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

“Go to the rooms of strange men.”
    â€œI told you my name,” he said. “That means I’m not a strange man.”
    â€œClint,” she said, to prove she remembered.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said, pressing his lips to her soft neck, “and you’re Rachel.”
    â€œOh my . . .” she said. She shivered as he kissed her neck.
    Slowly, he began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress. When he had more of her skin bare, he ran his fingertips over it and she shivered again. She stepped back long enough for him to remove the dress all the way and peel her undies from her so that she was naked. Her breasts were full, with rounded, heavy undersides, dark brown nipples, and just the a slightest hint of sag. He cupped them in his palms and flicked at the nipples with his thumbs.
    â€œWho was the big mean-looking guy in the restaurant?” he asked.
    â€œWho, Andy? He’s just the cook. And the owner.”
    â€œNot your boyfriend?”
    â€œNo,” she said, closing her eyes as he squeezed her breasts, “not my boyfriend. I—I don’t h-have a boyfriend.”
    â€œThat’s good,” he said, pressing his lips to the upper slopes of her breasts. “So there’s nobody waiting for you at home?”
    â€œNo,” she said, in a breathy voice, “I live by myself.”
    He lifted her breasts and touched the tip of his tongue to her nipples. He flicked then easily, then took them into his mouth and sucked them hard.
    â€œClint?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIt’s been a long time for me,” she said. “Can we make this last? I—I don’t know when the next time will be.”
    â€œWell,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, the next time won’t be long after this time. I mean, we have all night, right?”
    â€œYes, but . . . I mean after tonight,” she said. “The men in this town . . . Well, there don’t seem to be many real men in this town.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” he said, going to his knees in front of her. He pressed his mouth to her belly. “A woman like you deserves a real man.”
    â€œOoh,” she said, grabbing his head as he tongued her deep belly button. And then she said, “Oh,” as he cupped her pubic mound with his right hand. She had a lot of hair there, which he liked. He probed it gently until the end of his middle finger found her very wet.
    â€œOh . . . my . . . God . . .” she said, as he dipped his finger into her gently.

THIRTY-FOUR
    Andy Crawford closed the restaurant door, locked it, and walked to the sheriff’s office. As he entered, Sheriff Patterson looked up from his desk.
    â€œYou don’t look happy, Andy,” he said.
    â€œI ain’t,” Andy said. “There was a stranger sniffing around Rachel today.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œHe was askin’ about the old Organ Pipe burnin’ down,” the cook said.
    â€œThat must be Clint Adams,” Patterson said.
    â€œYou know about him?”
    â€œSure. I sent him over to you. Thought you could use the business.”
    â€œYou sent him—Wait a minute,” Andy said, suddenly. “Did you say Clint Adams?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œThe Gunsmith.”
    â€œStill right, Andy.”
    â€œWhat the hell is he doin’ in town?” Andy asked. “And how did he find us?”
    â€œIt appears Joe Hickey drew him a map.”
    â€œHickey!”
    â€œSit down before you explode, Andy,” Harry Patterson said. “Yeah, it seems Hickey’s in Yuma Prison.”
    â€œThat’s where he belongs, if you ask me,” Andy said. “I hope they’re plannin’ on hangin’ him.”
    â€œDid he spend money in your place?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œAdams, did he spend money in your place?”
    â€œOh, yeah, he ate. Beef stew.”
    â€œSo you got any other