Longarm In Devils River by Tabor Evans

Author:Tabor Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Chapter 11

Less than an hour after Longarm and Marshal Quincy Bates snapped the locks on the Clinch brothers’ separate cell doors, someone knocked at the front entrance of the jailhouse.

Bates set his coffee cup on the desk and said, “Damn. Ain’t often folks ’round here bother to announce their arrival ’fore enterin’ my office. Wonder who it is.”

Longarm hopped out of the gregarious marshal’s leather guest chair, strode to the door, and snatched it open. A toothy smile flashed across his face as he tipped his hat and said, “Well, well, well. Miss Ardella Lasher, I do believe. Nice of you to stop by, ma’am.”

Shoulders back, like a lifelong Yankee drill instructor, Ardella Lasher strode into the room as though she owned the entire building and the rest of Devils River as well. Dolphus Lasher’s younger sister bore not a single iota of resemblance to her more than worthless brother. Tall, rangy, and angular in almost every aspect, the blue-eyed, blond-haired, ruby-lipped gal filled out a split-crotched leather riding skirt about as well as any woman Longarm had ever seen. Appeared to Longarm that she’d pulled the garment over her beautifully shaped naked ass, sat in a tub of warm water till the leather was saturated, then let it shrink-dry to fit her gorgeous behind like a second skin.

A bead of sweat ran down Longarm’s temple, then traced a line to the edge of his jaw. Jesus, he thought. She’s got the kinda body that’d make a grown man wanna slap the hell outta his poor ole grandma.

A tight, long-sleeved bleached muslin man’s shirt, open to a near obscene level, could barely contain a pair of melon-sized breasts restrained by little more than the buttons on her brocaded silk vest. Silver-studded cowboy cuffs, a pair of tight roper gloves, and a man’s flat-brimmed Stetson topped off an outfit accentuated by a set of flashy, ivory-gripped Colt Lightning pistols.

The strutting girl carried a silver-headed, braided leather quirt in one hand and slapped it against a shapely leg that dove into one of a pair of stovepipe, high-heeled boots done in green leather with fancy, lifelike eagles stitched across their fronts. Heavy Mexican rowels, the size of twenty-dollar double eagles, clinked and jingled as she swaggered into the room. A perceptible aura of tension, sexual and otherwise, surrounded the eye-catching woman like a roiling, electricity-laced thundercloud.

Quincy Bates shot to his feet and almost stumbled all over himself getting around the desk to shake the remarkable girl’s hand. During the greeting he couldn’t help but try and surreptitiously stare down her open-throated shirt at the amazing expanse of bosom she had on display.

No doubt about it, Longarm thought, this girl knows what she’s got and can work a man like a good cutting horse works poor, dumb, range-crazed steers.

Eyes near bulging in their sockets, and an idiotic grin painted on his face, Bates held the Lasher woman’s hand as though he had a grip on something delicately fragile that might shatter like glass, and said, “Most pleased you came by, miss.

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