Otherwise, I’m stuck waiting for Chuck and Dave in the wagon.”
“It’s not that far. You could always walk.”
Her impish tease garnered a mock frown. “You’re not that cussied mean, are you? Bad enough I’d have to ride in the back of that rattling buckboard.”
She rolled her eyes. “All right, fine.”
She swung back onto Turk and inched forward as far as the saddle horn would allow. He stuck his foot in the empty stirrup and hefted himself up behind her, worming into the saddle as best he could.
Even through the layers of denim material, her butt cheeks pressed against his cock. It hardened more. She sat ramrod straight in the saddle like she feared touching him. In one hand, he held Sergeant’s reins and placed his other on her hip to steady himself . She clucked her tongue and Turk lurched forward.
She kept her horse at a slow plod and the rhythmic pushing thrust of Turk’s movement reminded him of making love. Of his hips pushing forward. Of sinking into her body then pulling back. His palm tingled to slip up her body. To mold around a breast and tweak a nipple. Bring her back flush to his chest.
He gritted his teeth together. This was torture, pure and simple. Thank God, the town wasn’t that far with the livery on the near end. She pulled to a stop at the corral and he slid off Turk’s rump.
He placed a hand across her thigh and smiled up at her. Her eyelids were hooded and her breathing choppy. It appeared he hadn’t been the only one affected by them riding double.
The blacksmith walked up to them. “Morning, folks.”
Logan cleared his throat. “Morning, Gus.” He tied Sergeant’s reins to the corral and gave his attention to the stocky, bald man. Gus might not have any hair on his head, but he had more than his share on his face. “My horse threw a shoe a ways back.”
The big man hunkered down and lifted one rear leg then the other. He unbent himself. “When’s the last time he was shod?”
Logan rubbed the back of his hand across the back of his neck. “End of last summer.”
Gus nodded. “I’ll need to do the right one as well. It’s ‘bout ready to come off, too. Can have ‘em ready to go in about an hour.”
“Good. See you in an hour.”
He waited for Matt dismount. While she tied Turk next to Sergeant, he loosened the cinch on each horse. Side by side, they headed across the street to the bank.
Logan led the way up the three steps to the door then held it open for her. Puzzlement knitted her brow. With an encouraging smile, he placed a hand on her lower back to urge her inside. After a brief hesitation, she entered ahead of him.
A heavy wood counter stood to one side of the room with three jail-like cubicles behind. Each cubicle hosted an immaculately dressed man in a high-buttoned, white shirt and black bowtie. On the opposite side, lounging against the wall were two rough looking gunslingers.
Apprehension wiggled up Logan’s spine at the six-shooters hanging low on their hips. He realized they were security for the bank, but kept an eye on them anyway as he took Matt’s elbow and waited in line for the next available clerk.
“I tell ya it’s the Choctaw that’s doing all this here rustling,” a bow-legged rancher ahead of them said around a mouthful of tobacco to his companion. “At this rate, nary a single beeve’ll be left by August.” He spat into a spittoon. “The army needs to come in and clean up the mess.”
“Well, I ain’t waiting on no army,” the other man stated. “I’m selling out and heading back to Fort Smith.” The two men continued talking as they walked to an open cage.
Logan shook his head. Only idiots believed the Choctaw were responsible for the recent increase in rustling. It didn’t make sense that the peaceful, agricultural tribe would abruptly turn into marauders. They were always given a percentage of the local herds as grazing fee for use of their land.
A woman with two children finished her business and Logan
“It’s not that far. You could always walk.”
Her impish tease garnered a mock frown. “You’re not that cussied mean, are you? Bad enough I’d have to ride in the back of that rattling buckboard.”
She rolled her eyes. “All right, fine.”
She swung back onto Turk and inched forward as far as the saddle horn would allow. He stuck his foot in the empty stirrup and hefted himself up behind her, worming into the saddle as best he could.
Even through the layers of denim material, her butt cheeks pressed against his cock. It hardened more. She sat ramrod straight in the saddle like she feared touching him. In one hand, he held Sergeant’s reins and placed his other on her hip to steady himself . She clucked her tongue and Turk lurched forward.
She kept her horse at a slow plod and the rhythmic pushing thrust of Turk’s movement reminded him of making love. Of his hips pushing forward. Of sinking into her body then pulling back. His palm tingled to slip up her body. To mold around a breast and tweak a nipple. Bring her back flush to his chest.
He gritted his teeth together. This was torture, pure and simple. Thank God, the town wasn’t that far with the livery on the near end. She pulled to a stop at the corral and he slid off Turk’s rump.
He placed a hand across her thigh and smiled up at her. Her eyelids were hooded and her breathing choppy. It appeared he hadn’t been the only one affected by them riding double.
The blacksmith walked up to them. “Morning, folks.”
Logan cleared his throat. “Morning, Gus.” He tied Sergeant’s reins to the corral and gave his attention to the stocky, bald man. Gus might not have any hair on his head, but he had more than his share on his face. “My horse threw a shoe a ways back.”
The big man hunkered down and lifted one rear leg then the other. He unbent himself. “When’s the last time he was shod?”
Logan rubbed the back of his hand across the back of his neck. “End of last summer.”
Gus nodded. “I’ll need to do the right one as well. It’s ‘bout ready to come off, too. Can have ‘em ready to go in about an hour.”
“Good. See you in an hour.”
He waited for Matt dismount. While she tied Turk next to Sergeant, he loosened the cinch on each horse. Side by side, they headed across the street to the bank.
Logan led the way up the three steps to the door then held it open for her. Puzzlement knitted her brow. With an encouraging smile, he placed a hand on her lower back to urge her inside. After a brief hesitation, she entered ahead of him.
A heavy wood counter stood to one side of the room with three jail-like cubicles behind. Each cubicle hosted an immaculately dressed man in a high-buttoned, white shirt and black bowtie. On the opposite side, lounging against the wall were two rough looking gunslingers.
Apprehension wiggled up Logan’s spine at the six-shooters hanging low on their hips. He realized they were security for the bank, but kept an eye on them anyway as he took Matt’s elbow and waited in line for the next available clerk.
“I tell ya it’s the Choctaw that’s doing all this here rustling,” a bow-legged rancher ahead of them said around a mouthful of tobacco to his companion. “At this rate, nary a single beeve’ll be left by August.” He spat into a spittoon. “The army needs to come in and clean up the mess.”
“Well, I ain’t waiting on no army,” the other man stated. “I’m selling out and heading back to Fort Smith.” The two men continued talking as they walked to an open cage.
Logan shook his head. Only idiots believed the Choctaw were responsible for the recent increase in rustling. It didn’t make sense that the peaceful, agricultural tribe would abruptly turn into marauders. They were always given a percentage of the local herds as grazing fee for use of their land.
A woman with two children finished her business and Logan
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