Page 16 of Sure as Shooting

Chapter Seven

Huntley couldn’t sleep.

Far too many images and thoughts swirled around his addled brain. First, the intensity of the skirmish at what they were now calling Battle Mountain, after having been so many years away from war. Then, the disturbing confusion when he discovered his captive was a Yankee.

Huntley paced and drank whiskey in his study, the tails of his dressing gown billowing behind him, pleasantly exposing his nude body to the frigid winter air. He hadn’t bothered stoking the fireplace. It was about two o’clock in the morning. In several hours Colonel Barbour would arrive with the Indian Commissioners detailed to this spot. There would be the usual haranguing, writing eloquent letters to the “Children of the Great White Fathers in Washington” giving details of the battle and troubles leading up to it. Already Huntley had sent some former mission Indians—those that hadn’t taken part in any raids but had acquired all of the vices and none of the virtues of their white teachers—out to the tribes to get them to relent, and already two chiefs had arrived to make peace, the warlike Grizzlies notably absent.

One Digger chief had told Huntley, “The Indians in the Deep Grassy Valley on the Merced River do not wish peace and will not make treaties. They think you can’t find their hiding places and that they can’t be driven out.”

“I’ll smoke out those Grizzlies from their holes!” Huntley seethed now. But the truth of the matter was, he’d been spending more time thinking about the delightful Belle than about any crusty old Indians, surrendering or not.

Leaning his backside against the edge of his desk, Huntley squeezed his eyes shut and thought, She’s a white woman. She’s an American. He still hadn’t been able to fully accept this truth. After years of fucking squaws, he had an American woman living under his roof again. He had not tried to sleep in a bed this close to a white woman since…well, since his wife. It was unnerving. And it was natural that his thoughts would turn to fucking.

Hadn’t he just been thinking he surely needed to brush up on the ways of humping American women? Hadn’t he just the other day been pondering on giving up his Indian squaws? Surely there was no future there, and he was becoming of an age where this nomadic existence must come to an end. His wife had always been apparently pleased with his fucking skills, but then, Yankee women didn’t express much of an opinion on such matters. It would be nice to find out, once and for all, a knowledgeable American woman’s opinion on his prowess. Belle, having been married before, might have such an opinion.

Oh, God’s holy trousers, what am I thinking? Huntley returned to his pacing after sloshing more whiskey into his tumbler. He had just shot the poor woman in the arm. How was he to know she’d be an intelligent, even assertive beauty? Whit had said something about taking her to swim in the creek tomorrow. Now they knew she was white, wouldn’t they have to avert their eyes? How to prevent her nude body from being viewed by the hundreds of dilapidated, sordid miners who would surely race as one unit to the creek once they heard she was there—naked, long limbs stroking through the water, rivulets rushing down between those firm, uplifted breasts…

Oh, God’s…Furious with himself, Hunt stumbled to the velvet couch and flung himself down face-first. He was drunk, he knew. Or was the term “pleasantly mellow”? First, he’d been forced to witness that physician pumping his monstrous cock. He’d been properly shamed the next day when he’d caught himself imagining slurping up the puddle of semen from between those tight, dark nipples. It had probably just been randiness for an American woman, that was it.

But he couldn’t just grab Belle by the hips and do her like a barnyard animal. She was a graduate of some Female Academy, after all. Huntley’s mind drifted to thoughts of grabbing Belle and doing her like a barnyard animal when he heard the study door squeak open and soft feet padding over to him. He propped his chin on a fist, somehow imagining it was Belle coming to do some housekeeperly things, such as allow him to bend her over and take her in the Italian fashion. No, wait, a housekeeper might come to refresh his whiskey bottle, or something like that.

“Whit?”

He heard Whit pouring himself a whiskey, and then his bare legs appeared under his own dressing gown, sitting down on the ottoman close by. “Yeah. Can’t sleep either.”

“Is my horsehair mattress bothering you?” Huntley rotated his head so he could view Whit’s face, gently lit by the whale oil lantern.

“No, no. The mattress is splendid. I just can’t take my mind off Belle. My new maid,” he added with some malice.

“Your new maid? Since when did you lay claim to her? I could use a maid as well, especially since I own most of this entire house!”

Whit frowned. Was it possible he was no longer joshing? “I laid claim to her, if you recall, when you literally told me I was welcome to have her, as long as I kept her away from you!”

Exhaling violently, Huntley returned his head to the face-forward position, glaring at the couch’s arm. “Fine, then. See if I care! She’ll clean your bedroom only and will leave the rest of our messes on the ground. Hell, I was the one who took her captive.”

“Come, come,” Whit soothed, and it sounded as though he had even reached a hand out to pet Huntley’s hair.

Huntley actually would have liked that. His body had lately been crying out for human touch, and he was very, very sorry he’d overreacted to Whit’s stimulating medical massage. It was just the European way, and he’d misinterpreted it, and…“Hey,” Huntley mumbled. “Maybe that medical massage could help me sleep.” He even raised his head and looked at Whit. “You heard Sheriff Burney. I’m of no use if I haven’t slept in days.”

Whit’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh, no doubt! I’m a firm believer in the regenerative power of sleep. I could see that morning before Battle Mountain, you had enjoyed a very unpolluted and invigorating rest. Let me go get my bottle of musk root oil.”

Invigorating, Huntley thought as Whit went to fetch the oil. He remembered to disrobe from the waist up, so merely lifted his torso and removed the dressing gown sleeves from his arms. His fingers unknotted the belt, and he pressed his half-tumescent penis down between his legs, so it would lie flat against the silk of the gown, as it had been positioned that time Whit had attempted to stroke it.

Replacing his chin atop his fist, he waited with increasing trepidation, thighs slightly spread, enjoying the enticing feel of his erection against the silk. He knew what he wanted. He hoped Whit would continue the massage and not leave off where Huntley had so unceremoniously put a stop to it. It was unthinkable, debauched, and depraved. But if it was medically sound…

Whit returned to the room and sat down. “I took Belle to your store today.” Whit smeared the pool of musk root oil between Huntley’s shoulder blades. “She didn’t talk to anyone, but I wanted to purchase her some decent women’s clothing.”

“Did Stephen Holt take care of you?” Huntley asked, referring to his assistant. Stephen Holt would have to take care of most everything when Huntley was out scouting for Indians. Gooseflesh rose again on his shoulders when Whit vigorously wriggled his fingers down his bicep and forearm. He releaseded one arm, allowing the fingers to brush against the carpet. Whit lifted the hand into his lap to squirm each of his fingers in turn, causing Huntley’s cock to expand uncomfortably.

“Yes, we obtained some attractive clothing, but everyone still seemed to look upon Belle as an Indian woman. She looks very handsome with her hair done up in a kerchief. She’s quite exotic-looking, though. Not exactly the woman you expect to see coming from Missouri. She looks a bit of the Far East.”

Huntley chuckled. “We can let everyone continue to think she’s Indian. No sense in having a huge rush of potential suitors banging down our door.” Our door. That sounded odd, yet pleasant.

Huntley knew he couldn’t approach Belle with the same savoir faire, or lack of it, that he’d always approached squaws. He simply could not just grab her, fling her down on all fours, and screw her while grunting. No, Yankee women required wooing, little gifts, flattery. They required that one actually discover something of them personally, ask them petty questions about their parents, childhood, favorite toys and flowers—if Huntley could recall correctly, it had been so long since he had courted anyone.

Whit moved back to Huntley’s shoulder blade, and when he slid his long fingers between skin and the loosened silk of the dressing gown, he deliberately tickled Huntley’s erect nipple.

Huntley sighed. He did not want to overreact again, leap up and jam his elbow into Whit’s jaw. No, he needed to let Whit know that whatever physician’s techniques he chose to utilize, it was fine with him. Now Whit massaged and even pinched the sensitive nipple, and Huntley raised his torso a fraction of an inch to give him more space.