Benedict and Brazos 22 by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: murder, colt 45, western ebooks, piccadilly publishing, pulp fiction westerns, best western fiction, action adventure us frontier
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Seven – Two of a Kind

She was wearing one of those black negligees that still drove him crazy, even after three years of marriage. Through it and above it, the lush, deep curves and swells of her superb body glowed golden and warm, yet their promise was denied by the ice in the cold face and in the measured lash of her voice.

“I don’t give a damn what you do, David, just so long as you do it. Get rid of him somehow—and do something to stop the other one from coming here.”

“But, Magda—”

“Don’t ‘but Magda’ me, David. You’ve been doing that ever since Coley arrived, and I’m sick of it. I don’t want any more ifs and buts. I want action—positive action.”

The many men and women employed by the Wardlaw Mining Company who knew tall David Wardlaw as a tyrannical boss would have been surprised to witness the man’s hangdog expression as he stood before the cold hearth of his living room that night listening to his wife. But then they didn’t know David Wardlaw really well. The few who did, such as his brother Cleve, wouldn’t have lifted an eyebrow. Cleve had declared from their wedding day that Magda wore the pants, though even Cleve didn’t understand the full extent to which savagely beautiful Magda Wardlaw dominated her husband.

“I don’t know what I can do, Magda,” David protested. “Coley has ingratiated himself with the old man. He looks big enough to wrestle a grizzly bear, and as for that Duke Benedict with his two white-handled guns, I—”

“For God’s sake,” the woman flared at him, sweeping about the room with a brimming glass of red wine in her hand, “you are deliberately refusing to see the hill for the trees, David. Coley is just a man. So is this Benedict person, and so is Race. People are expendable. What we are really talking about is your father’s fortune. You have said yourself that you estimate it at over half a million dollars. Half a million, damn you, David! A quarter of a million for Cleve and a quarter of a million for us, less whatever the old fool leaves Esther and Felicity ...”

She stopped before the windows that looked down over the lamp-lit town, then she came slowly towards him, her movements pressing the diaphanous stuff of her gown against the rich hollows and hills of her body.

“Cut a quarter of a million in half and you have just over a hundred thousand, David,” she said softly, but venomously. “That is not enough, my darling husband. I have not put up with this insufferable town and your boring family and your foul-tempered, autocratic old bastard of a father for three of the most tiresome years of my life for peanuts, husband dear. We have earned our share, David. We have endured the monotony and the hard work and putting up with Justin, while Coley has been sitting under a tree somewhere reading poetry and that skinny gimp with the gun has been out killing people.

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