Valves & Vixens, Volume 2 Read online

  If the gunshot wound in his arm had made him scream, words failed to capture the sound that followed the bolt gun’s pneumatic hiss and the crunch of bone audible over even the machinery of the slaughterhouse. Wynn squirmed, writhing in pain on the floor amid the muck and blood the two of them had tracked about trying desperately to crawl backwards away from Donnegan as he picked up the hand ax and tucked it behind his back.

  “Your daddy ain’t here to buy your way out of trouble, so before you start blubbering you need to remember that. Now I’m going to give you one chance to answer. Where’s the girl.”

  “Or what? You said you wouldn’t kill me, old man.”

  “I did that,” Donnegan acknowledged, “stupid of me. I ain’t used to lettin’ people live on principle though, and I didn’t promise I wouldn’t just let you die.” He prodded Wynn’s hip with his boot and Wynn screamed himself hoarse with pain. He hoped beyond hope that the preacher, still somewhere in the building could hear it and that it gave him pause.

  “You won’t ever walk right again. Nothing to be done about that. But you won’t last long enough to lament it if that arm’s not bound. I can do that for you. Might be you make it past morning. Where. Is. Miranda Cotton?”

  “She’s in the cold storage room, you fucker!” Wynn squealed. “Now bind me up!” Donnegan turned and started to walk away, back towards the chute.

  “Bind me up! You said you would!”

  “I make it back, I will. Best hope you told me straight and your preacher’s sensible.”

  Donnegan returned through the chute gate, back through the little room and down the darkened hallway from which Wynn had attacked him. Nearing its end, he came to an open metal stairwell leading downward to a lower portion of the killing floor. Not far from it, a ladder fixed to the wall ascended to a catwalk above where Allen had stationed himself before. Moonlight streamed in through the broken window and he wondered if the storm had at last passed.

  A wide sloped hall waited at the bottom of the stairs leading to the lowest part of the building, several feet below ground. The insulation of the earth around it coupled with the modern gas cooled refrigeration system in the cold storage room allowed for the preservation of beef until it could be put onto rail cars and taken across the country. He found the preacher outside the heavy insulated door to the cold room, kneeling, hands clasped in prayer.

  “I see the wolves within my flock have failed in their duties,” Hayes said at his approach, not looking up.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Coming to blows with a man of God would be sinful, son.”

  “Preacher, God and me got plenty to have a reckoning over, but knocking the hell out of you ain’t one of those things.” Hayes stood, facing him, brushing the dirt from his knees with one hand.

  “In that case, there’s plenty of money here for us both. Wynn’s flush with more cash than he’ll ever be able to spend.”

  “Figured it’d come to that, sooner or later.”

  “Doesn’t it always?”

  “Wynn goes for mechanization and the Holy Engine keeps the folks he forces out quiet and peaceable by telling them it’s God’s will that they be put out of work and that the real reason for their troubles is all them new kinds of sinners you bring forth.”

  “Oh, he hires them back,” Hayes assured him, “Down at the mines instead.”

  “Where there’s twice the danger and half the pay and the company owns everything about you.

  There even a real church back East?”

  “There is.”

  “First surprise I’ve had all night.”

  Hayes smiled.

  “You understand of course that if you kill me, my people will come for you. You’ll have half the town howling for your blood.”

  “Good thing I don’t plan on killing you then.”

  “I don’t see as you’ve got much choice, but I’m willing to hear you out.”

  “You walk away from here.” Donnegan told him.

  “That’s it?”

  “You don’t come back. Leave these people to sort out their own problems.”

  “These people...”

  “These people,” Donnegan interrupted, “don’t have any use for you. The can stand or fall on their own.”

  “Son.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Afraid I can’t take you up on your offer.” Steel flashed as Hayes revealed the palmed Derringer and fired. Donnegan’s knife was nearly as fast and more accurate by far as it left the sheathe at his belt and wound up lodged to the hilt in the meat of Hayes’ shoulder. The Derringer fell to the ground and Donnegan kicked it away.

  “I’ll give you a moment to think it over” Hayes winced as Donnegan shoved him out of the way, opening the cold storage room. There, hanging among the frozen beef was Miranda Cotton, her hands bound above her head to a steel hook. Her body shivered uncontrollably, her eyes barely recognizing his presence as he lifted her up, off of the hook, letting her slump over his shoulder.

  Hayes was struggling to pull the knife from his shoulder as they passed and Donnegan let him fight with it as he took Miranda to the stairwell. A moment later, he returned and drove Hayes to the ground with a fist to the gut.

  “New offer.” Donnegan yanked the knife from Hayes’ body with one hard pull. Unlike Wynn, Hayes’ reaction to the pain was not to cry out, but to clench his jaw tight. “Come dawn, either this town’s going to be less one preacher or this preacher’s going to be less one arm. Best decide fast. Cuttin’ on a man’s long, slow work and dawn comes fast. I’d just as soon get started.” Donnegan gave Hayes a silent three count and was ready to go for him again, but Hayes waved him off and with a laboured grunt lurched to his feet. He began to walk, haltingly, using the wall to brace himself against each time he faltered until he disappeared around the corner, passing Miranda on the stairs where she sat slumped against the railing.

  Cait had him in her sights moments later as he staggered down the ramp and out into the dark, ready to pull the trigger when Donnegan called out.

  “Let him go, Cait.” He stood, Miranda’s arm around his neck, his around her waist, keeping her upright. Aside from her body temperature and the numbness in her arms from being suspended, she appeared physically little worse for wear, merely exhausted.

  “You’re going to let him live,” Cait questioned.

  “That’s between him and god. Next town’s two days ride from here, wilderness all the way. If he’s clever enough to follow the rail line, he’ll get there in three. Question is whether the wolves or the mountain lions get him before that. Help me with her.” He passed custody of Miranda over her and started back inside to make sure someone found Grayson Wynn alive the next morning.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time they returned to town, dawn was visible on the horizon. The storm had left in its wake a cool, wet odor in the air and the town seemed to have awakened earlier than usual. Cotton had been moved during the night to the doctor’s office, tended to by Doctor Edwards and Alice. His chances of survival were still scarce at best but for the moment, he was alive. He woke not long after Donnegan had arrived.

  “Miranda?”

  “At home. Asleep.” Cotton said nothing and Donnegan thought he might have passed out again.

  “Take her out of here.,” he said, opening his rheumy eyes. “Sheriff won’t do anything to us, but Wynn’s daddy isn’t one to let a thing go.”

  “I can’t,” Donnegan replied flatly. “Staying with me... she’d be in for a worse kind of hell than what she’d face here.”

  “You don’t know Jefferson Wynn.”

  “No, but I know Cole Hauser, and I know what he’d do if it meant getting to me.” Cotton began to cough uncontrollably, violently. Alice, still dressed in her night clothes brought a porcelain pan over to him and
he hocked phlegm and blood and spit into it, then fell back against the bed.

  “What do you mean to do, then?” He croaked.

  “I mean to live, old man. Just a question of how long I get away with it.”

  He found Miranda at Cotton’s workbench when he returned, sifting through the strewn pieces of his mechanical leg, trying to work out how they fit together. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up to her elbows, her ankle length skirt likewise tied on either side, raising it to her knees. Sweat beaded on her furrowed brow and between her breasts. She did not notice him as he stood in the doorway and he was about to leave when he heard the bellows box ratchet behind him.

  “He’s dying, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question. He decided then to trust her to handle the truth of it.

  “Most like, yes. You should be with him, not here. Not with this.” He gestured towards the mechanical leg.

  “You had a deal. Three days.”

  “He wants me to get you out of town, away from reprisal.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I need to finish it before you leave, don’t I?”

  “I’m not leaving.” At this, she finally turned to look at him. “There are harder men than me coming soon and they don’t mean to leave here with me still breathing. I mean to let them come.”

  “That’s why you needed this done.”

  “I hadn’t planned to face them before.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Donnegan turned to the door again, not answering. Behind him, she pulled the box’s lever again.

  “What changed your mind?”

  Donnegan sighed.

  “Stay away from me when they come. Reckoning’s mine to have, understand?” With that, he returned to his room to make his peace with what was to come leaving Miranda alone.

  Almost immediately he heard her begin her labours anew and the sound of her continued frustration kept him from his hoped for quietude. He knew that in this hour, he should if anything be anxious and on edge about what tomorrow was likely to bring but the only worry that he felt was for the girl trying so desperately to help him, to make him whole enough for a real fight while her father lay even now in his own fight with death’s grim shadow, neither of them a fight either man expected to win. It was well into the night when she finally relented and the noise ceased at last.

  Chapter Eight

  Miranda lay down her father’s tools and wiped the sweat from her face, her eyes and fingers aching from the delicate work. That the hope of a man so hardened could rely on a machine so intricate and fine was perplexing. She hadn’t been there when Cotton had taken it apart and as he’d said the first time he’d seen it, pieces of its like were few and far between, so she’d been forced to go on intuition and no small amount of guesswork to reassemble it. And all the while, her thoughts returned to him. How she’d told him not to to help her and how he’d come for her anyway. How would he spend his last day? Back at the saloon? In the brothel with Cait Morrow? Cait, who’d come with him to rescue her. Who’d made sure her father was taken care of, maybe even saved his life along with hers. She felt an unexpected pang of jealousy and her face flushed.

  She flexed her fingers one by one and stood.

  Miranda needed a drink.

  The saloon was far less busy than it should have been when she arrived. Word of the previous day’s events had apparently gotten around as all but the most regular customers were staying away. Already it seemed to Miranda as if it were in the distant past. The disassembled phonograph and ruined kinetoscope had been moved to the far corner and the mood without the raucous sound of music was dour. Cait Morrow, dressed more conservatively than Miranda had ever seen her descended the stairs and approached her as she entered.

  “How is he?” Cait asked going behind the bar and pouring for both of them from her private stock.

  “I thought he’d be here with you.” Cait stared at her for a moment before her error dawned on her. “You were talking about my father.”

  “You weren’t.” Cait put the bottle down between them and picked up her glass. “He wouldn’t have me, you know.” Miranda gave her a small smile.

  “More fool him.”

  “Indeed.” She knew the look that haunted Miranda’s face, even while she smiled at her. She’d worn much the same look since they’d parted ways on returning. “You’re worried about him. Donnegan, I mean.”

  “He’s infuriating.”

  “So are you, at times.”

  “He’s like a child.”

  “He’s hurt, Miranda, damaged. But he’s not broken, I don’t think.”

  “Then why does he act like he’s already dead?”

  “Perhaps he’s simply needs to be mended.”

  Chapter Nine

  Even with the silence that had fallen in the workshop on the other side of the wall, Donnegan found that he could not rest. Instead, he resorted first to cleaning his knife properly which he otherwise would have chastised himself for neglecting. He wiped the dried blood from the steel blade before it had a chance to encourage corrosion and sharpened it diligently. When that was finished, he turned to his colt, brushing out the cylinders and the barrel and oiling the metal parts. Even after this meticulous set of jobs, he found himself restless and he looked at himself now in the dirty mirror. He should have been out howling at the moon one last time. He should have been running like hell, as far and as fast as he could. So why did the thought of it leave a sour taste in his mouth?

  Plunging a hand into the cold water in the wash basin, he ran it through his blond hair, across his face, and down to the paired rings that hung from the chain around his neck. A second, more delicate one joined it there, reaching around him even as the other wrapped around his waist. He hadn’t heard her enter, it seemed as if he never did and for a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming again as Miranda gently kissed his back and shoulders and neck. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips before turning to face her. She had loosed her braid and her long black hair framed her face as she looked up at him. For the first time, when she looked at him, he saw not bold defiance, but relief. Peace.

  She smiled as she led him to the bed before unbuttoning her linen shirt and straddling him. Her breasts were small, her body almost boyish yet there was nothing either frail or unwomanly about her. She descended on him, her nipples rubbing against his chest as she trailed delicate kisses from his neck to his cheek and finally to his lips. His hands gripped her waist, running up her sides and she shuddered, kissing him harder as they made their way to her breasts. His thumbs touched her nipples and she pressed down against him reflexively, her thighs gripping his legs tight. Her hand reached between them, working at his belt, their lips never parting. She raised herself up, allowing Donnegan enough room to remove his trousers and hiking up her skirt to reveal her lack of under-things. Lowering herself once more, the lips of her sex all but kissed his manhood, running along its length, up to the purple head and down again to his balls. She did this, teasing him once, twice, and on the third time, grabbed his cock and took it inside her.

  They both sighed and Miranda closed her eyes as she began to ride him, her hips swaying in a steady rhythm as she rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. She placed her hands on his chest, increasing her speed even as his own went to her hips, driving her down harder and faster until her face clenched in a silent scream and she flooded him with her juices. Pulling out of her, he turned on his side and she followed suit, facing away from him as guided himself back into her. They lay there together, their breathing slowing, Donnegan’s thrusts deep and deliberate and almost gentle until he at last spent himself inside her. Still they did not part, but fell asleep, his arm around her waist, his manhood softening before falling out of her into the cool night air.

  Chapter Ten

 
Cole Hauser walked the early morning streets of town from the train station, much of the day’s business not yet begun. He found Donnegan sitting outside the saloon, drinking coffee and was surprised when he hailed him.

  “Cole.”

  “Wren.”

  “You’re later than I thought you’d be.”

  “Yeah, well, Rathburn got the crotch lice from some whore when we went to toast my brother’s passing. Had to wait till morning so he could find a doctor. Otherwise we’d have to listen to him bitch about it the entire way.”

  “Poor Rat.”

  “I told him not to go with that one but he don’t listen. Also someone burnt the only bridge across the James for fifty miles when he went through.” Donnegan continued drinking his coffee, steam curling from inside the mug. “Made it so we had to give up the horses and take the train into town. I liked that horse too.”

  “You stole that horse.”

  “Only cause I liked it so much.”

  “You gonna make this fair fight?” Donnegan finally asked.

  “Shit no,” replied Cole.

  “Haven’t really got a reason to do this you know. We could each just let the other one live.”

  “You killed my brother, Wren.”

  “Quentin was a maniac who put a little girl to the noose cause he thought her daddy was holding out on him.”

  “You ain’t wrong,” Cole admitted, “but blood’s blood, you know that.” Donnegan said nothing, holding his coffee with both hands, staring into its depths as if trying to divine a way out. “Quentin was wrong, by the by. They didn’t have no money. Found that out after we went back to kill the girl and her daddy.”

  “Cole.”

  “Yep.”

  “I was wrong when I said I’d let you live.” Donnegan hurled the scalding cup of coffee into Cole’s face and drew his pistol, firing wild as he made for the bat wing doors of the saloon. Cole howled like a wildcat and fired back blindly, his free hand trying to wipe the hot liquid from his eyes.