Mail Order Bride

"Thanks, Matt, I will." I watched as he moved away, alert, but friendly, greeting people as he went.

Libby came over to me, stretching up to kiss my cheek. "Wasn't that the man from the train?"

"Yes, it was. His name's Matt Carson, he's the new town marshal." I glanced at Libby. "He told me Calloway's in the area."

Her face clouded. "An evil man, Jim. I never really thanked you properly for what you did on the train. He scared me."

"I think marrying me is thanks enough, Libby, love."

Libby smiled, glancing round to make sure no one was in earshot. "I'll thank you again, later, in bed." Her smile was innocent, but there was mischief in her eyes. "Emma says Tom's about ready to head back. Are we ready?"

"I think so. I had a word with a guy called Elson. He can let me have some leather, and I can make the bellows for my forge. He says he'll bring it out Tuesday as he passes our place on his way to collect some hides for tanning."

Libby nodded, but there was a worried look on her face. She touched my arm.

"Be careful, Jim, and keep your eyes open for Calloway."

"I will, I promise. Come on, looks like Tom and Emma are waitin'."

On the way home the four of us chatted. I liked Tom, and he struck me as a good, honest man. I think he'd struck lucky with Emma, and I got the distinct feeling he felt that way, too. I think Emma felt pretty good about it, as well. There had been ten women on the train that I knew of, who had crossed the country to marry a stranger. I don't know whether it had been courage or desperation for some of them. Libby, I knew, wanted a normal husband and home, and thought she would fare better out here. She got close, I suppose, for she had me! Emma was the same according to Libby, blessing her lucky stars in ending up with Tom. They made good neighbors and as we rode we agreed that, on future Sundays we'd take turns to provide the team and wagon, and the other couple would provide dinner that day.

"Which means you're coming to us today," said Libby, pleased.

"You won't have time to prepare anything," Emma protested.

"Not so," said Libby. "There's a big pot of stew I made. I'll just need to take enough out for us for today, and I made an apple pie fresh yesterday. See? Done!"

"We're a bit short of chairs," I said. "Only the two, for the moment."

"For the ladies," said Tom, instantly. "You and me, Jim, we'll make do."

It was a good meal. Four friends, good food, good conversation. I'd chatted with Tom about building a forge and we'd agreed that I should make it of stone. Tom had scorned my protest that I knew nothing of working with stone. "I do," he'd said, and that was that. So as not to take time away from other things, we'd agreed we would work on it only one day each week, starting Tuesday. It was about an hour shy of sunset when we waved goodbye to them, watching until they were out of sight.

"Let's go look at our pool," said Libby, taking my hand.

I laughed, nodding. "Okay, wife, let's go see your pet project." On an impulse I took Pa's old Navy Colt from the shelf and stuck it in my belt. Hand in hand, we strolled towards our pool. There was still plenty enough light in the sky to see that the water was running clear. Libby bent, testing the temperature, then turned to me, eyes sparkling.

"Warm enough, let's use it. Let's use it now!"

"Towels?"

"Pooh, to towels! We'll walk back naked and go straight to bed and make love, and get dry that way!" She giggled, starting to unbutton her dress. I laughed, took the Colt from my belt and laid it on the ground, and started to undress.

The pool was just warm enough, about four feet deep where the stream came in over a shelf of rock, a foot deeper where the water spilled over the sluice at the exit, maybe twenty feet long. Libby was already naked, the late afternoon sun giving her lovely body a rosy glow. She stepped gingerly down into the water, then launched herself gently forward, swimming a couple of strokes, then standing, breast deep, water beading her skin.

"Jim, it's lovely!"

I was naked myself by now and I just looked at her for a moment. "So are you, wife." She smiled at me, her eyes flickered and her look turned to horror just as I heard the footstep behind me.

"Ain't she just," said a familiar voice. Calloway!

I spun around, ready, but he was out of reach, his pistol pointed straight at my head from about six feet away. I doubted he could miss from that range. His eyes flicked briefly to Libby, still standing breast-deep in the water.

"You," said Calloway. "Out of the water, now." She hesitated and he shifted the gun slightly and fired. I heard the bullet go past my ear, I swear I did. When the muzzle pointed at me again I heard Libby scrambling out of the water behind me. "No!" he said. "You don't need your clothes, not for what we're going to be doing once I've killed your man, here."

"You'll never lay a finger on me." Libby's voice was low, clear.

"No?"

"Never. I doubt you have anything inside those filthy trousers that could interest a woman, any woman, not even a fifty-cent whore!"

I could see the anger bubbling up in Calloway and he moved the gun to point it at Libby. That did it, for there was no way a low-life like him was ever going to threaten my wife! I threw myself forward, desperate, knocking his arm up just as he fired, and then we were wrestling, fighting for the gun, scrabbling in the dirt. On the train he'd tried to take me by surprise, but I'd surprised him with my fist in his gut. His broken nose, courtesy of my knee, was still swollen and angry-looking. But this time I hadn't taken him by surprise. He was big, he was mean, and under the lard, he was strong, and I knew I had my hands full.

Too full, as it happens, and out of nowhere his pistol barrel cracked across my head and I sprawled, stunned. He scrambled out of reach, and stood. There was a smile on his ugly face as he drew the hammer back to shoot me, a smile that was still there when the first bullet hit him. It had gone before the next one, and the next, and his nerveless fingers tried desperately to turn the gun on Libby as she emptied the Colt into him. He was dead before he hit the ground and Libby dropped the Colt and flung herself down on her knees beside me.

"Jim! Are you all right? Oh, please, be all right, please! I love you; I don't want to lose you when we just found each other! Please, Jim, speak to me! Oh, God in heaven, speak to me!"

I took a deep breath, wincing. "I think I'm going to have a headache for a while," I said, my fingers gingerly exploring the lump on my head, coming away bloodstained. Libby flung herself into my arms, sobbing. I stroked her hair. "It's all right, sweetheart, he's dead, he won't hurt us any more. Ssh, my love, don't cry. I love you, too."

She raised a tear-stained face to me, trying to smile, and I bent and kissed her. The next thing I knew she was kissing me back, hot, violent almost, her teeth almost mashing my lip, clinging to me, her mouth working on mine, her fingers moving over me, clutching at the erection which had sprouted from nowhere, caressing it, raising me to an aching hardness, urging me over her, into her soaking welcome, her hips thrusting hard back at mine, and in moments we were rutting like animals beside Calloway's corpse, reckless, heedless of the sudden shower that fell, that failed to cool the urgent heat of us, building, building, building, to a shared climax that echoed through the night and must have scared the birds from the trees for miles.

Slowly we cooled, slowly, panting, fighting for breath. Libby raised her head, rain-wet, sweat-wet hair matted to her skull, and gave me an embarrassed smile. "I think I've drawn blood," she said, stroking my shoulder. "I'm sorry, my love."

I shook my head. "No, don't be. I think we both enjoyed that."

She giggled, and I think there was more than a little hysteria in it. "I don't think I could live through another spending like that!"

"Aye, lass, it was a wee bit intense. Never fret, I don't expect you to kill an outlaw every day, so the circumstances shouldn't occur again. Just as well, as I'm no' sure I'd live through more than another one or two, myself."

Her eyes went to Calloway's corpse, and she shuddered. "What are we going to do with that? Bury it? Leave it for the scavengers?"

I shook my head. "No, we're going to wrap it in that piece of old burlap we have and put it in the lean-to overnight, and tomorrow we're taking it into town, to show Matt Carson."

She stared at me, wondering, then, ever practical. "Why?"

"Because there's a two-hundred dollar reward for him, dead or alive, for rape, murder, and robbery. That's why. Apart from saving my life, lass, that's the other reason you should never, ever, regret killing him, because he deserved it."

"That, I will never do," she said, and I recognized the iron in her. "Let's move him now, before we dress, in case we get any blood on us. Then we'll have another dip, only this time with soap, and get ourselves clean, then we'll go to bed and make love, remove the memory. Yes?"

"You need to ask, lass? Yes!"

That was five years ago, now. Outside, in the yard, our son Joseph Helson Mackenzie and his little sister Emma Elizabeth are playing with their new puppy. Tom and Emma, and baby Thomas, are due to stop by for supper. The cabin has four rooms now, and a root cellar. We have a milk cow, and some pigs and chickens, and Libby's kitchen garden is thriving. The forge does well, for several new families moved in to homestead, and they all need a good blacksmith occasionally. And we've dug the foundations for our new, stone built, home. We've worked hard, but life's been good to us. We still have our pool, and when the children are asleep we go and play in the moonlight. And Libby still comes to bed, our new, comfortable bed, every night, naked.

Well, folks, that's it. I hope you've enjoyed the tale. Comment welcome, particularly constructive criticism. If you ask a question, make sure I have an address to reply to!