Free High Country Horror by Jon Sharpe Page B

Your solemn word.”
    “You have it,” Fargo lied.

9
    Fargo sat on the bed and Helsa Chatterly sat in the chair. She’d brought two glasses and he had filled them halfway. Now she was studying him over her glass. He pretended not to notice and gazed out the window at a patch of sky sprinkled with stars.
    “You puzzle me.”
    “Works both ways,” Fargo said.
    “I puzzle you too?” Helsa downed the whiskey without bat-ting an eyelash. “In what regard? I’m a widow who runs a boardinghouse. My life couldn’t be any simpler.”
    “You’re a good-looking widow who runs a boardinghouse. And good-looking women usually have a man around.”
    “My husband was murdered a year ago,” Helsa reminded him sharply. “Which you seem to keep forgetting.”
    “A year ago,” Fargo said.
    “More than enough time to cope with my grief. Is that what you’re suggesting?” Helsa tipped the glass to her lips. “Some of us take longer than others.”
    “It must be lonely.”
    Helsa emptied her glass and held out her hand for the bottle. Instead of refilling the glass, she swilled straight from it, several long swallows. She didn’t give the bottle back. “Damn you.”
    “I don’t mean to upset you.”
    “The hell you don’t. You want me thinking of him and how him and me used to . . . you know.”
    “If it bothers you, leave,” Fargo said.
    “As if you really want me to. I’ve seen how you look at me. You have one thing on your mind and one thing only.”
    “I do?”
    Helsa raised the bottle again. After a couple of swallows she said, “Conniving devil. You plan to get me drunk so you can have your way with me.”
    “I’d just as soon you were sober.”
    “You are full of it up to here.” Helsa raised a hand to her chin. “You must think I’m stupid or gullible.”
    “I think you are as fine a woman as I’ve ever met,” Fargo said in earnest. “Your husband was a lucky man.”
    “Quit reminding me of him.” Helsa got up and moved to the window and drank more whiskey. “I ache when I think of James. Some nights I curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep.”
    “Maybe you really should go.”
    Helsa turned and stared at him while taking another swig. “Bastard,” she said.
    “You are a mean drunk,” Fargo said.
    “Bastard, bastard, bastard.” Helsa came to the bed and stood in front of him. “I could just shoot you.”
    “For sharing my bottle?”
    “For being so damn good-looking.” Bending, Helsa pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were warm and wet and soft, and she tasted of whiskey. She kissed lightly at first but with increasing ardor as the kiss went on. When she drew back, her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. “That was nice.”
    “How about a second helping?” Fargo molded his mouth to hers. The kiss lasted longer, and when they broke for breath, Helsa rested her forehead on his chest.
    “Oh my.”
    “Am I still a bastard?”
    “More than ever.” Yet she kissed him a third time, passionately, fiercely, while her fingers ran lightly over and around his neck and explored his face.
    For Fargo’s part, he grew as hard as iron. Sliding his hands behind her, he sculpted her shoulders and her shoulder blades, then ran his hands down her back to her bottom. At the contact of his fingers below her waist, she stiffened and exhaled into his mouth.
    Presently Helsa pushed on his chest and turned her face to the ceiling. “My head is swimming,” she said softly.
    “The whiskey,” Fargo said.
    “No. Not that.” A rueful smile spread Helsa’s lips. “It’s been so long. So very, very long.”
    Fargo knew the feeling. Whenever he was off on a scout for weeks at a stretch he craved a woman like some men craved tobacco. He kissed her throat and her ear and nipped at the lobe. He licked her neck, kissed her eyebrow, then glued his mouth to hers anew.
    Helsa moaned. She removed his hat and dropped it to the floor and entwined her fingers in his hair. Her body gave off heat