Valves & Vixens, Volume 2 Read online

  Donnegan pulled out of the warm confines of her body but the woman who turned to face him was not the red haired madam Cait Morrow. She was taller, her skin was darker and her hair black and wavy. In place of Cait Morrow, Jeanne stood before him, the loose cotton chemise he’d last seen her in untied at the neck and pulled down below her shoulders, bearing her breasts to him. She moved close, kissing his chest, his neck, and finally his lips as he stood, frozen. Crossing her arms, she pulled the chemise over her head, revealing herself to him fully and Donnegan found himself loosing all control.

  Picking Jeanne up in his arms, he carried her not to the bed of a madam, but to their wedding bed, the brothel suddenly their tiny house in Vicksburg and laid her down as she giggled at his show of masculine bravado. She parted her legs as he crawled into the bed, kissing her feet. Donnegan’s lips worked their way towards her most secret of places, kissing her ankles, her thighs, causing her to laugh uncontrollably as he kissed the backs of her knees. Finally, his lips met the petals of her sex, parting her pink lips and savouring the half remembered taste of her. To know her like this again nearly caused him to weep, remembering the parts of her that only he knew, the taste and the smell of her, the way she liked to be touched, the sound of her moans as she came.

  Donnegan moved up the bed and Jeanne nudged him, making him roll onto his back. Languidly, she ran her hands up his chest and along his arms, stretching them above his head as she lowered herself onto him, taking control of their lovemaking. Her hips glided smoothly over him, a dancer’s hips, he thought, as he lay transfixed by her movement. The speed and ferocity of her thrusts increased, Donnegan thrusting up into her as she made a small, growling grunt each time he pushed into her depths. As he reached his limit, Donnegan looked into her eyes and found that the woman who rode atop him, the woman to whom he made love had changed again. His hot seed rushed not into Jeanne or Cait Morrow, but Miranda Cotton as she to reached the apex of her pleasure, slowing her gyrations, her muscles tightening on his cock, refusing to let go until both of them were spent and she fell, panting, against his chest.

  Chapter Five

  Donnegan woke to the sound of rain and a pained, distant cry. Slipping into his trousers, boots, and coat, not bothering with his shirt, he walked into the rain slick darkness. His blond hair fell around his face, soaked completely the moment he stepped out the door to Cotton’s small guest room, following the intermittent cries to the front of the two story building. Miranda, he presumed, had her rooms above while Cotton stayed downstairs with his workshop, the door to which hung open, blowing in the wind. Drawing the knife from his belt, Donnegan nudged the door open further with his foot, keeping to one side of the doorway in case anyone inside decided to shoot before stepping inside once he was sure the room was free of anyone who wished him harm.

  Cotton lay on the floor, his wheelchair sideways beside him, wheels spinning listlessly in the breeze from outside. Blood covered his hands and the floor beneath him as he pressed against a wound in his gut. Donnegan put the knife away and went to his side.

  “Wren?”

  “Quiet, don’t strain yourself.” He peeled the mender’s hands away from the wound, a stab to the belly, explaining why Donnegan hadn’t heard gunfire from the back room. The wound was vicious, too vicious to easily survive. “Where’s Miranda?”

  “Hayes,” Cotton groaned. It was all Donnegan needed. He spotted the Banshee rifle lying on the ground behind the fallen mender. “No,” murmured Cotton, sensing where his thoughts were headed, “no more blood on my head.” He fumbled for the keys at his belt. Donnegan brushed his hand away and removed them himself.

  Standing, he went to the work bench, trying keys one by one in the locked drawer. Cotton groaned again and Donnegan dropped the keys in frustration. Grabbing the drawer at the bottom, he yanked, screaming, as hard as his strength would allow. Wood splintered, the drawer giving way as the wood handled revolver clattered to the ground, the tiny wren on the handle looking up at him, glinting in the moonlight. He reclaimed it, checking the cylinder and finding it still fully loaded before slipping it into the empty holster on his belt and returning to Cotton’s side.

  “Small chance you’ll see morning. You’re smart enough to know that.” Cotton gave a weak nod.

  “Go get my girl, Donnegan. Get her safe.” Donnegan rose. He had to admire the old man’s toughness and hoped he was the kind of man who’d make the same choice for his daughter if he’d had one. The wind had picked up outside, an angry hollow scream that whipped the rain into his eyes as he walked down the street to the Parched Siren. The saloon was empty, gas lights extinguished though by now his eyes had adjusted enough to find the stairwell near the bar.

  After a moment’s urgent banging on her door, Cait Morrow rose, a few of her girls already peering out of their own rooms to see what the shirtless, sopping man in the hallway was about. She came to the door wearing a sheer, lacy robe that hid little if any of her body and certainly wasn’t there for sake of modesty.

  “It’s a bit late in the evening for changing your mind,” she said, giving him a wry smile, “but all right.”

  “I need help.”

  I thought that’s what I was about to do.”

  “The mender’s been stabbed. They’ve got Miranda.”

  “Oh dear god, is he alive?”

  “Barely.”

  Cait pushed him out into the hallway, turning to two of the girls who’d stuck their heads out to see who’d stumbled his way to Cait’s door in the middle of the night.

  “Alice, go fetch Doc Edward. Lucy, go stay with Cotton till Alice gets there with the Doc.” Both women rushed past him, obediently following Cait’s orders as she retreated into the room, not bothering to close the door as the sheer robe dropped from her shoulders leaving her completely nude. Donnegan’s imagination had gotten the room wrong, but all of her curves exactly right, watching as she pulled on a pair of fitted riding pants and a gingham shirt.

  “Do you even own a horse?”

  “No, but I own a saddle.” She pointed to where it hung on the wall, barely big enough for a small pony. “There’s a regular who likes me to put it on him.”

  “Really?”

  “Some folks have odd romantical notions. But he pays well and he’s polite. You know where we’re going?”

  “I was hoping you’d have an idea.”

  “Wynn’s daddy. He owns a slaughterhouse down by the stockyards. Built it completely mechanized, doesn’t take more than a few men to run it. He put a lot of men from the old place out of work when he built it but, lucky him, the Holy Engine showed up around the same time telling folks it’s all right, God meant for us to mechanize to ease our labours.”

  “Sounds like the kind of man who makes his own luck.”

  “He’s close with the preacher, that’s certain.”

  “And a slaughterhouse is as good a place as any if you find yourself stuck with a body you don’t want.” He was, by now, already heading for the door. “We’ll need to go by the livery on the way.”

  “Why.”

  “I need my mule.”

  Chapter Six

  Frank Lundy fought the urge to scratch his broken nose as he looked out into the darkness, wishing he was inside with Allen and Wynn and the mender’s girl. The preacher had already said they weren’t to have their way with her but he’d just see what Grayson had to say about it. After all, hadn’t it been him she’d embarrassed, spitting on him like she had? And hadn’t he himself been the one to take the beating after? Reaching for the flask in his pocket, he unscrewed the cap and took another drink of rye, the pleasant burn on his tongue doing nothing to mellow his mood.

  Somewhere in the night, a high loud braying broke through the sound of the storm outside. He squinted, trying to make out the figure approaching the great steel doors where the cattle were lead in during operation
but to no avail. Taking up the rifle he’d left leaning against the wall and an electric lantern, he opened one of the twin doors, stepping outside for a better look.

  “Who’s that commin’ out there?” Lundy shouted and was met with another bray. “I said who’s out there on the mule? You stop ridin’ or I’ll shoot!”

  “It’s Crimson Cait, Frank, I got a peace offering.” As she neared, leading the mule by the reigns, Donnegan’s body slumped across its back, he could see how her soaked gingham shirt clung to her breasts, revealing every curve. Maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about preacher Hayes’ commandments after all.

  “That’s far enough. You just send the mule on over here.” Cait stopped walking and the mule stopped with her until she slapped its backside and it wandered forward towards Lundy. Donnegan hung limply, bouncing with the mule’s every step until Lundy picked up the reigns himself and brought it to a halt. “How’d you get one over on him?” Lundy asked, keeping the rifle pointed in Cait’s direction, eyeing the pistol that protruded from her waistband.

  “How do you think?” she shouted back, “now call Hayes and Grayson out here and lets make amends.”

  “Why do you think I need anyone else out here?”

  “We both know they’re the ones that get to say if the deal’s good.”

  “Except I already got this old boy so you’ll have to find something else to bargain with!” Cait started to put her hands on her hips in frustration and Lundy levelled the rifle at her, thinking she was going for the pistol. A sudden feeling of dread took him as he felt the muzzle of Donnegan’s colt pressed into his belly.

  “You people really must put your faith in some kind of god, leaving a man loaded up on laudanum and whiskey to keep watch.” Lundy looked down at the gun jammed in his gut, taking his eyes off Cait who took the opportunity to draw on him as well. “Lower the rifle,” ordered Donnegan.

  Lundy did as he was told and Donnegan slid backwards off of the mule as Cait joined him, taking the rifle from Lundy’s hands.

  “How many inside?” Cait demanded. Lundy looked from one to the other, then back again before beginning to laugh.

  “You caught me with my pants down, good for you, but you are one real dumb whore if you think I’m gonna tell you anything. What are you gonna do, shoot a man that’s unarmed?” Cait and Donnegan looked at one another.

  “He’s got a point,” Cait admitted.

  “He does.” Lundy never saw the rifle butt until it was too late as Cait drove it into his broken nose with a crack. He went down hard and fast, clutching his face as he rolled on the ground. Cait stopped his squirming, putting her boot against his throat, the barrel of the rifle against his forehead. He clenched his teeth, breathing through his mouth as blood soaked the bandage that wrapped across his nose and around to one ear.

  “You don’t get to use that word with me, Mr. Lundy. Now answer the question.”

  Donnegan would have mistaken the rifle shot for the sound of thunder if not for the mud that splattered as the round struck the earth beside him. Both he and Cait made for the cover of the metal ramp leading up to the big cattle doors through which Lundy had come, one door still hanging open. Cait turned, firing in the direction from which the gunshot had come giving Donnegan time to stump his way over to her and cover.

  “Lundy you idiot!” Donnegan didn’t recognize the voice and assumed it must be Allen, the third man from the saloon.

  “Can you see him?”

  “Top window, I think,” replied Cait, “far side.”

  Lundy scrambled off the ground and headed for the open door, hands still clutching his bloody nose. Allen fired again, trying for Cait and Donnegan but instead, felled Lundy, his body falling before them, eyes glassy and staring into nothingness. Cait rose from behind Lundy’s body and fired three times in quick succession before Donnegan pulled her down again.

  “Cait!”

  “What?”

  “Aim, then fire.”

  “I only ever did this once and he was drunk at the time, okay?” Her breathing was rapid, adrenaline coursing through her. “Can you get inside if I cover you?”

  “I’m not fast enough,” Donnegan admitted, “He’ll gun me down before I get there.”

  “Then I’ll go.”

  “And what, take on whatever’s on the other side of that door?” They both went silent, watching the upstairs window. After a long moment, Donnegan reached up, grabbing Lundy’s body by his coat and dragged him to the edge of the ramp.

  “Rest your rifle up there.”

  “What?”

  “Rest it up there and aim for that window. He sticks his head out, you shoot. Don’t worry about me. Just aim, breathe, shoot, understand?” Cait nodded and Donnegan got to his feet.

  “One...” Cait braced the barrel of the rifle on Lundy’s corpse and took aim as best she could, rain stinging her eyes.”Two... Three!” Donnegan set off at a loping run, keeping himself at a sharp enough angle from the building to force Allen to expose himself at the window if he wanted to have any chance at cutting him down.

  Rifle thunder rolled again and Allen screamed as he came toppling out of the window, hitting the muddy ground with a wet thud.

  “Good girl,” Donnegan breathed, too quiet for Cait to hear as he stopped running, “good girl.”

  “Donnegan!” Cait called, lowering the rifle, “your leg!” Had she not called out to him, he wouldn’t have noticed the tear in his trouser leg where the bullet had grazed his wooden limb. He stumped his way back to the ramp, stopping to pick up Lundy’s electric lantern along the way.

  “Stay here. Get yourself underneath the ramp. No one comes out this way but me or the Cotton girl.” Cait nodded and he started for the building.

  “Wait!” She called, running up behind him. Grabbing the collar of his oilskin coat, she pulled him to her, forcing her mouth against his. They stood there in the rain, her tongue exploring his mouth, surprised but not unwilling until she broke their kiss.

  “Sorry. Had to see what that was like in case you don’t come back.” She started back down the ramp and scrambled underneath as he turned back to the door.

  “Hey.”

  Donnegan looked over the railing at her, peering her head out from beneath.

  “You should come back, all right?”

  Inside the doors, Donnegan found himself in a wide, fenced chute. Following the chute would, presumably, lead him directly to the killing floor and whatever sharp and deadly machinery lay there to slaughter and process the cattle that were lead through. Lifting the electric lantern high, he found the gate along the right wall through which Lundy must have passed on his way outside. By now, anyone remaining within must have known that he was inside already leaving little use for subtlety. He decided instead, as he so often did, for intimidation.

  “Grayson Wynn!” His voice sounded throughout the building and he wondered if whoever was there could not only hear him, but see him already as well. The vast complex of machinery that he could already see through the fences occupied most of the building would make firing a shot a dangerous prospect with a high risk of ricochet however so chances were they’d have to confront him head on.

  “We can still walk away from here, Wynn. Just give up the girl.”

  “How’s the old man?” Wynn called back, a sadistic mirth in his voice. “Is he done dying yet?”

  “Old man’s just fine. Lucky for him you’re shit with a knife, boy.”

  Wynn laughed.

  “You don’t sound like someone who’s going to let me leave here.”

  “I promised Cotton I wasn’t going to shed more blood than I had to. You’ll leave alive. Just a question of how many pieces you’ll be in when you do. Might make me look like a whole man compared to you.” Donnegan heard a heavy knife handle switch somewhere in the depths of t
he mechanical abattoir and the machinery of the killing floor churned to life. Amid the clanking, whirring, crashing sounds of the machinery, built with singular sanguine purpose, he considered his next move. The noise of the machines could only serve to cover the sound of Wynn’s own approach which meant he was putting himself on the attack, coming for Donnegan instead of waiting to be found.

  Swinging the electric lantern by the handle, Donnegan cast it ahead of him into the darkness and retreated back into the small room from which Lundy had seen his approach. Something in the lantern cracked and sputtered as it landed causing it to flicker erratically. Moments later, as Donnegan had hoped, Wynn approached the light, a lightweight pistol in one hand, the hand ax he’d earlier had tucked into his belt in the other. He waited, watching from the shadows as the other man screamed with rage and kicked the lantern in his direction. Donnegan took no small pleasure in Wynn’s look of horror as the flickering light revealed him, pistol at the ready and pointed in his direction, then died a flickering, buzzing death.

  Donnegan’s colt lit up the night for an instant, the smell of cordite mingling with the charnel smell of the slaughterhouse. Wynn’s gun hit the ground as he howled, his right arm hanging limp, the wound there ragged and ugly. Desperate and full of hate, he charged Donnegan with the ax, swinging wild but full of as much force as he could muster, striking him in the ribs with the butt instead of the blade, knocking him off balance. Instead of pressing his brief advantage, Wynn made for the cow chute leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  Righting himself, Donnegan gave chase, nearly slipping more than once on the blood Wynn was swiftly losing. He was unlikely to have much more than whatever strength his hate gave him now, but as Donnegan entered the first of the slaughterhouse’s mechanized stations, a massive pneumatic bolt gun hanging from the ceiling, Wynn charged him again, screaming, flecks of spittle issuing from his mouth as he swung for Donnegan’s neck. Too late to move out of Wynn’s path, Donnegan instead yanked the bolt gun between them, pulling it down and driving it into Wynn’s pelvis as he did so.