Cold and dreary weather matched my mood, when we reached Boston. I was lost in thought, thinking about what price Sarah would ask of me, when an older woman opened a door to us. I introduced myself, and she said she knew who I was. Seeing my confusion, she handed me a folded paper. When I opened it, there was likeness of me, with the word WANTED over my head, and my name under it.Shocked, I frantically searched my mind, trying to remember where I’d left a trace of my identity. Save Sarah, no one knew my name. Both women saw confusion, hurt, then fury, flit across my face, as I put it all together. Sarah had trapped me, and thought I had no way out. I battled growing rage inside my own mind, and felt in my bones that as soon as we were alone, I would kill her. My aunt spoke.“I’d always hoped to meet you Lawrence, but not this way.” Somehow, she knew my anger was not directed at her. Taking the poster from me, she reached inside her door to a small table. After scratching a few words on the back of an envelope, she put some paper money in it and asked, “Can you read? Or she? Can she read?”I told her I could and she said, “You cannot stay here, but in New York there is a ship about to sail. My brother-in-law is the mate. Give him this note, and if your reputation hasn’t beaten you there, he will take you aboard. Now leave, and I never want to hear from you again. You’ve shamed our family.”Between the anger and sense of betrayal, my aunt’s words seemed far away. Sarah consumed my thoughts, as I tried to reconcile what she had done. Maybe she wasn’t evil at first, but a woman scorned might become that way.Alone in our cabin on the train to New York, I pressed my Colt to her forehead. “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”As if talking to a petulant child, her condescending voice said, “You belong to me, Lawrence.”“I belong to no one.” Even to myself, the words sounded hollow.She laughed, and for the first time, the sound enraged me. “No one can take you from me, Gunslinger.”She didn’t flinch as I pulled back the Colt’s hammer. “When did you do it?”With the barrel of my pistol pressing against her delicate skin, she smiled. “When the Quaker shot you. I sent a letter to Texas, with a drawing of you. I haven’t drawn in years!”Her deceit struck a base note within my black soul, even as I fought a wretched desire for the comfort she offered. I put the Colt back in my holster, and looked up to see frost forming on the train window. When I turned back to her, she had spread her thighs, and lifted her clothes. My lust for her was overwhelming. I was rough and uncaring as I used her body for my release, as though she were one of the whores I’d known before. Yet, somehow, she still found pleasure.Back in the seat, my breathing uneven, I looked at her. Her underclothes were torn, and I knew there would soon be bruises between her legs. Missing buttons on her dress exposed a bare breast, and my teeth marks. The imprint of my fingers marred her slender neck like rope burns.The look on her smiling face told me she wanted more. There was something black in her. Some part of her soul was blacker than my own. She may have been Delilah to my Samson, or Ruth to my Naomi, but when I saw that smile, I was hardening again.I kissed the insides of her thighs. Every spot I’d bruised, I caressed with tenderness. I bathed her nipples with my tongue as I moved with a slow rhythm inside her. My hand found the small of her back, and gently pulled her to me with each thrust. Our tongues danced, and she moaned into my mouth when we kissed. She climaxed twice before pushing me backward and straddling my hips. Her hand reached between us, and guided me into her.Her face was above mine then, and she pulled my mouth to her breast. Her hips moved in a dance on my lap. Muscles squeezed and manipulated me. She was right. I was hers. When I finally softened and slipped from her again, she whispered, “I love you, Lawrence.”
©2016 Shawn Jones