Chapter 50

Too sated to make the trip back to the Mead, we slept in the bachelors’ tipi. Nonetheless, Cut managed to vent the pent-up need generated by the kill. He lowered my britches and molded himself to me beneath the covers, moving so gently I did not believe he could achieve a climax. He proved me wrong. He suppressed a groan by biting my shoulder.

We took our share of the buffalo to the Mead, and I was salting and smoking meat when West let me know someone was coming. Up to my armpits in gore, I looked up to find Splitlip Rumquiller waddling to meet me. I was never happier to see a rough, bearded face. He ignored the blood and gave me a bear hug.

Cut let out a cry of welcome and stepped off the stoop to join us.

“That there arse of yours still looks mighty good to these old eyes,” the frontiersman said, stepping back to look at me.

“Better watch out, Cut Hand understands every word you say now.”