Chapter 3
Jill wished she'd worn something else to town, but she was so used to her work clothes that it hadn't seemed to matter. But now, whenever she stooped over a vegetable bin, or bent to find canned foods on a lower shelf, she was conscious of every move. Men had always looked at her, and she was kind of proud of drawing attention, but now it seemed that the stares were more lascivious, that eyes clung to her legs and buttocks, that eyes penetrated her shirt and found the heavy nipples torturing themselves there.
She looked up, a bag of onions in one hand, and the stock boy grinned down at her. Before he turned quickly away, she could have sworn she saw a bulge in the front of his pants. Jill dropped the bag into her shopping cart and steered it down the aisle of the market. She had no real business being in town again so soon; the shopping could have waited. But she'd been edgy at the ranch, jumpy over things that shouldn't have bothered her.
Why the hell hadn't Boyce Pittman been out to see her? He hadn't even called, and she damned him for being so overcautious, for worrying about his family man image. She needed to be screwed, and she wasn't about to go around looking for stock boys who happened to have hard-ons.
That would be a quick way to get her name smeared all over the county, where Steve Devlin could read it loud and clear, as soon as he came home. Then it would all be for nothing, and Steve himself would no doubt kick the ranch down the road. He could always reenlist and ship out to some other exotic part of the world, and say the hell with civilian life and all its headaches.
And leave Jill to do what? She didn't want to think about it. She checked out the groceries and said, "Yes, Mr. Sutton, it's a nice day and I'm sure the hay will make well this year." Then she hauled the stuff out to the truck because she didn't want a box boy around. Or any other kind of boy; she wanted a man.
One of them stood leaning against her truck, his thick elbow propped on the door handle; the other lounged at the light post nearby. The man at the truck was heavy, very thick through the chest and hairy as a horse in his winter coat; his eyebrows were bushy and his face was darkly watchful. He didn't smile at her, just leaned there and looked.
The slim man was cute, in the way a girl is cute; she saw how his long hair curled over his collar, and the care with which it had been combed and sprayed into place. She saw his simpering smile, and then she looked at his eyes. They were something else, so pale they were almost colorless.
The slim one came closer and said, "Mrs. Devlin, owner of the Rafter D?"
"You ought to know," she said. "You followed me home the other day. Where's your gray Buick?"
He laughed-a high, girlish spate of laughter, and stroked his left hand over his hair. "See, Jojo-I told you she was bright and alert. Oh, pardon me, Mrs. Devlin-that's Jojo holding up your truck, and I'm Lang. Say hello to the bright lady, Jojo."
Jojo said, "Come off that shit."
Lang minced closer yet and held out a card. "Poor Jojo; he's still struggling with two syllable words, but he does have his uses. I think he really could hold up your truck-in pieces, if need be."
Jill glanced down at the business card. "Who's Aaron Mercer?"
Lang giggled. "Oh my; everyone should know that. Still, this is so far out in the hinterlands, that I suppose-"
"Knock off the shit," Jojo grunted, "and tell her."
Lang raised an eyebrow at the big man, and shrugged. To Jill he said, "Mr. Aaron Mercer would like to see you. He's staying at the only motel in town, The Shorthorn." He giggled again. "And that is ridiculous, where Mr. Mercer is concerned."
Jill looked up the street and saw a rancher she knew; she glanced down the street and saw some other people come out of the store. She said, "I'm not going to any motel to meet anybody. If he wants to see me, he can find my telephone number in the book. Now you, Jojo-get the hell off my door handle before I start yelling help."
The big man moved casually away, never taking his eyes off her. Lang said hurriedly, "But Mr. Mercer said ..."
Pushing by him, Jill climbed into her truck and slammed the door. She was angry, but there was a chill in her, too. She drove quickly away, down to the end of the street before turning into a station for gas and use of the pay phone. That pair would scare the stuffing out of a turkey, she thought-the big, animal one; the slim, cute one with eyes like a blind rattlesnake. She dialed the number of the bank and got through to Boyce Pittman.
"Why, Mrs. Devlin-I thought we had most everything settled-"
"It's about my note," she said, in case anyone was listening at the switchboard. "I'm going to the ranch now, and if you could possibly find time-"
"Ah, I think so," he said. "I have to look at some property out that way later today, if that would be all right?"
"Just fine," she said. "I'll be waiting." And after she hung up the phone, Jill wondered why she hadn't asked him about Mr. Aaron Mercer.
On her way home, she thought about that, about a man who used thugs as messengers, about thugs who followed her to the ranch, and a feeling of premonition came over her again. She put it aside, but it came back to ride in the bouncing cab like a ghost of a gray monkey, clinging to windows and knobs with tiny, worrisome claws.
Then she was on Rafter D land, and the sun was brighter. She wheeled the truck right on up to the house and climbed down. Peering over at the barn, she didn't see Dink Watson around; she carried her shopping inside and wondered about that, too. Dink was usually close to home this time of day, when the cows came up to be fed and the horses gathered for graining. Maybe he was still working on fence, she thought, but looked out the kitchen window a time or two, anyhow.
The telephone rang stridently, and she picked it up. "Yes?"
"This is Aaron Mercer." The voice was soft, but there was steel under the softness, and an exciting timbre. "I'd like to see you."
"N-not today," she said. "I-I'm expecting someone else."
"Pittman?"
Jill blinked into the receiver. "Why, yes, but-"
"It would be better if he doesn't know you've talked to me. May I see you tomorrow afternoon, then?"
"I-suppose so," Jill said.
"And I apologize for my men," Mercer said. "They're all I brought with me this time. Until tomorrow, Mrs. Devlin."
He didn't say good-bye, and she found that she had not expected him to; somehow, Jill felt that Mr. Aaron Mercer would be different from other men, not bound by custom or tradition. His voice had stirred something in her, and she thought she must be freaking out, that she was turning round-heeled. Now all a man had to do was talk to her, and she got those little squiggles all through her body.
Don't tell Pittman, he said; it would be better if she didn't. Better for whom, for what? Jill bit her lip and walked to the cabinet over the sink. Unlocking it with a key from her ring, she took down a fifth of pretty good bourbon. From long habit, she glanced over her shoulder to see if Dink Watson was nearby, for he could smell the stuff from a country mile away. That's why the cabinet was kept locked, for Dink's protection; he'd never break into anything to get whiskey, but if it was left out, he'd "find" it, and finders, keepers.
She had a long drink, and poured another in a water glass. Once Dink got the feeding done, he'd cook his stew on the little stove in his room and watch his small TV for a while, then go to bed. He didn't come to the house unless she called him, or unless she wasn't there. Dink had worked for the Devlins for twenty-five years, since Steve was a kid, and he took a while to accept new people. After nine years, Jill was still new people.
He wouldn't come nosing around after Boyce got here; that was ranch business, her business, and Dink Watson wouldn't be interested. That was good; she had an itch that only Boyce could scratch right now, and it was past time for working at it. Just for the Rafter D, she told herself; Boyce hadn't come right back to her, after those first sexual samples, so he might be trying to slide out of his end of the bargain.
But he'd promised her some time, and she needed that, as much as she needed his maleness. And she'd made him happy, gratified him, turned him into a little boy nursing at his mama's breast. For all Boyce's power and financial wizardry, he was still a juvenile in sex. A frigid wife, he said; a lack of warmth and giving, and a man in his position had to be careful. Belatedly, Jill thought again of a camera, of pictures during copulation that might force Boyce Pittman to keep hands off the ranch. If she had to do something so underhanded, she would, but right now, she'd just worry through without blackmail.
She heard the car and gulped down her glass of whiskey. Leaping up, she scurried about the living room, straightening up and making largely ineffectual passes with her kerchief at imaginary dust. Still in shirt and jeans and boots, she was furious with herself for loafing so long, for not showering and making herself all frilly and perfumy.
She met him at the door. "Hi, banker; come on in."
Boyce walked stiffly erect, his briefcase swinging in precise arcs. He wore an Italian silk suit, cut with just a hint of mod, and his tie had a splash of vivid color, but the rest of him was conservative. His red-brown hair was cut close and his sideburns were of an acceptable length.
He said, "I'm glad you called, Jill. I-well, I've been trying to make myself stay away from you. Nothing like you has ever happened to me before, and I don't like not being in complete control of myself."
She took his briefcase, put it on the couch. Then she went to stand close to him, so that the points of her breasts could brush his shirt, so that he could feel just the kiss of her hipbones before she slipped away. "Drink, Boyce?"
"Why, yes. I don't have to get back to the bank today, and I don't have to hurry home, either. My wife has a meeting early, and ..."
She left him in the living room and poured two drinks. Already, the pair she'd downed were causing her ears to buzz and the blood to move more quickly through her veins. She brought the drinks back and touched his glass with hers. "Here's to swingers. You turn me on, Boyce, more than I thought was possible. I've never cheated before, you know, and now it seems that I can't stop with you. Drink up, lover, so you can help me take a shower."
His eyes widened. "I think I'd like that. If you're sure nobody will come to the house-"
"Old Dink is still out on the fence line," she said. "Come on!"
Gulping down his whiskey, Boyce followed her into the bedroom. She was undressed before him, because he folded his clothing, or hung it carefully over the back of the chair, and Jill only kicked hers into a corner. In the shower stall, she got the water going hot and full of needles, and when she turned to pick up the soap, he was in with her and pulling the door shut behind himself.
A little high on liquor and higher on anticipation, Jill slid a soapy hand over his penis, and laughed at the gasp it drew from him. "Wash my back," she demanded, and turned away from him.
His hands were shaky, but they moved over her wet flesh with an intriguing slipperiness. He soaped her back, beginning at the nape of her neck and running his palms down her spine, down her hips, making bubbly caresses over her cheeks, and she felt the touch of his hard penis. Reaching behind, she caught his wrists and brought his hands around so he could fondle lather over her breasts, and she rolled her ass back against him as he did so.
"Ahh," he breathed, and hugged her closer, shoving his cock against her, grinding his testicles into the crack of her ass. "Ahh, Jill-what a magnificent animal you are-so alive, and warm, so giving."
She turned in his arms, foamy and with water purling off her skin, the soapsuds washing down to make colorful jewels in the honey-blonde curlings of her pubic hair. "This way," she panted, "oh, Boyce-do it to me like this!"
He stood with his feet braced apart, stood uncertainly as she climbed up on the edges of the tub, her hands upon his shoulders to help her balance. Jill slipped her legs around his waist then, and the water roared down over them as she locked her thighs about Boyce's body.
"Put it in," she begged wetly, her lips on his, "oh, put it in me!"
Fumbling, Boyce guided the head of his penis up and found her slippery labia, and the head of it popped into her ready cuntlips without hesitation. "Uhhh!" he grunted, and settled it home to the roots as Jill wiggled her ass to make it fit solidly.
Then she leaned back until her shoulder blades touched the tiled wall, and the hot, needling water lanced down over her tits, over her writhing belly. He pounded it up her, battering the thickness of his shaft against her wet and hairy labia, grunting and sighing as he worked the head of his cock deep into her vagina. Jill rippled her sheath around his tool, ground her ass to make it touch everywhere inside her, and gasped as her clit was rubbed by every stroke.
"Oh, do it to me!" she moaned. "Stick it deep in me, lover! Hammer it up my pussy until I can't breathe, until I just can't take it any more! Oh! Oh, yes-oh, darling!"
Straining, coming up on his toes to make the penetrating thrusts, Boyce Pittman fed her his cock, rode his slippery prick in and out of her shuddering envelope with savage determination.
Her body rocked and bounced, and her tits jiggled. He held tightly to her waist and lunged for all he was worth, excited by the water, the sleek tingling of her flesh, by this new position she had made him use.
"Umm!" Jill groaned, and rolled her head from side to side, matching the heavings of her ass. "Oh, baby, I'm coming-I'm coming!!"
The thrills shot through her, raced crazily and starbursting from the center of the universe, her clitoris, the geysering golden sparks radiated to every cell of her vagina, her womb itself. She felt the head of his drilling cock expand, felt him shudder and hesitate in his strokes, and then the wondrous flushing ejaculated inside her pussy, the beautiful hotness that was hotter than the water and more slippery than the soap. He came, and came again, and she thought that each spurt of his release was almost as strong as the first.
Then it stopped, and she discovered that her back was aching. Lowering her legs, unwrapping them from about his body, she let them slip down his thighs. His penis came out of her and stood dripping until the shower washed all the semen away. Jill turned off the water and slid back the tub door. Stepping out onto the bathmat, she took a thick towel and handed one to Boyce.
"That was wonderful," she said, her breasts trembling, her vagina quivering.
It was only after she was in the bedroom and looking for a dress to put on that she had the time and inclination to feel guilty. It wasn't as strong an emotion as it had been before, and she thought that it would probably wear itself completely away, in time.
Did she want that to happen to her? Jill toweled her hair roughly and dropped the towel on the throw rug beside the bed. At the dresser, she found panties and bra, and put them on. She was just pulling a light gingham dress over her head when Boyce Pittman came out of the bathroom, the towel tucked self-consciously around his middle.
"We could both use another drink," she said, and left him to dress while she padded barefoot for the bottle of bourbon and their glasses. She looked out of the kitchen window at the barn, and saw the horses gathered there, heard the lowing of the cows. Dink Watson wasn't back yet, and that started to bug her. A little while more, and she'd have to saddle Comet D and go look for the old man; he could have been thrown, or got himself snakebit.
She took the glasses to the living room, and Boyce met her there, dressed except for his tie. "Thanks, Jill. I just remembered, I do have to make another real estate stop. I suppose I could leave it for tomorrow, but that-that incident in the shower has just about drained me, I'm afraid."
"Me, too," she said, and took a swallow of whiskey. "You take a lot out of a woman, Boyce."
"Do I?" he asked proudly. "Do I really? Well, that's good to hear. I-I guess I've always been a bit guilty about Martha, about my wife. I thought it could be my fault that she didn't, that she doesn't like sex."
"No," Jill said, "it's not your fault, Boyce. You can make a woman flip out; I know."
He expanded visibly, and she thought that his smile was real for a change. He said, "I'll call you right away. Tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay."
He didn't kiss her good-bye; he hadn't gone that far into being real or lost that much of his banker's shell. When the edge was off his sexual desires, she thought that Boyce Pittman would always retreat behind his armor again; he was more comfortable there.
He sped his car down her road, and she watched the dust settle behind its passage. Boyce was always in a hurry to get away from her, and that made her wonder how long she could hold him, how long he would keep the ranch mortgage foreclosure from the bank files. Maybe she'd have to furnish him with wilder sex, something far out that wouldn't scare him off. The trouble was, Jill didn't know anything far out, and she didn't think that the little local library carried that kind of research books.
She heard the cows again, and frowned at the barn; no Dink yet. She left the house and trotted over there, around back where the small room was. Knocking on the door she called. "Dink . . . Dink?"
No answer, so she turned the knob and stepped into the semigloom. She smelled the odor before she saw him sprawled on his cot-whiskey. Leaning over the bed, Jill shook his shoulders, but the old man didn't respond, didn't even groan, and she knew that he was deeply under. There was an empty fifth beside the bunk, and another one only partly full, set carefully against the wall.
"Damn," Jill said. So far as she knew, Dink had no money, and surely he hadn't saved out two fifths from the first of the month.
Then she saw the tin can used for an ash tray: it was filled with cigarette butts, hand-rolled ones. Dink didn't smoke, and didn't usually allow anyone else to smoke around the barn, so his visitor must have been someone pretty special to him.
She swore again because she had changed from her work clothes. Rather than go back to the house, she hauled the grain cart to the corral and dipped each horse a ration; she had to give hay and grain both to the stallion, in his separate run. Then there were the cows, so she climbed on the tractor and hauled the trailer full of silage down the fence to the feeders. At least Dink was in the habit of getting everything ready for the evening chores, but that didn't help her now. She had to stand in the sticky stuff and fork out silage until her arms ached and the sweat was running down between her breasts.
Somebody had come out to the ranch and fed old Dink booze, enough of it to black him out for the day and night. So Jill had to do the chores until he was back on his feet, and she was already handling a lot of the ranch work, anyhow. She said dirty words about whoever gave Dink the whiskey, and drove the tractor back to the barn, dusty and dirty and needing another shower.
Dink had his problems, and she had her own. Like screwing a man in the shower of her husband's house. Like enjoying the hell out of the screwing, despite the smokescreen of logic that said it was all for the ranch, which made it all for Steve Devlin, in a roundabout way.
Would she camouflage her own desires with some other story, if Aaron Mercer got close to her? She went into the house and straight to the shower. She didn't even know what the man looked like, but his voice turned her on. She didn't know a lot of things-such as what he wanted, why he'd have bodyguards.
And who got Dink Watson drunk.