Badlands Bloodsport

The Ovaro had a keen nose for water, so for the next two hours Fargo patiently led him by the bridle reins in ever-larger circles. Finally the thirsty stallion led him to a small seep spring fed by the giant aquifer that underlay much of the plains. But Fargo’s efforts were wasted—by late afternoon a civilian-relief detail from Fort Laramie arrived, complete with rations, medical supplies, fodder, and casks of water.

For the rest of that day and night, the horses were rested and recruited while the bone-weary human travelers enjoyed a long-overdue sleep under army guard. They left three hours before dawn and arrived at Fort Laramie—a drab assortment of mud-brick buildings and stables scattered hither and yon around a hard-packed parade deck—a few hours after sunset.

Fargo was assigned a small room in the bachelor-officers’ quarters behind the sutler store. Being naturally fiddle-footed, he planned to ride on to Santa Fe as soon as the Ovaro was well grained and up to full fettle. He was sitting at a small deal table, sharpening his Arkansas toothpick on a whetstone, when a trio of knocks sounded on the door.

A mysteriously smiling Ericka greeted him when he opened the door, her sketch pad under her arm. “Percival is playing whist with some of the officers, so I slipped away for a bit.”

Fargo smiled back, his blood already coursing faster in his veins. Ericka had always been his favorite of the three lovely Englishwomen. “Time for that surprise you mentioned?” he asked hopefully as she crossed the threshold and he closed the door.

The barren room had only two hard wooden chairs, and she settled into one of them. “Yes, it is. Please remove your clothing.”

Fargo’s grin was almost ear-to-ear. These British gals liked to skip the parsley and go right for the meat, all right. Already he could feel his manhood uncoiling like a snake.

He crossed to the narrow web bed and tossed back the rough army blanket. “You best start undressing first—it’ll take you longer.”

“Oh, I shan’t be undressing. Only you.”

Half of Fargo’s grin melted away. Even if she only meant to pleasure him with her mouth—an exciting prospect—he wanted to at least see and touch her shapely body. The rest of his grin melted completely when she settled the pad on her knees and opened to a fresh sheet.

“Lady Blackford—”

“Ericka. We’ve performed witchcraft together, remember?”

“Ericka, I’m a mite bewildered here. First you tell me to strip buck. Then you commence to sketching. What kind of ‘surprise’ are we talking about?”

“Not the kind you expected, as I promised. Skye, are you really in the habit of seducing married ladies?”

“With me, it’s always the lady’s choice, married or no. If they’re willing, I’m able.”

“Oh, I don’t question the ‘able’ part. But you must understand—unlike Jessica and Rebecca, I am married and take my marriage vows seriously. Percival may seem like an old sobersides—indeed, he is—but he’s my husband and I love him. You can respect that, can you not?”

“Yes,” Fargo replied reluctantly but truthfully. “That’s why it has to always be the lady’s choice. But if foofaraw isn’t on your mind, why ask me to strip naked?”

By now Fargo had removed his shirt and his hands had paused at his belt. She gazed admiringly at the hard slabs of scarred muscle layering his chest and roping his shoulders. Her eyes wandered farther south and widened at the huge bulge in his buckskin trousers.

“I intend to sketch you in the nude,” she replied demurely.

“In the—now, hold on here. If you think—”

Her laugh was soft and musical. “You needn’t stare at me so pop-eyed! Nude depictions are a completely legitimate aspect throughout the history of art.”

“Nude women, sure. I’ve seen a few, though they tend toward the plumpish for my tastes. But a naked man?”

“Oh, don’t be such a philistine. Michelangelo has sculpted male nudes, and even great religious paintings depict them.”

“Yeah,” Fargo replied, “I’ve seen a few of them, too, and all those men are a mite . . . poorly equipped, you might say. If you plan on shrinking me up like them—”

She laughed again. “Quite the opposite. As you’ve noticed, I am a realistic artist who sketches her subjects exactly as they are. That’s the whole point of sketching you.”

“Look,” Fargo argued, “if you mean all that, you can see the problem here. I can’t stand naked in front of a beautiful woman like you without—without—”

“Being hard?” she supplied with a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

“Yeah, that. And not one of them paintings you’re talking about shows that. A lady like you would ruin her reputation if she—”

“If she presented it publicly, yes, you’re correct. But, Skye, upon my word, this would be for my very private stock only. Think of it a moment. The genteel ladies of the Midlands gather together every late afternoon for high tea. Only they would ever see this. They would gaze upon it, admire it, perhaps even . . . stimulate themselves in the languorous hours of solitude while thinking dreamily of you. Would you deny them—and me—this great pleasure?”