ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories) by Jane Prescott Page B
Authors: Jane Prescott
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maybe,” Dillard said. “I ain't never been out to New York but let me tell you something, I bet they'll be paying us a pretty penny to make sure everything goes smoothly. Whatever it is they want to talk to us about.”
Jerry looked down into his drink and nodded. That had been the part he hadn't been so sure about, when they'd gotten the wire from New York saying such and such bank was going to be sending out a representative to their area to make sure that money was moved around in accordance with the will of the some of the higher up people at the institution. Neither Jerry nor Dillard had any idea what that meant exactly, and it had been explained to them in often bombastic terms that they both thought was meant to inform, but also to confuse anyone who might be tapped into the telegraph line and listening in.
But it wasn't like it was rocket science. There would be a stagecoach. There would be money and presumably this Bell person who had just arrived. And then there would be the two of them with their guns, mean looks, and bad attitudes to ward off anyone who might think it a good idea to try their luck knocking off a bank coach. And that was exactly what had been going on all over the front range. The front range was the Rocky Mountains just west of Denver, with a corridor of settlements to its east like Denver, Colorado Springs, Fort Collins and others. Bandits in the area had grown smart to some of the bank coaches tricks and had increasingly been able to get away with a great deal of money. This, of course, meant either a lot of dead stagecoach men, or a lot of stagecoach men turning sides and selling out the banks to the bandits, if not just making off with the loot themselves.
So people like them, he'd told Dillard, were more and more in demand. They'd pissed off all of the local bandit games through their past jobs as cowhands, busting and hanging cattle thieves, that most nobody round these parts would willfully tangle with the two. They were what some of the Spanish speaking people called, “Bad men,” in broken English. Whether or not they were “bad” in the sense of being morally corrupt or “bad” in the sense of being stone cold killers wasn't something either of them worried about. They couldn't really afford to worry about it, and Jerry was especially aware of this being the brains out of the two of them. Not that Dillard was slow, by any means, he just didn't like to think about things that weren't money, booze, or pussy. So that meant that as far as planning went, Jerry was pretty much on his own. But he kind of liked it that way, anyway. What use would it be to have two minds competing to create the master vision that would in the end, with some luck, create a great deal of wealth for both of them.
Like openly being against racism and being more than willing to work with any race had landed with them this job. The telegram preceding the one that had told them of the obfuscated plans had asked them what they thought of race. Jerry had sent back, “Race is a social construct.” That, combined with their reputations as bad hombres was enough to get them hired. So here they sat, waiting for Bell to get back from the out house. And in she walked. And now that they both weren't shocked to see a black woman running the affairs of far off rich white men they both basked in the beauty that she radiated. She had high cheek bones and caramel colored skin, an ample behind and bust. She was the kind of woman that reminded a man that he had urges.
“How are the both of you?” she asked sitting down across the table from them.
“We're very good, mam,” Jerry said with a polite nod. “You said yesterday that you might be needing us to be available to move from here with you to the bank, is that correct?”
Jerry looked down into his drink and nodded. That had been the part he hadn't been so sure about, when they'd gotten the wire from New York saying such and such bank was going to be sending out a representative to their area to make sure that money was moved around in accordance with the will of the some of the higher up people at the institution. Neither Jerry nor Dillard had any idea what that meant exactly, and it had been explained to them in often bombastic terms that they both thought was meant to inform, but also to confuse anyone who might be tapped into the telegraph line and listening in.
But it wasn't like it was rocket science. There would be a stagecoach. There would be money and presumably this Bell person who had just arrived. And then there would be the two of them with their guns, mean looks, and bad attitudes to ward off anyone who might think it a good idea to try their luck knocking off a bank coach. And that was exactly what had been going on all over the front range. The front range was the Rocky Mountains just west of Denver, with a corridor of settlements to its east like Denver, Colorado Springs, Fort Collins and others. Bandits in the area had grown smart to some of the bank coaches tricks and had increasingly been able to get away with a great deal of money. This, of course, meant either a lot of dead stagecoach men, or a lot of stagecoach men turning sides and selling out the banks to the bandits, if not just making off with the loot themselves.
So people like them, he'd told Dillard, were more and more in demand. They'd pissed off all of the local bandit games through their past jobs as cowhands, busting and hanging cattle thieves, that most nobody round these parts would willfully tangle with the two. They were what some of the Spanish speaking people called, “Bad men,” in broken English. Whether or not they were “bad” in the sense of being morally corrupt or “bad” in the sense of being stone cold killers wasn't something either of them worried about. They couldn't really afford to worry about it, and Jerry was especially aware of this being the brains out of the two of them. Not that Dillard was slow, by any means, he just didn't like to think about things that weren't money, booze, or pussy. So that meant that as far as planning went, Jerry was pretty much on his own. But he kind of liked it that way, anyway. What use would it be to have two minds competing to create the master vision that would in the end, with some luck, create a great deal of wealth for both of them.
Like openly being against racism and being more than willing to work with any race had landed with them this job. The telegram preceding the one that had told them of the obfuscated plans had asked them what they thought of race. Jerry had sent back, “Race is a social construct.” That, combined with their reputations as bad hombres was enough to get them hired. So here they sat, waiting for Bell to get back from the out house. And in she walked. And now that they both weren't shocked to see a black woman running the affairs of far off rich white men they both basked in the beauty that she radiated. She had high cheek bones and caramel colored skin, an ample behind and bust. She was the kind of woman that reminded a man that he had urges.
“How are the both of you?” she asked sitting down across the table from them.
“We're very good, mam,” Jerry said with a polite nod. “You said yesterday that you might be needing us to be available to move from here with you to the bank, is that correct?”
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