Message on the Wind by J. R. Roberts Page A

more coffee with a slice of peach pie.
    â€œDon’t get too many people askin’ for peach,” the waitress said. “Usually apple, or sometimes rhubarb, but we keep peach on hand for special people.”
    She gave him a hint as to how special she thought he was by bumping him with a firm hip. He could feel the heat emanating from her body right through her apron.
    It was dark out by the time he finished his supper.
    â€œJust get into town today?” the waitress asked him.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. “I’m staying at the hotel across the street.”
    â€œBusiness or pleasure?” she asked.
    â€œSomewhere in between, I guess.”
    â€œOh, a mystery man,” she said, with a big smile. “I like mysteries.”
    â€œYou do?”
    She nodded.
    â€œThis town is sort of a mystery to me.”
    â€œReally? Why?”
    â€œWell, I remember a town called Organ Pipe, but it wasn’t here. It was farther . . . east.”
    â€œThat was the old Organ Pipe,” she said. “This is the new Organ Pipe.”
    â€œWhat happened to the old one?”
    â€œOh, it burned down.”
    â€œReally? When?”
    â€œA couple of years ago.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    She lowered her voice and said, “Well, nobody really knows the whole story, but—”
    â€œRachel!”
    She cringed, then turned and looked at the man standing in the kitchen doorway.
    â€œYou got work to do, girl,” the man said.
    He wasn’t just standing in the doorway, he filled it. Well over six feet, and almost that wide, he had black, wiry hair on his arms, which, assuming he was the cook, Clint was glad he had not found on his plate.
    â€œI gotta go, mister,” Rachel said.
    â€œClint,” he said, “my name’s Clint. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
    She smiled and said, “Yeah, maybe.”
    Clint got up to leave, and the big cook stared at him the whole way to the door.

THIRTY-THREE
    Clint went to his room to read and wait. If he was any hand at reading women, he figured the waitress, Rachel, would be at his door as soon as she could. She was interested in him, and he was interested in her; only his interest was twofold: He wanted to see what she looked like without her apron, and he wanted to talk to her some more about “old” Organ Pipe.
    He was sitting on the bed reading Mark Twain when a knock came at the door. It was soft, and gave every indication of being a woman’s knock, but he took his gun to the door with him anyway.
    It was Rachel. She smelled of beef stew and pie, not a bad combination.
    Shyly, she asked, “Was I predictable?”
    â€œNot at all,” he said. “Come in.”
    â€œSo you weren’t waitin’ for me?” she asked, as he closed the door.
    â€œWell,” he said, turning to face her, “I was hoping. I mean,” he showed her the gun, “would I be holding this if I’d thought it was you?”
    She seemed pleased that she hadn’t been too predictable—even if he was lying.
    He holstered his gun on the bed rail and turned to face her again. He could smell her beneath the cooking smells, which excited him even more.
    â€œI probably should’ve went home and took a bath first,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable.
    â€œI don’t think so,” he said, moving closer to her. She’d removed her apron, but was wearing the same cotton dress. She was buxom, with clear white skin and long dark hair. Her skin betrayed her job, since she didn’t spend much time out in the sun.
    He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Her lips were tentative at first, then softened and became responsive. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him tighter so that her full breasts were crushed against his chest.
    â€œI—I don’t do this all the time, you know,” she said, pressing her head to his chest.