A Hard Ride Home (7 page)

"And what's your excuse?"

Jesse grinned, at ease in the quiet barn listening to Rose's husky laugh. She took his hand and kissed his knuckles, and he murmured, "Rose, I have an idea."

*~*~*

Jesse went looking for Roscoe two days after he came back into town and found him mucking stalls in the barn behind the Willow.

"If you're so good at brawling, how'd you lose that fight?" Jesse asked, nodding toward Roscoe's leg.

Roscoe still limped from getting knifed by a cowboy after cheating at cards.

"Cause I was fuddled," he said, shoveling another pile of dirty straw into the wheelbarrow. He scowled half-heartedly, likely still grateful he'd pulled through without losing his leg.

Jesse leaned against the stall door. "I can certainly attest to that state of affairs. You'd have fought the barstools if we set you up in front of 'em."

Roscoe grunted. "I don't see why Miss Devaux can't hire a stable boy."

"Cause she's just got the one horse."

"And what, your hands are too delicate for hard labor?"

Jesse stretched his fingers out and showed Roscoe his palms. "These are fine tools of the trade, I'll have you know."

Roscoe snorted as he hefted another shovelful. "It's your other tool I hear more about."

A hot flush spread across Jesse's cheeks. He'd never quite got used to the way the girls went on about his cock. But having gotten acquainted with quite a few since only ever knowing his own, he agreed it was a cut above the average.

"Actually, I have a proposition…"

Roscoe laughed. "I told you, Jesse. It's nothing personal, I—"

"Oh God, not that. I meant, well, you're sweet on Miss Jo and I thought you could show me some things about fighting, and I could show you what she likes."

"I don't fancy thinking about how you know what she likes," Roscoe muttered.

"We've never had a tumble that weren't for Alonzo's watching. I hear the girls talking, is all, 'bout what they're partial to."

"I can court very well on my own."

"You ain't managed to court Miss Jo," Jesse said, earning a glare for declaiming the obvious.

"Don't see how your pointers would help with that. She's made her position clear," Roscoe said sadly, setting his shovel down and wiping his face.

"I suppose I can't help with that. But I could still show you things. And I want to learn. Evelyn's swift enough with a blade to teach me a thing or two, but you're a real fighter."

"Quit trying to butter me up. I'll show you how to fight."

Roscoe started by upending Jesse with a swift kick behind his knee that left him flat out on his back, wheezing and staring up at the cobwebbed rafters.

"Fuck."

"Knocks the wind out of you, don't it?" Roscoe stood above him, grinning and offering him a hand up.

For the next week, they spent an hour every day or so, whenever they could both sneak out to the barn. Roscoe put together a dummy using an old saddle and a burlap sack stuffed with straw.

"Should we name him?" Jesse asked, eyeing the lumpy, misshapen target.

"I don't think naming it is going to help."

Roscoe held his wrist, showing him how to keep it loose while keeping his grip firm—but not too firm. Jesse felt foolish holding the knife like that, and when he snickered, Roscoe gave him a hard nudge to the soft part of his back under his ribs.

"Go for the soft bits when you can. Striking a rib's like striking stone. Hurts you more than it hurts him, and you'll drop your blade."

"Ow," Jesse said irritably, when Roscoe kept on digging his finger at his flesh.

"That's right. Plenty of guts to tear up if you find the right places."

"Stop poking me!"

"You have to remember. No time to think in a fight."

"All right! Damn, I remember. Soft parts, guts. Poke the right places."

Roscoe took his arm and yanked it forward. "Swiftly!"

It took Jesse five times to thrust with enough force to sink the knife into the tough, old leather. He had to step into it, as if he was throwing a ball. It made his shoulder hum and warm up, and he knew he'd be sore for days.

"Not bad," Roscoe said, sounding surprised as he inspected the latest killing blow to the dummy. The knife was buried up to the hilt.

Jesse's palm stung as he rubbed it against his hip. "Enough to kill a man?"

Roscoe watched him. "Might be enough to save your bacon, but I wouldn't call you a stone cold killer just yet."

"Fair enough."

"Who's this supposed to be?" Roscoe asked, patting the dummy's blocky shoulder.

"Don't matter. Anyone. Some rascal tries to rough the girls up or makes trouble."

"You know I've got iron behind the bar."

Jesse pulled the knife back out of the dummy and eyed the blade's edge. "You ain't always there."

Roscoe snorted and took his knife from Jesse carefully. "I'm here morning, noon, and night you chucklehead."

"Well I ain't always here." Jesse looked at the dummy. He glanced aside at Roscoe when Roscoe put a solid, warm hand on his shoulder.

"Have the General Store put an order in for you from the city—something light you can keep to yourself."

Jesse grinned, warmed at the prospect. He watched Roscoe return the knife to its home in a soft leather sheath at his hip. "Go on and wash up. Then it's your turn."

Roscoe went pale around the edges of his mouth. "I told you I don't aim to…" He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at Jesse's middle.

"Oh—no. Miss Rose has graciously volunteered for a demonstration," Jesse said, grinning wickedly. He laughed as Roscoe hopped right to it, hauling off for the pump to wash the grease out of his hair.

*~*~*

When Jesse brought Roscoe into Rose's room, it looked soft, like clouds at sunset, all billowy things and pale gold. Rose had turned the lamps down low on account of Roscoe's jumpiness. She reclined on the bed like a girl in a painting, smiling sweetly with her pale legs in a sprawl.

"Ma'am," Roscoe said, nodding politely.

"Aw, he's sweet!" Rose wasn't teasing him. She plopped her hands in her lap happily, sending lace and petticoats unfurling.

"You know he's sweet," Jesse said, taking Roscoe by the hand and pushing him to sit on the side of the bed. It gave a prolonged creak that nearly ruined the mood, but Roscoe looked about stricken with fear and didn't seem to notice.

Jesse pushed some rustling old taffeta out of the way. "Did you need to wear every underthing you own?"

Rose pouted. "They're nice."

"They are nice," Roscoe said agreeably.

"'Sides," she continued, pleased, "I got nothing on down below."

"Good." Jesse ignored the low, strangled sound Roscoe made. He pulled off his boots and left his socks on to climb into the bed in front of her.

Rose helped him scoop her petticoats out of the way, revealing more of her inner thighs. She had her knee-high stockings on, making the softest, roundest parts of her inner thighs look a prize to open.

"You have to ease up to her," Jesse instructed, brushing his knuckles at the inside of her knees as he watched Roscoe to make sure he was paying attention.

Rose smiled and opened her legs more. "Some men go grabbing and snatching at you."

"That ain't right," Roscoe said hurriedly, swallowing hard.

"Go slow, kiss her all over, along her legs." Jesse dipped to show him, his mouth making a long wet line down the inside of Rose's thigh until the skin gleamed like polished ivory.

"It makes my pussy wet when he does that," Rose said cheerfully.

"Hush," Jesse laughed, tickling under her knee. "I'm building suspense."

"Ain't a penny dreadful, Jesse. Mr. Roscoe knows how the story ends, don't he?" she asked, licking her lips and watching Roscoe.

Jesse'd never been able to make out whether she was sincere or not when she charmed the men who came to the Weeping Willow. She'd seemed mighty eager to help him show Roscoe her female mysteries, but it might have been that she was in a snit with Josephine and wanted steal some of Roscoe's attention. (Not that Miss Jo had ever given Roscoe the time of day.)

Whatever Rose's intent, it was working. Roscoe nodded at her, and then shook his head, as if bewitched or flat-out drunk.

Jesse rolled his eyes and plopped down on his belly. "Hitch up this mess, Rose."

She bunched the last of her skirts up to her navel and Roscoe hissed a breath in so loud she giggled and reached out to pat his arm affectionately.

"The trick is to kiss her where it counts," Jesse said, inching forward on his elbows.

"I like my tits kissed. And suckled. But not pinched or tugged on." Rose fondled her breasts idly with one hand as she held her skirts with the other.

Evelyn let the girls go without their corsets when they were upstairs, and all that covered Rose's buxom tits was thin white cotton that showed the pink rounds of her broad nipples.

Jesse kissed her thigh. "We're not focusing on tits. Don't distract him."

"I don't see why you're in charge," Rose said. "It's my pussy, not yours."

"Because I promised Roscoe lessons. And you can't do it yourself."

Jesse glanced up at Roscoe, wondering if they should have liquored him up before the excursion. He looked near fit to pitch off the bed in a swoon.

"Here," he said, taking Roscoe's hand and plopping it down on her warm knee. Hopefully if he felt a swoon coming on, he'd grab a tight hold of her.

"That's nice," Rose said, reaching into her blouse to fiddle with her nipple. She blew her hair out of her face as she leaned forward to watch Jesse more intently.

"Stroke her first, soft-like." Jesse ran his fingers through the pale blonde hair that covered her mound. He traced the fat lips and then crooked one finger up her slit slowly.

"Oh," Rose said, shuddering.

Roscoe's voice was dry and hoarse when he said, "I've never looked closely. Being with a woman, intimately. You look fine, Miss Rose." His fingers gripped at Rose's knee so hard the skin dimpled. She patted his hand gently to remind him to let up.

Rose left Jesse's fingertip gleaming and he stroked a few more times, just following the tight crease.

"You have to open her," Jesse said, hushed. "Find her pink bits."

He used his thumbs to spread her open carefully, revealing the high shine of the hairless flesh inside, all the little folds and the flushed hole.

"Diddle me," Rose whispered, clutching Roscoe's wrist and watching Jesse. "Don't tease now."

Jesse licked his finger for good measure, getting it slippery before he ran his fingertip around the warm little pearl at the top of her slit.

"Well, fuck me," Rose gasped out. "Yes."

"See? She likes it there." Jesse laughed and nudged up closer. "Rose says it's her tiny prick."

She slapped him upside the head. "Don't tell him that."

"Ow," he groaned, still laughing and feeling warm playing with her like this, with Roscoe watching. His cock filled, making it feel nice to squirm his hips down against the bed as he nosed on up to her pussy.

"I'm going to show you how to kiss her now," he said, holding her open with his fingers so he could bathe his tongue from her musky deep hole to the wrinkly little folds around her nub.

"It's licking, more like," Rose said breathlessly, her hips quivering. "Evelyn taught him, so don't let him go on like he discovered my frontier all on his own."

Jesse blew a raspberry right at her sensitive skin to get her back for tattling, and she laughed and pulled his hair until he set back to licking steadily, closing his eyes to get into the rhythm of it.

"You can get your prick out, Mr. Roscoe," Rose said, gasping the words out. "Don't seem fair for you to just watch."

Jesse stopped and stroked two fingers over the matted-down, wet hair and her swelling flesh to make sure Roscoe was doing as he was told. When a whore tells you to draw, you draw.

Roscoe nodded and unfastened his trousers, looking between them nervously. His cock sprang up, flushed-dark and thick. Jesse looked away in a hurry, knowing better than to go ogling his friend's manly parts. Still, he could hear the sounds Roscoe started to make, quick-sharp breathing sounds like he'd been running.

Rose stroked Jesse's hair, and he forgot to keep telling Roscoe what he knew, that some girls liked you to get a couple fingers up inside to make like fucking, and that some girls, like Rose, knew how to set the pace, and that some girls liked their little pricks sucked noisily.

"Harder now," she gasped, holding him still. "Harder now. Jesse. Harder now!"

He made his tongue flat and broad and licked her hard, ruthlessly chafing his tongue against her tender pearl until she shook and took great, whooping breaths like she was dying.

After that, she went lazy and warm, and stopped pulling his hair or moving at all, except for the steady, deep rise and fall of her chest.

"Don't just stop," Jesse said softly, though he wasn't sure Roscoe was paying him any more attention. He licked the junction of her thigh and the edge of her fuzzy bits, tasting her sweat.

Usually, this was when he'd climb up her body and take refuge in all her swollen, tender heat. But he wasn't there to fuck Rose and didn't feel inclined to either. When he rested his cheek against her sweaty thigh and listened to her sleepy, sated breathing and Roscoe's harsh, noisy breaths, he considered strong, wet lips around his cock and that's all he wanted to sheath himself in.

Considering the proximity of Rose's wet, eager pussy, and his own relative disinterest in it, Jesse decided, soundly, that Emmett Grady had ruined him.

It was a busy evening at the Weeping Willow, with the saloon full of cattlemen and a few unsavory types who weren't causing enough of a ruckus for Emmett to put a stop to just yet. He stood at the bar, half-eyeing a card game and half-eyeing the shadows below Jesse's thin collarbones.

As far as he knew, Jesse was supposed to be working, or flirting, or doing whatever it was he did to attract patrons. But Jesse just lurked beside him, stacking shot glasses idly and chattering about city gossip he'd read in the paper that came through by stage.