully yanked her head back, and looked into her frightened eyes. “Am I really hurtin’ you?”

“Yes! Yes, you are,” she said, struggling, her hands impotently pushing him.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad. I came here for pleasure, not to hear your stupid observations about Indian lovers.”

“I was teasing,” she said, “I didn’t mean—”

“The redskin hasn’t been born that can take a woman away from me,” he said. “You hear me? Hear me, bitch?”

“Yes … yes, I hear you,” she sobbed. “Please …”

“Passion and punishment. That’s what women need. All women. Keeps ’em in line.”

Honey screamed as the Kid spun her around by her hair and abruptly released her. She crashed into the heavy carved footboard of the bed, then crumpled to the floor. She lay there sobbing in pain while the Kid coolly finished dressing.

When he was ready to leave, he came to her, nudged her ribs with the toe of his boot.

“Get up,” he commanded. Honey cautiously raised her head, pushed her hair back, and looked up at him. Tears streamed down her red cheeks. She was paralyzed with fear. “I said get up!”

The Kid pulled the sobbing woman to her feet. She shuddered when he drew her close, unsure what he intended.

He kissed her. It was a long, slow, openmouthed kiss. When the kiss finally ended, Honey was no longer weeping. Her arms had come around him. She molded her body to his. The Kid soothingly stroked her slender back, her shiny white-blond hair. He allowed her to relax completely in his warm embrace.

When he heard her sigh and she sagged tiredly, contentedly against him, the Kid smiled and forcefully pushed her away. He turned her about and gave her bare bottom a hard, stinging swat with his open-palmed hand. She screamed as she again went sprawling.

Crossing to the door, the Kid said over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself, Honey.”

Chapter 21

Shorty Jones took one last, long drag off the cigarette dangling from his lips before flicking it away into the darkness. He removed his sweat-stained gray Stetson, smoothed his short brown hair awkwardly, shoved the silver link chain and whistle down inside his white western shirt, and climbed the steep stone steps of Salt Lake City’s Memorial Hospital.

He walked through the heavy double front doors, crossed an empty waiting room, and stepped into a wide, silent corridor. In the hall’s center, directly before him, a plain but pleasant-looking woman who was almost as skinny as he sat at a small wooden desk. The thin young woman wore a nurse’s starched white hat and uniform. She looked up as Shorty attempted to tiptoe past her.

“Ah, wait … hold it,” she said, her voice as thin as her body. Rising to her feet, she asked, “Where do you think you’re going, cowboy?”

Shorty stopped, gave her a sheepish grin, and said, “Thought I’d just look in on an old friend.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but no visitors are allowed at this late hour,” said Nurse Mitchell, pushing back her chair and circling the desk. “My goodness, don’t you realize it’s nearly midnight? I’m afraid you’ll have to return tomorrow during regular visiting hours.”

“He might not be here tomorrow,” said Shorty, nervously twisting his hat in his hands and shifting his slight weight from one booted foot to the other. “I have to see him now.”

“But surely if he’s going home tomorrow, then you can—”

“Ma’am, I didn’t say he was going home.” Shorty looked straight into the woman’s light eyes.

“Oh …” Nurse Mitchell nodded understandingly. Her reedy voice lowered and softened. “Who is it you’ve come to visit?”

“His name is Ancient Eyes. An elderly Ute Indian who—”

“Yes, I know the patient. He was admitted yesterday morning, wasn’t he?” She automatically looked down the long corridor toward Ancient Eyes’ room. “The poor old dear is still in a coma.…” She shook her head. “He won’t know you’re here.”

Continuing to twist his Stetson, Shorty said, “How do you know he won’t?”

“Why, because he … the doctor said … the patient doesn’t respond to—to—”Nurse Mitchell stopped speaking, looked cautiously around, and whispered, “I see no harm in you looking in on your friend. But let me warn you, if you stay past midnight, it’ll be at your own risk.” Again she looked around, stepped even closer to Shorty, and said behind her hand, “That’s when Nurse Spencer comes on duty.” She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully.

Shorty shyly smiled, thanked the sympathetic Nurse Mitchell for the warning, turned, and tiptoed down the long, silent hallway. He paused outside Ancient Eyes’ door, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside.

A lone lamp burned on a small white table across the room. The mellow light cast eerie shadows on the white ceiling and walls and on the still, seemingly lifeless form of the man in the bed.

Dropping his Stetson on an uncomfortable-looking straight-back chair, Shorty moved up close to his sick friend. Ancient Eyes’ broad, ugly face was so gray and drawn he was hardly recognizable. His snow white hair lay limp and damp on the pillow, and his squat, massive body seemed to have already shrunk.

Shorty sadly examined the big, bare arms lying motionless atop the white sheet, arms which had remained firm and ropy with hard, powerful muscles long past Ancient Eyes’ prime. Now they were the weak, useless arms of a helpless old man; the flesh hung loose and crepey from the bone. The massive hands were wrinkled and covered with age spots.

A deep sadness pressing down on him, Shorty cautiously picked up one of those hands, held it firmly in both of his own. And speaking past the lump in his throat, he addressed the unconscious man.

“Ancient Eyes, old friend, it’s me. Shorty. I come on back as soon as I could get away.” He looked at the Indian’s face as he spoke. “I figured you’d want to know how it went and all.” Shorty swallowed again. “Now I ain’t gonna’ lie and say we had a great turnout but …”

The skinny animal wrangler stood at the dying Indian’s bedside and filled him in. Shorty told Ancient Eyes how the parade and opening Salt Lake City performance had gone off right on schedule that very afternoon. Said the Colonel had considered canceling the entire engagement, but Mrs. Buchannan had convinced him to go on with the show, said they couldn’t disappoint the fans.

The wrangler stood in the nighttime silence and talked to the unconscious Indian about everyday things, like who was winning the chess games while he, the old master, was away. He told which Rough Rider had won the most money betting on the Ping-Pong tournaments that constantly went on between shows. Said the latest gossip was that Arto, the handsome young Mexican charro, was courting little Sue Crow Dog, old William Crow Dog’s pretty daughter.

Shorty talked and talked, speaking of everything and anything, so long as it was nothing that might in any way upset the sick man. Shorty Jones had no idea whether or not the old Ute could hear him, but just in case he could, he kept his steady flow of conversation pleasant and light. He told how Texas Kate had hit fifty out of fifty thrown glass balls at the evening’s performance. Said she had looked mighty pretty out there in the spotlight with her brown hair all curled and her cheeks rouged. Shorty smiled and admitted he’d been tempted just to step right up to her and plant a kiss on her smiling mouth.

“Course, I didn’t do it,” Shorty told Ancient Eyes. “Kate’d likely beat hell out of me if I’d tried it.” He grinned, shook his head, and reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette. “What a woman. What a woman.”