Page 47 of Sure as Shooting

Epilogue

July 1851

“Stormy, come! Come, come, come!”

Lordy, trying to teach this critter to obey was like…well, like trying to get Whit and Huntley to behave!

The fluffy Newfoundland puppy had a mind of her own, that was definite. She never strayed far from home, and she sat on her fleecy haunches when commanded, but she would only come when called if she was being fed her bowl of chile verde.

“Come, come, come!” Belle called from the flap of the hospital tent. “Ooh!” With mild annoyance she took a stool next to Captain Boling to fashion him an arm sling. They still called him “Captain,” although once again he was merely a hotelkeeper. Last night there had been a fracas in his saloon, but it was refreshing that it only involved a pickled miner betting he could race his horse through Boling’s front glass window. It was comforting there had been no incidents involving Indians since their Mariposa Battalion campaign.

Boling asked, “When are you and the Doc taking a honeymoon?”

“We’re not,” Belle admitted. “We can’t leave Agua Fria for any amount of time. Especially when folks insist on pulling blockheaded stunts like riding a horse through a window.”

Stormy appeared at the tent flap, her ears puffed up, listening. She barked once, then again, punctuating her sentence with importance.

“I see,” Belle told her.

“You see what?” Boling asked.

“Oh, she knows it’s lunchtime. Maybe she didn’t catch enough salmon in the creek today and wants more of Lupe’s chile verde.”

She sent Boling back to his hotel with a bottle of good Scotch whiskey for pain, not to be sold to patrons. Stormy followed at her side as they walked the short way up the rise to their house. Belle was thoroughly satisfied at her decision not to have another child. Stormy was certainly a handful and took up what little time she would have devoted to a baby. Now that Stormy had learned the house was not a privy, Huntley seemed to love her and spent much time chucking her under the chin and making cooing infant sounds. That was good enough for Belle.

After feeding Stormy on the back porch, Belle followed the sound of men’s laughter to the study Huntley now shared with Whit. They spent a great deal of time with their boots on their desks, lounging in chairs smoking cigars, like two captains of industry.

They were not doing so now.

Whit stood, leaning his behind against his desk, completely nude aside from the trousers wrinkled up at his ankles. Kneeling before him in supplication, a fully clad Huntley devoured that enormous cock voraciously—as though he had not had biscuits and gravy for breakfast! A warm, lusty feeling expanded between Belle’s thighs as she leaned against the desk, too.

She ran her hand down Whit’s coppery bicep, smooth as cream. Huntley did not stop in his voracious sucking of the large appendage, but Whit looked up at her with a devilish grin.

“Lordy,” Belle said. “You’re going to get us all in trouble if you persist in doing this in the middle of the day. What if someone came to the door needing medical assistance?”

“The curtains are closed,” Whit said hoarsely. A muscle in his cheek twitched with arousal as Huntley plastered his lips to the tight ball sac. “They can knock with the door knocker.”

Belle didn’t want to distract them. But hoping she might be in luck, she returned to the foyer to retrieve her possible bag. Rooting around in it, she pulled out one of the tiny bits of sea sponge Whit had procured for her. Striding back to the study, she placed it in her palm and turned a bottle of brandy onto it. Hitching one booted foot onto the sideboard leg, she expertly inserted the dripping sponge into her quim, shoving it up against her womb with her forefinger.

Whit must have seen her do this, for he cried, “Ah, stop!” to Huntley, who fell onto his heels and looked up in wonder.

“Stop? Why?”

Whit held his arms out in the shape of an embrace, and Belle readily came to him, kissing his achingly beautiful jawbone. “Because I want to teach you another way to please our beautiful wife. Stay right where you are.”

As his deft fingers worked the buttons at her skirt’s waist, Whit kissed her with a mouth that already tasted of jism. Belle licked his tongue and wiggled out of her skirt, tossing it aside. Whit did the same with her drawers, disposing of them with a fling of the arm.

“Now, my angel,” said Whit. “Turn around.”

Placing her palms on the edge of the desk, Belle waggled her behind back and forth, knowing she looked salacious wearing only a shirt and boots. From his seat on the floor, Huntley must have had a physician’s view of her cunt, now dribbling a mixture of her inner juices and brandy, a tasty mixture for a man.

Whit positioned himself behind her, gripping her hips. The gigantic glans of his shiny, stiff penis nudged against her pussy opening, and she spread her booted feet farther apart on the carpet, lifting her hips to him. “Now, Hunt,” Whit said in his most proper surgeon’s voice. “You’re getting to be an expert at making Belle come with your fingers. Let’s try your tongue.”

Huntley’s words came hot against her inner thigh, and the tickling of his glorious glossy mane sent shivers up her back. “It’ll work with just a tongue?” She had only ever had Whit’s face between her thighs, with his extremely short cap of well-trimmed hair like a soft, little cactus. Now she reached down and speared her fingers through Hunt’s silken curls, sliding off the leather thong he used to cinch it into a ptail at the back of his neck.

Belle said, “Yes, my dough-head. You must keep your tongue very stiff and flick it up and down like a finger. Ah!”Whit had taken her unawares, gliding his thick cock into her cunt, and Belle squirmed to accommodate him. She’d been taking his enormous member inside of her for months, but she still had to relax to give him access.

She hissed in a lungful of air when Huntley’s tongue flicked across her swollen clitoris. She grabbed a handful of his thick hair, pressing his face into her cunt. Rocking her hips and smashing her pussy against Huntley’s face, Belle’s other hand flat on the desk slipped on a paper of some sort. Glancing down, she saw the San Francisco newspaper, the Alta California, turned to an article about someone walking out of a store carrying a safe. Whit now pumped her eagerly, his cock swelling to untold proportions inside of her. He claimed to like the feeling of the drenched sponge at the opening of her womb, as it scraped tantalizingly against the tip of his cock, and the brandy burned pleasantly.