Vegas: Los Vegas Rancho3

It was a quiet evening. The wind was whistling around the buildings, raising dust clouds on the street and tossing tumbleweeds around like toys but it was warm in the hotel's restaurant. Rodney smiled, sighed and sat back with a fastidious wiping of his mouth with a napkin. The food was actually passable, surprising him. He had a decent room on the second floor, and after cleaning up from his stagecoach journey he felt better. He looked round at the few other diners engaged in conversation.

"Mr. McKay? Excuse me. I just wanted to introduce myself. I am Doctor Carson Beckett."

Rodney nearly jumped at the Scottish voice. He looked over to see a rather dapper man clad in a brown suit. He had short brown hair, a line of scruff on his jaw and blue eyes that although friendly were assessing him. Rodney moved to his feet, shook the proffered hand. "It's Doctor McKay, actually."

"Och! Another physician?"

"No, not that kind of doctor. Excuse me, sir, do I know you?"

"No. We have a mutual acquaintance. Mrs. Sumner."

"Ah. Please." The two men sat at the table. "Oh! You must be the Doctor Beckett she mentioned in her correspondence."

"Yes, that would be me. I hear you had a rather unpleasant journey to our little town."

"Unpleasant? Terrible! I will be so glad when the railroad finally makes it through here as I am sure you all must be!"

"I would advise you to lower your voice," Carson urged, amused at the man's sanguinary exclamations. "That's a rather sore subject around here."

"Really? Why? The railroad represents progress! Civilization! Why, instead of being just a way station on the Old Spanish Trail you could actually become a real town! A city even, with the advance of the railroad and all of the advantages that would bring!" Rodney frowned, noticing a few glares directed towards him at his words.

"Still, for the farmers around these parts it is a problem. Best to leave it, eh? The telegraph is set up in the post office, and once you have finished there I will escort you to the other thing."

"I know where it is! I have the necessary equipment to fix it! Did I mention I was robbed? Robbed at gunpoint by some most scurrilous ruffians! And apparently your local sheriff has no interest in pursuing the criminals and recovering my losses!"

Carson smiled. "He will, in his own way."

"I was told I might have better luck with the deputy. I wish to see him tomorrow, first thing."

"All right."

"And as for the other thing…" Rodney lowered his voice, "the less who know the better. I had the strangest feeling I was being followed out here. I kept seeing the same man at both train stations, but he was not on the stagecoach."

"He was probably a fellow traveler, that's all," Carson soothed, shaking his head at the stranger's eccentricity. He wondered at Moira's insistence that this man was the one who could help them with what they had found.

"No! I believe he was following me. I cannot explain it, but he kept looking at my case with undue interest. And I assure you that I am well known in most scientific circles, at least back East. At least in Chicago. At least in my university," he was forced to temporize. He grabbed a glass of water and drank quickly to cover his embarrassment.

Carson smiled indulgently, sighing. "You can mention that to the deputy as well, then, Mr. McKay, in the morning after you have recovered fully from your journey."

"Doctor McKay, and yes, Doctor Beckett, I think I shall."

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There was a knock at the door. Moira whirled. Her black skirts swished noisily as the wind soughed around the house as if it too was in mourning. She moved to the door, opened it cautiously. A rifle was in reach, just in case. The house was miles from town, isolated. It was a tiny oasis of civility amidst acres of land, its only companion building being an old barn. The house was swathed in darkness except for the cheering kerosene lamps that threw long shadows onto the walls.

She smiled as a long, lean form filled the doorframe, blocking the orange sunset behind him and throwing his features into shadow. But she recognized him nonetheless. "Sheriff Sheppard."

"Ma'am." He inclined his head, tapped the brim of his hat. One thumb was hooked into the gun belt slung low on his hips. "May I?"

"Of course." She stepped aside. He entered the house, almost swaggering now like he owned it. Or at least was welcomed with open arms although it was another man's house. Although another man's wife, well, widow now was inviting him. He felt no guilt at the invitation, or that her current status was entirely due to him. He stood a moment, looking around the now familiar furnishings.

Moira shut the door, locked it. The wind soughed against it, pushing but could not gain entrance. She turned to view him, hands clasped together in front of her. "Did you-"

"Yes. Jumper's in the barn, bedded down for the night. I intend to do the same."

"You intend to be brushed and fed some barley oats?" she teased, turning to him.

John grinned. He tossed his hat onto the peg on the wall where it spun, landed. "In a manner of speakin' yeah. Come here, woman."

"John!" Moira laughed as she was pulled into his arms. Her laughter was doused by kiss after kiss as John took full possession of her mouth, her body as he guided her backwards, backwards to the wall where he gently pushed her. He pressed his body to hers, still kissing her repeatedly as his hands wandered along her, seeking her curves under the layers of clothing separating them.

Moira caught hold of his gun belt and undid it then his pants as John's mouth freed hers to wander across her cheek, her throat. His hands slid up to free her hair, to set the brown tresses spilling around them. She murmured, whimpered as his hands were sliding now to unbutton the bodice of her dress, fingers clumsy and impatient. Her fingers encountered the hardness of his gun, then another hardness that made him moan in response, reply. "John…John…"

"You best stop that or I won't have any left for ya," he teased as her fingers captured and caressed. Squeezed and tugged.

She squirmed as he grabbed her skirts and shoved her body along his, hands squeezing her rear to make her squeal and yelp. He chuckled, a low, masculine sound that slithered along her skin. She freed him only to shove him away from her. "John!" She was flustered, desirous and itching to get as close to him as possible. "Are you sure you weren't seen?"

"I'm sure." His gaze raked over her. "Let's get to this, Moira, before I have to fuck myself."

"John Sheppard!" She took his hand, led him round the room as she doused the kerosene lamps one by one. "Have you found those criminals yet? The ones who robbed poor Mr. McKay?"

"Not yet. I got an idea where they are holed up, though. I've got more pressing business first, Moira Sumner. Like pressing an Irish rose to my—"

"John!" She laughed, led him into the bedroom. She paused, freeing his hand to turn to him. To gaze upon him as he stood, waiting. Impatient. Lustful. He licked his lips. She touched his chest. An almost shy gesture after the passion only seconds earlier. "John, we have to be careful, you know. We have to be cautious…it is still too soon for—"

"I know, I know. Don't worry, sweetheart. Now…" He drew her to his arms again and kissed her. A slow, savoring kiss that made her melt into him. "Let's just see if this cowboy can tame this wild, wild filly, huh?"

Her laugh was all the assent he needed.