Under a Turquoise Sky (13 page)

Joe led Clint to the tent Chance had told him was half saloon, half general store. When they got inside, he saw what Chance had meant. One side of the tent was a counter and merchandise, while the other side was a small bar and a few tables, most of which were now taken since supper was over, and so was the day's work.

Miners made a place for their boss and her guest, and she got two beers from the bartender.

“I can't believe he'd give up controlling interest in the mine,” she said to Clint.

“I can't explain it.”

“It's not good business.”

“Well, from what I know of him—which isn't much—he appears to be a successful businessman.”

“Well then, he's got a funny way of running his business,” she said.

“Why don't you just draw up the papers as quickly as you can, just in case,” he suggested.

“I think that's probably a good idea.”

A man came walking over, smiling broadly at Joe, ignoring Clint.

“Joe, it's so nice to see you in here,” he said, taking her free hand. “You don't come in a lot.”

“I was just showing the place to our guest, Isaac,” she said. The way she slipped her hand from his gave Clint the feeling she hadn't enjoyed the physical contact with the man.

“Clint, this is Isaac Brown, one of the owners of this little establishment. Isaac, this is Clint Adams.”

Brown looked at Clint, actually seeing him for the first time. The merchant appeared to be in his forties, tall, well-fed, but not fat.

“Clint Adams…the Gunsmith?” the man asked.

“That's right.”

“Well, what brings such a famous gunman to our little corner of the mountain?” Brown asked.

Clint allowed the word “gunman” to go by without comment.

“Mr. Adams is a friend of my new partner, and brought him here safely from Kingman.”

“Safely?” Brown asked. “Was there any reason to think that he wouldn't get here safely?”

“There was some indication of that, yes,” Clint said.

“They encountered some trouble on the trail, but managed to avoid anything violent.”

“I see,” Brown said. “Do you think the trouble may follow you up here?”

“It's possible,” Clint said.

“Well, maybe we ought to send for the sheriff.”

“Let's not overreact,” Joe said. “I think if there's any trouble, Clint will be able to handle it.”

“Yes, you're probably right about that. Well, then we're glad to have you around, Mr. Adams.” The man turned his gaze toward Joe. “You should come around here more often, young lady. You dress up the place.”

She smiled but didn't say anything, and he walked away.

“You don't like him very much, do you?” Clint asked.

“No,” she said, “he's…slimy, like a snake-oil salesman.” Then she put her hand to her mouth. “Was it that obvious?”

“No, it wasn't,” Clint said. “I just have a feel for that kind of thing. The way you slid your hand out of his, the way you stood…”

“You're very observant,” she said.

“It helps in staying alive.”

“What are your days like?” she asked. “Having to worry about that day in, day out?”

“You get used to it after a while.”

“Really?”

“No, not really,” he said, “but you learn to live with it.”

“Why not take your gun off and be done with it?”

He smiled.

“I'd be dead in minutes if I did that.”

“I suppose that was naïve of me,” she said. “It's a way of life you're stuck with. I know something about that.”

“Oh? Are you stuck up here?”

“It's the only way of life I've ever known,” she said. “My father was a miner, and he made sure I was one. Luckily, I don't have to actually work underground.”

“Why don't you sell and go on to something else, then?” he asked. Then hurriedly added, “Not that I'm urging you to sell—”

“I understand the question, Clint,” she said. “I can't sell. This was my father's dream, a successful mine. Of course, he was thinking about gold, not turquoise, but this is what I found.”

“But is it a way of life you hate?”

She made a face, almost as if the question pained her—or maybe it was the answer.

“I don't hate it, but I wonder about what else is out there. I'm in my midthirties—I know, I look older—and I'd like to think I'd get to see a little more of the world, or, at least, of this country before I die.”

He decided not to address the question of her looking older. Fact was, she was a beautiful woman, and she had to know that.

She swirled the beer at the bottom of her glass, staring at it, then drank it down.

“I think I'll go to my cabin and turn in,” she said.

“Well, good night then—”

“Would you like to come along?”

“To your cabin?”

“Yes, to my cabin.”

Clint wanted to make sure he was reading her right.

“And that would be for…”

“Sex, what else?” she said. “Look, I don't have time to be coy. I haven't had sex in a very long time, and I can't sleep with any of the men up here. I'm the boss. I need someone who's not going to be here for very long.”

“Well, I—”

“It's a yes or no question, Clint Adams,” she said. “Don't make me ask again.”

“Well then…yes.”

Joe was wearing a man's shirt and baggy pants, which did nothing to hide the fullness of her body. But Clint's breath still caught when she allowed him to peel the clothing from her. Her breasts were pale, almost pear-shaped, with large nipples and wide areole. He slid his hands beneath her so that her breasts were resting in his palms, and loved the feel of their weight. Holding them like that, he thumbed her nipples until she bit her lips and squirmed.

Her face and hands were dark from the sun, but the rest of her body was pale white—so pale that he could see the light blue veins beneath the surface. He pulled off her boots, and then discarded her pants, made her turn so he could run his hands over her buttocks and kiss them, run his tongue up along the crack between her cheeks. She squirmed some more, worked her way over to the bed and crawled onto it. He had no choice but to follow, but she used her feet and her legs to fend him off.

“Oh no,” she said, “you can't come into this bed with your clothes on. Take 'em off.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He was still wearing his gun. There was no bedpost to hang the holster from, so he hung it on the back of a wooden chair and pulled the chair closer to the bed. She watched him do this without saying a word.

The gun within easy reach, he then removed the rest of his clothes and got into the bed with her.

 

Ed Martin traced his forefinger along one of the proposed shafts, explaining his thinking to George Markstein, who listened intently.

“…then we'd hook up to this one here and cut across this way. By doing that, we come at the deposit from both directions.”

“Well,” Markstein said as Martin stood straight up, “you certainly know your business.”

“I've been in these mountains for a long time, first looking for gold, then finding copper and mining it and, finally, finding the turquoise. I worked for a long time with Joe and with her father, Walter.”

“So you must have a good relationship with her,” Markstein said.

Ed Martin looked at Markstein quickly, to see if he meant anything by that, and was apparently satisfied that he did not.

“Walter was like a father to me, and Joe's like a sister. Did you mean what you said about selling her that one percent?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“I think it's only fair we be full partners,” Markstein said. “Don't you?”

“Of course.”

For a moment Markstein wondered if Martin wanted to make an offer on the one percent. If he was like family to Joe and her father, why did he not own even that much of it?

“I like what I see here,” Markstein said, turning his attention back to the blueprints, “but I have some questions and some suggestions about—well, here, let me show you…”

 

Carl Breckens was sitting alone on one side of the fire while Kemp and Drake were seated across from him. Neither man had said very much to him since he'd shot down Aaron Edwards in cold blood.

Breckens was angry, and his anger was directed at everyone but himself. It was everyone else's fault that the dandy from the East wasn't dead yet, not his. When he got to the camp, he was going to make sure the job got done once and for all, even if it meant shooting Clint Adams in the back first to get him out of the way.

“You boys take the watch,” he said.

“Watch for what?” Kemp asked. “They're ahead of us, right?”

“Maybe,” Breckens said. “Edwards wasn't sure which way they'd gone, and I don't want any surprises during the night. So one of you take first watch and the other one take the last watch. Wake me at first light.”

“You gonna take the watch at first light?” Drake asked.

“No,” Breckens said, “we're gonna get goin' at first light. You got a problem with that?”

“Nope,” Drake said.

“You?”

“No,” Kemp said, “no problem.”

“Then get to it,” Breckens said, tossing the remnants of his coffee into the fire. “I'm gonna turn in.”

 

Chance couldn't help but wonder where Clint Adams was at that moment and what he was doing. But he wasn't about to just stay in camp and wait for him to come back. He decided to go over to Isaac Brown's tent and have a drink. If the fire went out while he was gone, he'd get it going again.

He thought about what Clint Adams had said about Joe English. Fact was, Chance had often thought about Joe English the way a man naturally thinks about an attractive woman, but Joe had never given him any indication that she had those thoughts about him, or any man. She was always all businesswoman when he was around—and, he was willing to bet, when he was not around.

When he got to the tent, there were a few spots open at the small bar, and all of the tables were filled with miners. He got the bartender's attention and called him over.

“Hey, Al, gimme a beer, will ya?”

“Comin' up, Buck.”

The bartender set a full mug in front of him and said, “Saw the Gunsmith in here earlier with Joe English. That is, I heard he was the Gunsmith. You rode in with him. That true?”

“It's true, all right.”

“What's he doin' around here?”

“Keepin' Joe's new partner alive.”

“That ain't gonna make Ed Martin too happy.”

“Why not?”

“He was real mad at Hector for not sellin' his part of the mine to him,” Al said.

“Did Ed have that kind of money?”

“No,” the bartender said, “that's why Hector wouldn't sell it to him. Ed wanted to work out a deal but Hector wanted his money all at one time.”

“And Joe had that kind of money?”

“In a bank in Denver,” Al said. “Left to her by her old man—and who knew he had that kind of cash tucked away?”

This sounded like something Clint Adams should be made aware of.

“You see where Adams went?” he asked.

“Yeah, he left with Joe awhile ago.”

“With Joe?”

The bartender nodded, then raised his eyebrows.

“You don't suppose him and Joe—Naw, probably not. Although that would make him one lucky man.”

“Yep,” Chance said, “it sure would.”

Joe English's bed was not very wide, and the mattress was not very thick. It was, however, sturdy, built from good wood, and was able to withstand the punishment it was getting from the two people who were rolling around—jumping around—on it.

Joe had obviously been without sex even longer than she had indicated. The first time Clint slid his hand down between her legs, finding her wet and ready, she reacted as if she'd been struck by lightning. Her body spasmed and she bit her lip to keep from screaming. Perversely—if it was perverse to give pleasure—he continued to stroke her there, dipping his fingers into her. She shuddered again and said, “Oh, wait…”

He withdrew his hand, leaned over and kissed one of her big breasts, biting the nipple.

“Oh my God,” she said, putting her hands up over her head, “it's been so long since a man's touched me…but I don't think a man has ever touched me like that!”

“Well,” he said, kissing her mouth, “if you liked that, you're going to love this.”

He kissed her again, then kissed her chin, her throat, her breasts, and kept working his way down, pausing briefly at her belly button and then continuing on down. When he reached the apex between her legs, she gasped but spread her legs wider for him. He kissed the soft flesh of her inner thighs first, working his way closer and closer until finally he touched the tip of his tongue to her wetness. She gasped and jerked, reached for his head and held it as he licked her and sucked her, eventually sliding one finger inside of her and gliding it in and out as he sucked.

He felt her going tense beneath him, moaning out loud, felt her tossing her head from side to side, and, finally, the hands that had been holding him there began to try to pull him away, but he wouldn't have it. He continued to work on her with his tongue and his mouth until she made a high keening, wailing sound, and went incredibly taut beneath him. For a moment it all stopped and he wondered if something had gone wrong, but then she made a sound—almost as if she were shushing him—and her body let go. She began to buck, pushing him away, and then kicking again with her feet to get him away from her. She curled up at the head of the bed and glared at him with flashing eyes.

“What the hell,” she said.

“What?”

“Are you crazy?” she asked. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Joe—”

“That felt too damn good, Clint Adams!” she told him. “I've never felt anything like that before.”

“Well, you said you hadn't had sex in a long time.”

“I've never had it like this,” she said. “I mean—I'm experienced, but not that experienced. But this…”

He got to his knees on the bed, his erection jutting out at her. Her eyes went to it and widened.

“And you haven't even done anything to me with that yet!” she said, almost accusingly.

“Joe,” he said, “I can leave if you want.”

“No!” she snapped, almost desperately. “No, I don't want you to go. I just—I just don't want to have a heart attack.”

She looked so comical, all curled up, her hair tossed all over, her eyes glowing hotly, that he had to start laughing. After a moment she started laughing, too, and slowly unfurled until she was stretched out on the bed again.

“Okay,” she said, “okay, I'm ready…”

“For what?” he asked.

She pointed at his rigid penis and said, “For that!”

 

“You seem to know your business, too,” Ed Martin said to George Markstein.

They had walked away from the desk with the blueprints, and Martin had poured them each a glass of whiskey.

“I'm very familiar with mining,” he said, “I just haven't mined turquoise before.”

“How did you find out about us?” Martin asked.

“This came across my desk.” He reached in his pocket and took out the stone he'd brought with him from home.

Martin took it from him and examined it. “It's rough, spiderweb turquoise,” he said.

“From this mine?”

“I'm sure,” Martin said. “A lot of the other outfits are still mining copper, and the ones that are mining turquoise are not getting the quality that we're getting.”

He handed the stone back.

“How'd you find out it came from us?”

“I did my research, Mr. Martin.”

“Ed, please,” Martin said. “If we're gonna be working together, you'll have to call me Ed.”

“And I'm George.”

Ed Martin raised his glass to George Markstein in a toast, and Markstein followed.

“I think we're gonna make a lot of money together, George,” he said, clinking his glass against the other man's.

Markstein said, “I certainly hope so, Ed.”