El Paso

Hardy stood there aghast with his mouth open, staring down at his father while Sinclair took off his gloves, dusted off his clothes and went back inside. He collected his gun and walked away, back to his hotel.

That night at Rosa's, Feleena put a little extra smoke in her dancing, and Sinclair felt that every bit of that heat was directed at him. She danced for him and let him slip the two silver dollars into the elastic of her brightly colored skirt.

When she was done for the night, he met her around back and they walked toward her house, his arm over her bare shoulders and hers around her waist.

"I heard there was a fight down at the grain elevator," she said, glancing up at him shyly.

"So I heard," he said.

"No one said who the victor was, but the defeated one was Captain Clinton," she said. "I was under the impression he was a very dangerous opponent."

"Lots of people are dangerous in their own minds," he said. "Clinton thought he was dangerous. I guess the danger leaked out of him."

She laughed, the sound sending the usual thrill through him. "Did you fight over me?"

"You'd like that, you little firebrand, wouldn't you?" He laughed.

"Well, no, for I do not wish for you to be damaged," she said, her obsidian eyes glittering up at him. They arrived at her door, and he prepared to give her a goodnight kiss. She clung to him. "Please come inside," she said. "I have something to give you."

"I do admire gifts," he said. "Any hints as to what it might be?"

"Noo," she shook her head. "It is a surprise."

She escorted him inside and to a chair, giving him a drink before disappearing into her room. He could hear the rustle of cloth. "Rosa is visiting her mother tonight," she said.

"Ah, I thought she just might be late," he said.

He heard a noise from her doorway and turned to look. His breath caught in his throat as a vision stood framed in the door.

Since Feleena had first heard rumors of the fight that had taken place, her thoughts had been disturbed. Hardy Clinton had been persistent in his pursuit of her for the last 18 months. He was often in Rosa's as she danced, and although she gave him absolutely no encouragement to suppose she was romantically interested in him, he had been behaving more and more erratically, even frightening her a little.

The defeat of the Captain gave her some sense of relief and she supposed that Hardy would be much more cautious. She was also becoming more and more attracted to Sinclair. His quiet strength, dignity, the respectful way in which he always treated her, aroused something in her.

It was difficult to explain, or even think clearly about, but she was entirely comfortable with him, like with a friend she had known all her life. Feleena was a passionate girl, and she felt that her heart belonged to Sinclair. She wanted him, the fire in her heart spread through her body, leaving an ache for him in her loins. She wanted to belong to Sinclair, heart, mind and body, and she wanted him to belong to her. His glacial pace in advancing their relationship made her impatient, and she decided to escalate the passion she felt for him.

Leading him inside with the promise of a gift was part of her plan. Her excitement rose as she removed her dancing costume, washed herself and dabbed jasmine scent in strategic places. Feleena collected pretty undergarments and she sorted through her collection. She had a red lace corset that laced up the back, accentuating the swell of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist, the dramatic flair of her hips. It stopped at that point, and she slid on a light silky garment, so short that the bottoms of her firm round cheeks were exposed.

She did a little turn in front of her mirror, giggling at her own narcissism. She posed in the doorway, her left arm stretching up, resting on the frame, her right crossed with one slender finger touching her lower lip, standing hip-shot until Sinclair noticed her. She almost broke character and giggled again at the look of shock and awe on his face.

She sauntered across to stand in front of him where he sat, doing a slow turn so he could see and he released the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

"My God, Feleena," he managed to croak. "You... You goddess, you enchantress."

"Sinclair admires what he sees?" she asked.

"Admire? Dear lord, you... Can I touch?"

"You may do anything you like." She giggled, then grew serious. "This is my gift to you, Sinclair. I wish to belong to you, you only, your woman."

Sinclair nearly cried, emotion swirling through his mind. This beauty, this sweet, innocent devil, was offering herself to him, freely and without reservation.

He reached out his hand and she took it as he pulled, moving like flowing water into his lap. He kissed her, a moment that lasted a lifetime, his hands sliding over the satin softness of her dusky exposed flesh, causing her to shiver with joy, her plush lips clinging to him.

She broke away, extending her hand, this time, pulling him to his feet, leading him to her bed, clever little fingers making short work of his clothes until he was naked. She went to her washbasin, retrieving her washcloth, pushing him down on the bed and washing, exploring every inch of him, marveling at his chiseled muscularity. The cloth was thrown in the direction of the basin, and she knelt before him, her hand grasping his maleness, bending forward to place her luscious lips in a kiss on the helmet and giving it a swipe with her tongue. Her eyes locked on his and he fell back with a groan as she crawled up beside him, engulfing him in the liquid heat of her mouth.

He wanted to see her, feel her, and he tugged at the strings of her corset, momentarily stumped by the lacing. "Feleena, help me," he groaned. She sat up with a giggle and they worked the garment up over her head as she raised her arms.

Sinclair groaned again as her breast were exposed to his greedy eyes. Never had he seen such beauty, such femineity. Those glorious mounds of brown lushness stood high and proud, slightly darker areola and little erect nipples, dark chocolate kisses capping each proud peak.

A longing rose within Sinclair, matched in Feleena, a desire to love, cherish, never be or do anything else. He tugged and she wiggled, the undergarment hiding her secrets drawn away and discarded, and she was gloriously and beautifully naked before his eyes.

She moved, again swallowing his erection, and he lifted and moved her until her core was over him, poised for his hunger. He teased her with his tongue, causing her to jolt and shudder against him, faltering for a moment in her concentration on his erection. She bucked and shivered, trembling softness, giving herself to this man who owned her heart. She would belong to him in body, or no one.

Her head snapped back, the wine-dark waves of her hair covering her back, and he gripped the firmness of her cheeks, pulling her to him as she moaned out her ecstasy. She spun, her lips seeking his and her pulsating hotness pressed against every inch of him.

"I need... need you," she gasped.

She reached back, grasping his wet manhood, positioning him against the slick lips and pushed back, the head entering her with a popping sensation. She froze. "Madre de Dios," she gasped. "You are huge, Sinclair. Very slow, my love, very gentle."

Sinclair smiled to himself. He made no study of men's equipment, believing himself to be fairly normal, but the hot wetness surrounding him felt like being gripped by a slippery gooey hand.

"You are in control, my queen," he said.

She laughed down at him, then their lips locked together. Her hips shifted, moved in a circular motion, working just the head inside her until her yearning to be filled overcame her discomfort and she pushed slowly, enveloping him in an agonizingly incremental way until at last he felt his member touch lightly against the end of her depths.

They fit as if they were made for each other, and the dance of love began. Feleena was so athletic, so flexible, her breasts crushed against his chest, she could pump her hips, working herself into a frenzy, the liquid sounds of his member entering her dripping heat, the aroma of aroused clean girl overwhelming his senses.

She felt a rising excitement, fulfillment, she had never known or experienced, a flood, threatening to carry her away into some realm where there would be no Feleena, no Sinclair, only one soul, intertwined for an eternity, as it seemed to them both they had always been.

Her climax burst over her, a little mewling scream escaping as she shook and shuddered over him, going on until she feared for her sanity. She collapsed on him, and he rolled, pinning her beneath him and thrusting to hold deep inside her as she continued to pulse around him.

Her breathing slowed and he began to thrust again. "There is more?" she groaned. "Jesu Cristo, Sinclair, I am... I am... Oh God!" Another shuddering climax swept through her, threatening to take away her consciousness of anything other than Sinclair, his weigh over her and in her. Her lush body seemed on fire, and this time, Sinclair matched her climax. She felt him pulse, his seed soothing her inflamed clasping glove, and they coasted to motionlessness, both spent, content to be immersed in the moment.

*****

Sinclair was driving his wagon, on his way to the grain elevator to pick up his cattle feed, and Feleena. She was distressed by not being with him, and had agreed to spend two weeks on the ranch with him. His proposal had caught her off guard and produced a flood of emotion in both of them. The circuit-riding preacher would be back in two weeks, and she did not care to spend a moment between apart from Sinclair. He was as reluctant as she to be parted, and she had decided her dancing days were over.

"It would not be seemly for the wife of Sinclair to be a dancer," she explained. "I will be, instead, a wife, and perhaps mother." She glanced up at him shyly with those obsidian eyes.

"There is nothing on earth I want more than that," he assured her.

Feleena was deliriously happy, happier than she could ever remember, but she had a strange feeling that she had been in that exact same position before. Even the sparkling of the beautiful ring on her finger, passed down through generations of his family, felt like it belonged on her finger.

Sinclair had promised to drop his wagon to be loaded, and they were going to meet at Rosa's for lunch with Rosa, collect her bags and walk to the elevator together.

Feleena dressed in a soft grey traveling dress and walked to Rosa's. Rosa was over the moon happy for her best friend, and they sat at a corner table, laughing together, waiting for Sinclair to join them.

A shadow passed over the table, and Feleena glanced up, all lightness passing as she saw Hardy Clinton.

"Aren't you going to ask me to join you lovely ladies?" he asked.

"No, we are not," Feleena said. "You are not welcome here."

He reached out, grabbing Feleena cruelly by the wrist, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. "One dance," he said.

She struggled wildly, slapping him as she fought, Rosa joining her. Hardy backhanded Rosa, sending her stumbling away, and grabbed Feleena's hair, pulling her face toward his, plainly intending to kiss her.

"Clinton!" The voice rang out across the room like the crack of a whip. "Take your hands off my fiancée," Sinclair's voice was clear, low and menacing.

Clinton shoved Feleena, causing her to fall under the table. He crouched, his hand hanging near his gun like a claw.

"This filly just needs to be broken by a man's touch," he said.

"A pity you're not a man," Sinclair said. "I'll give you a chance to walk away.

The moment stretched out, each breath Feleena took lasting an eternity. Sinclair stood casually, seeming unconcerned, and Clinton's hand flashed for the gun low on his hip.

Sinclair hardly seemed to move, but the gun in his hand spoke as Clinton's was coming up, and Clinton collapsed in a heap, a gaping hole where his right eye had been.

Rosa screamed, and Feleena rushed to Sinclair, her hands all over him, ensuring that he wasn't hurt. "My God, Sinclair. He is dead! You must go, my love. I have seen a dozen cowboys from his father's ranch in town this morning."

Rosa rushed up. "Quickly, Sinclair. Out the back. My mare is there. She is swift. Go with God, my friend."

Giving Feleena a last embrace and a kiss, he promised, "I'll be back." He moved quickly out the back, found Rosa's bay mare hitched there, leaped on it's back and he was away, riding west. He dared not return for his wagon or return to his place. That was the first place Captain Clinton's boys would look for him.

*****

Three days later, in the badlands of New Mexico, Sinclair sat by an open fire, cooking chunks of the peccary he had killed earlier. He had returned to his ranch long enough to gather gear, trade Rosa's mare for one of his own horses and had rode for New Mexico. He lost himself in the maze of the Potrillo volcanic field at a small natural tank of water.

He had found a shaded area, grass growing abundantly around the tank, and his horse was grazing contentedly. Sinclair was at a loss. He felt he had acted in self-defense, and the law would back him up, but he had no illusions that the Clinton clan would care at all. They would hunt him like a dog.

One man would stand little chance against the firepower they could bring to bear. He had money, and his only plan was to go back, get Feleena and head east. Living in the cities surrounded by people and police, he would have nothing to fear from small-town cowboy mobs. Slipping in and out of El Paso undetected would be the problem. He knew he had it to do. There was no other option.

It was dangerous, but he packed up his gear and headed back down the dusty trail to El Paso. He came to the hill on the west, overlooking the town and got out his glasses. He could see people going about their business, horses and riders coming and going, and he waited, concealed over the ridge, until darkness fell. The moon was a waning half, and there was just enough light to see as he rode toward the lights of the town.

He was planning to ride to Rosa's, enter through the back and see if Feleena was there. In case Feleena wasn't there, he would catch Rosa's eye and send her to alert Feleena to meet him outside town. Sinclair was not sanguine about his chances. It felt like he had been in this very situation before, and some premonition caused him to flinch as a muzzle flash off to his left appeared and pain exploded in his side. The horse was running, Sinclair bending low, and he could see four riders off to his left, running parallel to his course. The pain was excruciating, and glancing off to his right, he saw another group of cowboys, maybe a dozen riding in his direction.

Rifles spoke and Sinclair could hear bullets whining around him as he rode. He prayed they wouldn't hit his horse. He felt another shock in his lower back, and he lost his grip on the saddle horn. He rode, his only though now to make it to Rosa's back door.

He felt himself slumping to one side, but couldn't find the strength to right himself. He leaned further, and the sand came up to strike his face. He lay for a moment, gathering the remains of his strength. His determination drove him. This was no time to rest, he thought. Feleena would be waiting.

He rose to his feet and staggered forward, lurching toward the lights in Rosa's windows. A hail of bullets struck him, and he fell, unable to rise. From the darkness a figure appeared. She had found him. She sat beside him in the sand, cradling his head in her lap. "Shh, my love," her voice soothed his pain. "I am here. I will always be here. In another life, I will find you, or you will find me."

He felt her lips press to his, the salt of her tears tasting oddly sweet, and the soft blackness folded around him. He was with her.