Free Longarm and the Wolf Women by Tabor Evans

breasts pushing at her black, lace-edged shirtwaist. “Key for the room where the, uh”—he jerked his head toward the staircase flanking the desk—“ entertainin’s goin’ on.”

Chapter 6
    The birdlike woman gasped and jerked back in her chair. Her eyes rose from the twin barrels yawning at her spindly bosom, and her nostrils flared angrily. “Appears the devil is having a high old time in town tonight.”
    A muffled squeal rose from the top of the stairs.
    Sloan narrowed his steel blue eyes even more, his plump, freckled cheeks balling humorously. On the other side of the black-haired gent called Giff, the tall man, Pyle, said, “Lady, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
    Sloan snapped his fingers. “Hand over the key.”
    The woman swallowed, eyes twitching fearfully, one hand spread upon her chest. “I . . . I believe the marshal is in there.”
    Giff bounded forward, bellying up to the counter and reaching across to grab the old woman by the front of her shirtwaist, jerking her bony face up close to his. He bunched his lips and spoke through gritted teeth, keeping his voice down.
    â€œLady, hand over the fuckin’ key, or I’m gonna drill an extra hole in your ugly face. Got it?”
    Her eyes bulged. Her mouth formed a thin, downward-curving slash.
    Moving only her hand, she reached under the desk, feeling around blindly, making a soft clanking noise, before finally setting a black key on the desk. To the key was attached a round metal plate engraved with the number 12.
    Giff dropped his gaze to the key. Still clutching the woman’s dress, keeping her face six inches from his, he said, “Now, do we need to hogtie you and cut out your tongue, or you gonna be a good ugly bitch and stay right here behind this desk . . . with your fucking mouth shut ?”
    Her small voice shook. “Amos Falcon sent you, didn’t he? On account of what”—she glanced at the ceiling near the stairs—“the marshal done to his son.”
    â€œThat wasn’t the answer I was lookin’ for.”
    â€œOh, Lordy,” the woman chirped, tears squeezing out her eyes and dribbling down her pasty cheeks. “Yes . . . I’ll stay here and be quiet. Please don’t hurt me!”
    â€œIf your old man comes snoopin’ around, you keep him here, too, understand?”
    The woman jerked her head up and down.
    Giff tossed her back against the cubbyholes built into the back wall. He turned, glanced darkly at Sloan and Pyle, and headed for the stairs.
    With Sloan and Pyle following in a shaggy line, Giff took the stairs quietly, two steps at a time, on the balls of his feet. Sloan tried doing the same, but his legs were too short, so he took only one step at a time. Long-legged Pyle scowled behind him as he followed the stocky redhead, having to move more slowly than he was comfortable with.
    As Giff approached the top of the stairs, the groans and the bed squawks got louder.
    He set his left boot down on the third step from the top. It squeaked like a baby bird fallen from its nest. He froze, gritting his teeth, pricking his ears to listen.
    The bed squawks and the passionate sounds of lovemaking continued without pause. Giff smiled. He turned to the others, shook his head with relief, indicated the loose step with his rifle barrel, then stepped up and over it to the top of the stairs.
    As the men stole quietly down the hall, the bedsprings went shee-saw , shee-saw , shee-saw , while the man grunted and cursed. Beneath the man’s low exclamations, the girl groaned and sighed.
    â€œOh, god, Custis . . . oh . . . Jesus Christ !”
    Giff glanced at Sloan slightly flanking him on his right, and smiled crookedly. They stopped before the door, Pyle behind them, a full head taller. Giff reached for the doorknob, then stopped. The door wasn’t quite latched.
    â€œOh, Christ, you fuck soooo good, Custis!” fairly