Blaze! Ride Hard, Shoot Fast Page 2

  J.D. blinked. "Well, the wig didn't hurt, I don't reckon. But I'd kinda like to think that I show a pretty high level of exuberance whenever we have a romp."

  "So why did you jump so quick to try and stop me from taking the wig off just now?"

  "Okay. Go ahead and take it off if that's what you want. I was just thinking that..."

  "You were just thinking that you wanted me to leave it on so you could get yourself worked up for another high level romp. Is that it?"

  "Any romp with you is high level, babe. You know that."

  "But one with me looking like somebody different—like Estelle Grigg, for instance—that gives it a little extra charge for you, doesn't it?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," J.D. scoffed. "You're twice the woman Estelle Grigg is. Or any other woman, even if you was bald as an onion." Now he tried his best disarming grin. "Hell, you're almost more woman than I can handle—especially when you get riled up."

  Kate swept the wig off in a single motion, fastening pins flying in all directions. "And don't you forget it," she warned, her own pale gold mane spilling loose around her face. "Because if you do, the next time you're feeling up for a romp, you might find this black wooly" —as she sent the wig sailing at him— "the only thing willing to share a mattress with you!"

  * * *

  It wasn't uncommon—in fact, it had become something of a ritual—for J.D. and Kate to engage in a bout of intense lovemaking as soon as possible after they walked away from a situation requiring them to throw lead together. As the West's only man-wife team of gunslingers, they enjoyed an ever-widening reputation for their skill and daring. How they celebrated together after a confrontation involving gunfire, however, remained their own private business.

  As he waited for Kate to finish taking a bath (and hopefully cool down along with the bath water) behind an angrily and ridiculously erected modesty screen, J.D. sat on the edge of the hotel room bed and contemplated whether or not the scrap that marked the end of this particular celebration might mean an end to such a fine tradition. He doubted it. A discontinuance for a while, maybe, but not an end...At least he sure as hell hoped not.

  Ordinarily, as she bathed Kate would be humming or softly singing refrains from popular songs of the day. None of that came from the other side of the screen this evening. And any thought of J.D. slipping around to join her in the tub, like he sometimes did, hardly seemed like a good idea; the mood she was in, she'd likely try to drown him.

  Hopefully, he told himself, the job they had just signed on for should give her something else to focus on while she was getting over being mad at him. And also give her pause to keep from drilling him while she was at the peak of her anger.

  The episode with the horse-nappers earlier in the day was related to the job at hand, but more of a side issue rather than the main thrust of what they'd been hired for. Midnight Shadow, the snatched horse, was one of the mounts entered in a highly-publicized 500-mile endurance race due to take place in only two days. Seeing to it that the upcoming race was conducted without foul play was what the Blazes were employed to do. But inasmuch as Midnight Shadow was owned by one of their employers—wealthy newspaperman Jonathan Grigg, whose wife Estelle would be riding Shadow in the race—it had only seemed logical for J.D. and Kate to get involved when the horse went missing and ransom demands were received.

  The fact that the Blazes were similar in physical size and features to the Griggs (excepting for Jonathan's beard and the differing hair color of the women) combined with the coincidence of the two couples having attended a theater presentation together only the evening before, had given J.D. the idea for him and Kate to impersonate the Griggses when it came to showing up for the ransom pay-off. The props of a wig and a false beard borrowed from the theater company were all it took for the necessary transformation to be accomplished and eventually for the safe (well, except where Dale Hoyt and his cohorts were concerned) return of Midnight Shadow.

  A generous bonus had been promised over and above their already agreed upon fee for duties concerning the actual race.

  But right at the moment, J.D. told himself, he would have given up his part of that bonus for Kate not to be so pissed at him. As he sat there idly toying with the discarded wig, however, a sly smile crept across his face. Still and all, he couldn't help remembering, she sure had looked mighty fetching wearing nothing but that pile of glistening black on her head...

  Chapter Three

  The whole race thing had gotten started when Jonathan Grigg's brother Edgar—also a newspaper man, publisher and editor of the Omaha Voice—ran a feature in his paper about the outstanding qualities of American horses stemming from the bloodline of the West's durable mustang. References to and quotations from the article then appeared in a wide range of other papers, including some very big-circulation publications in places like Chicago, New York, and even London. Champions of generally more highly regarded thoroughbred bloodlines were immediately outraged. The London coverage was brought to the attention of a visiting emir from Arabia and he, too, was quick to join the fray by claiming superiority for the famed Al Khams bloodline of Arabian horses.

  Telegraph lines nearly burnt up with heated exchanges and claims, all eagerly reported and repeated by print coverage. Buffalo Bill Cody, touring overseas with his Wild West extravaganza, was quick to take up the cause of the mustang proponents; Lord Danbery of England heartily challenged him on behalf of the thoroughbred crowd; and Emir Hali Rousaffi of Qotaristan strongly backed the Arabian interests. Before long, a race was proposed with the different bloodlines to be represented; and, thanks to the input and influence of notables such as the aforementioned, contributions poured in until a very generous purse could be offered. Next, a committee was formed to stipulate and arrange the details for such a contest.

  The end result: A 500-mile endurance run from Cheyenne, Wyoming to Omaha, Nebraska with a five thousand dollar purse on the line. Three grand to the winner; twelve-fifty to second place; five hundred for third; two-fifty for fourth. Not to mention the hefty side wagers certain to be placed.

  Each day there would be two mandatory checkpoints along the race route where the riders had to make an appearance, a mandatory nighttime rest stop, and a uniform re-start time each morning. Best accumulated time after crossing the Omaha finish line would be calculated and winners announced accordingly.

  An allowed maximum of twelve entrants was set. By the entry deadline, nine riders from all walks of life on an international array of mounts had signed on. The only woman participant was Estelle Grigg, a development called by many (mainly those who'd never seen the lady ride) merely a publicity stunt yet nevertheless a wrinkle that garnered plenty of extra interest and coverage.

  The route that had been laid out for the race ran parallel to—albeit a handful of miles north of—the Union Pacific railroad line. Other than putting in an appearance at each checkpoint, riders did not have to follow the prescribed route exactly. The nighttime stopovers would be at established rail sidings from which the riders would arc off north and east again at the next morning's re-start.

  To give them their best chance of spotting and hopefully preventing any underhanded tactics aimed at affecting the outcome of the race, J.D. and Kate had decided they would need to split up. J.D. would actually ride in the race, fighting to maintain a middle-of-the-pack position meant to provide the best vantage point for monitoring events out on the course itself. In order to keep an eye on things from a different angle, Kate would stick with the train hauling reporters, race officials, and other related personnel from siding to siding. At the nighttime stopovers they'd have the chance to get together to compare notes and alter plans/take action as warranted.

  As it turned out, it was this pending arrangement that lent itself to Kate getting past being mad at J.D. quicker than she otherwise might have.

  On that first night, right after the wig incident, the space on the bed between them had remained empty and cold as a frozen pond. The next mornin
g, as they began making final plans for the race and what would be required from them once it was underway, Kate's temperament showed signs of thawing. By afternoon, she was actually displaying some warmth. Finally, that night, the final night before the race started, she let it be known in no uncertain terms that she was over being angry.

  A grand kick-off dinner was held in the spacious dining hall of the Goldenhouse Hotel, Cheyenne's finest, where most of the race participants were also staying. Following the meal and associated ceremonies—attended by all the riders, their backers, race officials, dignitaries from far and wide, members of the press, and speech-makers who seemed to babble on longer than the race itself was expected to take—the Blazes slipped away and went to their room. In the darkness, once they were in bed, Kate wasted little time sliding across the space that had been iced over the previous night and snuggling tight against J.D., the way she usually did.

  "You realize, don't you," she said, "that once this thing gets underway tomorrow, there's going to be long stretches each day when we'll be totally separated from one another. We've been at each other's side—and had each other's back—practically every minute since we met and married."

  "And I thank my lucky stars for that. But, even with the race, we'll still be together each night," J.D. reminded her.

  "I know. But it will be at some cramped railroad siding with a whole bunch of other people crowded around. It won't be the same, not like we're really alone, just the two of us. And this race is probably going to take seven or eight days. In that amount of time, you know darn well we're likely to have the urge to...well..."

  "I sure hope so," J.D. said, grinning. "The way you were acting last night, I was left wonderin' how far off the next, er, urge might be."

  "I'm over that now. Just forget it. The fact of the matter is, those kind of urges are never very far apart for us."

  "Ah, those lucky stars again. So, if I'm hearing you right, you're worried that if the mood strikes us during one of those rail siding nights, with so many people around, it might be awkward for us to act on it."

  "You got the idea. I mean, I'm not exactly shy or anything. But still..."

  "Okay, here's the thing," said J.D., drawing the bundle of warm curves that was his wife even closer. "Far as I'm concerned, knowin' there's other folks close by can actually add a little extra excitement to what we're talkin' about. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some kind of freak or any such, but another fact of the matter is that the thought of getting away with a bit of naughtiness always spices things up a mite...Under the circumstances, we—meaning mainly you—will just have to keep it toned down some."

  "Me? What do you mean 'toned down'?" Kate asked.

  "You know, those loud moans of ecstasy and the way you break into yodeling every now and then when..."

  Kate cut him short with an elbow to the ribs. "Very funny. You're the one who practically calls up a revival meeting the way you start hollering, 'Oh God, oh God, baby' all the time."

  "Is that me? I always thought that was coming from you along with the yodeling and other stuff."

  By this point, the closeness and the heat of their bodies, combined with the subject matter under discussion, was having an undeniable effect. Since neither of them made a habit of wearing much in the way of nighttime apparel ("Don't make no sense to get dressed to go to bed," was the way J.D. liked to put it) the natural reaction of two bare bodies of the opposite sex snugged together could hardly help but occur.

  "I guess one possible solution," Kate said huskily as her hand caressed J.D.'s shoulder and chest and then began to skim lightly, tantalizingly downward, "might be to do some practicing so both of us can work on keeping it 'toned down' somewhat."

  J.D. cupped one of her breasts, his thumb stroking back and forth across the instantly responding nipple. "Sounds like a right fine idea...as long as we don't keep it too toned down."

  Chapter Four

  In the gray-tinted darkness that arrives just ahead of the first streaks of dawn, a rider coming from the east approached the burnt-out remains of an abandoned homestead a mile and a half southeast of Cheyenne. A second man waited there, seated on the ground beside the coals of a low-burning camp fire, knees drawn up and a heavy coat hugged close about him. As the rider drew close, the seated man got to his feet but kept the coat drawn tight. The starched collar of a bright white shirt and a very neatly knotted string tie, bright red in color, showed within the coat's fur collar.

  "About time you made it. I've been waiting here, freezing my ass off."

  The rider swung down from his saddle, the glow of the camp fire coals revealing a hard-faced man with gray-tipped whiskers. "You blame fool, whyn't you build the fire bigger if you was so cold? Besides, you think I was all warm and cozy out there on the trail?"

  "No, I don't suppose you were. As far as the fire, I thought it would be best not to build it up too big to keep from drawing attention to myself."

  "Attention from who? Who's gonna see you way the hell out here—especially with everybody and all their kin clumped together over in town to see the start of the big race?" Gray Whiskers scowled. "I hope you at least got some hot coffee ready."

  "Yeah, there's some there in the pot," said the man in the string tie. "I made it a while ago, probably pretty stout by now."

  "Good. That's just the way I like it." From the ground in front of the fire, Gray Whiskers plucked up an empty tin cup obviously used earlier by String Tie. After wiping its rim a couple times on his shirtfront, he leaned over and filled it with steaming, thick black liquid from a pot on the edge of the coals. Pausing a moment to blow some cooling breaths across the top of the brew, Gray Whiskers then took a swallow. "Whooee! You weren't kiddin'," he exclaimed, lowering the cup. "This is not for the young or tender-hearted."

  "Tried to tell you."

  "Yeah, you did. I ain't complainin', mind you. Just sayin', that's all."

  "Okay. So what have you got to report?" String Tie said somewhat anxiously. "How are things farther east? Is everything ready?"

  After taking another drink of coffee, Gray Whiskers said, "You bet it is. Three days from now, things will be in place exactly like you want. Then the next step will kick into gear and two days after that things'll be ready all over again."

  "I don't have to tell you how much is riding on this," String Tie said.

  Gray Whiskers grinned. "Yeah, I know...In more ways than one."

  The anxiety in his voice ticking up another notch, String Tie said, "And you're confident you've got good, competent men all along the line?"

  "Oh, they're not 'good' men by any stretch of the imagination. But for what we need out of 'em, they're plenty competent...Now how about on this end? What about those Blazes who've been hired to keep an eye out for any shenanigans?"

  "You let me worry about them."

  "Yeah. That's something you do real good—worry."

  String Tie frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Never mind. I'll take care of my part of things, that's something you don't have to worry about. Just see to it that you and yours got a handle on the rest. That includes those Blazes. I see any sign of them threatenin' to queer up our plan, me and my boys won't hesitate to take 'em out of the picture...And the fact one of 'em's a woman won't slow me a damn bit."

  * * *

  Joshua Hope hadn't figured on getting much sleep that night. Considering all the hoopla surrounding the big race and the fact he was signed up to be one of the riders in it, he expected his nerves would keep him tossing restlessly until it was finally time to start.

  The fact he was aiming to try and get said sleep in the same stall as his horse, Bolt, didn't really figure into it. Hell, as a black man roaming the West in the turbulent years following the Civil War, it was hardly the first time he'd found the only place that welcomed him spending the night meant sharing a stall with Bolt (or, in the past, different horses)—and most of those had been a lot more cramped and a lot more lacking in clean bedding than thi
s big, roomy area tonight with plenty of fresh straw that Joshua had piled up in one corner and spread his bedroll blanket over.

  When he'd first stretched out on his straw mattress, after discreetly departing the crowd that remained gathered following the kick-off dinner, he reckoned it was as soft and comfortable as any bed he'd ever lain on. Maybe even as comfortable as the ones over in the Goldenhouse Hotel. He had no idea what those hotel rooms might be like, and couldn't afford to find out, even though it was made known to him that—as an entrant in the race—he'd be allowed to stay in one. Among other things, he imagined they were filled with the kind of delicate furnishings and flowery scents that always struck him as phony and unappealing. To his nostrils, the solid basics of a stable and the smell of horses and grain and clean straw suited him just fine—for damn sure better than the stink of cigar smoke and overworked perfume that had begun filling the crowded dining hall once the fancy meal was over.

  Joshua had decided that the decanter of wine he slipped inside his jacket on the way out was all the company—along with Bolt, of course—he would need for the balance of the night.

  It turned out he was right. What he was wrong about, though, was not being able to fall asleep. With the comfortable straw underneath him, a fine meal and the wine inside him, and surrounded by the soothing quiet of the stall, broken only by Bolt's steady breathing, he fell into a deep slumber.

  A little too deep, unfortunately.

  If he'd been turning and tossing like he expected, his assailants would never have slipped up on him so easily. As it was, however, they had him in their clutches before he was fully awake or had any clear idea what was happening. But the way they dragged him to his feet, slammed him against one side of the stall, pinned him there, and then began pounding and stomping him made it plenty damn obvious that their intentions weren't good.