1880
The following summer Jeannie and her gang were lounging outside the candy store on the boardwalk. Jeannie, Mike, Casey and Juan were leaning back against the building’s weatherboarding, their legs outstretched. Ambrose and Chuck were reclining against the street railings. Hat brims were pulled down low. Between sucks on penny candies, they were puffing on cigarettes, and smoke lazily curled upward. Casey tapped ash onto the boardwalk, blew a cloud of smoke from between smiling lips and lifted his hat brim. He whipped his fringe from his face and grinned at Ambrose.
“So, Ambrose, how’d ya manage t’get hold o’ these smokes, huh?”
Ambrose grinned back. “Easy. My Pa had several packs in the parlour. Didn’t think he’d miss a pack.”
They all chuckled, drew on their cigarettes and Ambrose sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips. He coughed and put his fist to his mouth. Mike frowned at him.
“Tryin’ t’make smoke circles.”
The others laughed and tried to follow suit. Jeannie gave a broad grin. “Ah know how ya supposed t’do it. Frank showed me.”
Mike stared at her. “Did he?”
“Sure did.”
Casey turned to face her. “Go on then, do it.”
“Right, ya suck in a mouthful of smoke, press yer tongue against the bottom of yer mouth, pretend t’suck a lollipop, like this …” She sucked her cheeks and lips in. “Open yer mouth to form an O, click yer lower jaw forward and blow.” But when she tried she ended up coughing crazily, her hand to her mouth, her face red. “Practice makes perfect, huh?” she managed to wheeze.
The boys laughed out loud. There followed a long pause.
Casey gazed at her. “Uh … Jeannie … don’t ever change, huh?” He scratched his head in embarrassment. Jeannie pushed her hat brim off her face and grinned at him.
“Well, you’re nearly fifteen, an’ most gals your age are learnin’ domestics an’ talkin’ about what they look like n’ worryin’ ’bout findin’ men. They ain’t excitin’. Not much fun. You cain’t make a real pal outta most gals.”
She grinned at him and Casey’s nose creased in contempt. “Try talkin’ t’most gals our age an’ whaddya get? Blushes an’ giggles an’ lil’ itsy bitsy chitchat. Yuk!” He flung his head back against the wall, his fringe flying, and banged his skull. Cursing, he gave it a rub and yanked his hat down over his eyes.
Jeannie chuckled and her eyes sparkled.
Casey lifted his hat brim again and regarded her. He adored her. She fitted his criteria of a how a girl should be. He broke his contemplation.
The others spluttered with laughter and grinned. They gazed at her. Chuck raised an eyebrow.
She sat bolt upright, and her widened eyes fixed upon Chuck.
Her intent gaze discomfited Chuck, and he turned away, blushing. He distractedly drew on his cigarette and blew smoke.
Mike gazed absently into the distance and nodded.
“Thankee.
A Year Later...
Buck Webster perched on his ladder, was polishing his gun store window and humming. He puffed on the glass then rubbed the misted area. The doorbell jangled and Jeannie walked in, accompanied by a waft of cool air. The floorboards creaked. She wore a man’s shirt and tight trousers, and her sexuality was beginning to take hold. Webster’s tune ceased, his throat jumped. She leaned against his counter, crossed her ankles and cast her paralytic gaze at him. His nerves twitched. She grinned. “Nice winders, Mr Webster.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Jeannie. How can I help you?”
He stepped down from his ladder and smiled. She swept a critical gaze over the glass display case beneath the counter.
“Ah need a gun.” She would be partaking in the next drive, and gun ownership was a necessity. “Uh-huh? What type?”
Webster swung behind his counter and gestured at his display of revolvers under the glass. “Plenty here.” A roll of black velvet lay to one side on the counter. He unrolled it, smoothed it out, and removed a selection of weapons laying them carefully on the velvet. He took a breath and indicated the first revolver.
“This here’s a .36 calibre Navy Colt. Used widely during the Civil War.” “Yup. Know about that. Read about it.” “Okay. Well … this one’s a Derringer, a single-shot weapon.” “Yup. Know about that. Aunt Martha carries one.” He pointed at a long-barrelled revolver. “And that’s the single-action Buntline Special with its 12-inch barrel.” She pointed at the next revolver and her eyes sparkled.
“Is that what I think it is?” “This is the Colt .45 Peacemaker. It’s a single-action revolver used by the army. A solid six-shot. Very popular. That’s a walnut grip—” “Ah know. I’ve read an’ heard a lot about it, too.” Her cool exterior belied hidden excitement. Her gaze weaved from one weapon to the other, observing the finely crafted workmanship, the smooth metals, the attention to detail. Her gaze contemplated. She bit her lower lip in thought. She lingered over the Colt, hesitated, then picked it up and studied it. She balanced it on a finger, then, firmly holding the grip in both hands at arm’s length, lowered it to look along the barrel through the sight, one eye shut. She put it down and picked up the Navy Colt. Mike’s pistol was a Navy Colt and she’d used that. She repeated her inspection. She returned to the Peacemaker and picked it up again. She held the barrel briefly in her left hand then, right finger looped through the trigger guard, smoothly, quickly, twirled it. Webster gaped.
“Jees …” “Got a holster for it?”
She held the weapon possessively, turning it over, studying it. Webster rummaged beneath his counter and withdrew a tooled, tanned belt. It hung invitingly between his hands but she restrained herself from grabbing it. He smiled.
“This is about your size, but it’ll cost you a month’s wages.” She cast him a penetrating gaze, her eyes deeply hooded.
“Ah bin savin’.” She slung it around her hips and buckled up. The engraved brass buckle glinted. She slotted the Colt into the holster, withdrew the gun, spun it, and rehoused it with dexterity. Webster’s eyes rounded on her flexing hand. She adopted her cockeyed grin.
“Bin practisin’.” “I can see that. Want more? On ma gun range out back?” “Uh-huh.” Webster produced a box of cartridges from a drawer, then led the way through the rear door into the back yard. A row of six previously holed cans stood on posts, ready for her signature. She slid the Colt from the holster, and, using both hands, thumbed the loading gate open, cocked the hammer two clicks and spun the cylinder. She grinned. Smooth. Feels good. She loaded a bullet into each of the six chambers, thumbed the gate closed and flipped her jacket out of the way. She parted her feet and relaxed her arms at her sides. Webster stood back. She drew, fired with slightly bent knees, first thumb busting three shots then fanning the final three. Exploding cans clattered into the dirt. Webster jerked, blinked. The smell of gunfire permeated the air and the echo died down. His jaw dropped.
“Jesus!” She cleanly spun the weapon into her holster. Webster’s eyes circled. His jaw hung. He turned to face Jeannie’s grin and heavy-lidded eyes. She stood with her weight on one leg, her fingers spread on her hips. He swallowed.
“Jeannie,” he croaked. “I ain’t never seen no-one that fast, an’ that’s a fact. An’ my guess is that weren’t no fluke. You’s summat, gal, make no mistake.”
He stood transfixed, shaking his head in astonishment, his gaze bolted to the girl gunslinger. His head shaking, he strode back inside, Jeannie at his rear. He flipped back behind his counter.
“Guess you’re buyin’ that gun?” “Sure. Feels good.” “I could see that.”
He smiled dryly, his own eyes hooded. The transaction completed, he regarded her. “Jeannie …”
She met his gaze. “Uh-huh?” He lowered his eyes from that relentless gaze. “Be careful, gal.” Her scrutiny turned him pink. “Just be careful, huh?” “Uh-huh.” He sighed. “Folks’ll kill me fer sellin’ this to ya!” She flashed that grin and winked at him, then swaggered out through the door with her acquisition round her hips and a whistle on her lips. Webster might have had misgivings, but his thoughts arose unwittingly: Goddammit – she’s lookin’ good … She strode the sidewalk at ease, loving her new image. Folk paused, gaped, murmured, “Oh, Lord …!” However, their lingering scrutinizing silently admitted her audacity … together with those looks … She could not deny the truth either; they were gazing at her with new dread, and she quelled a chuckle in her belly.
1887
21 yrs old
Working her way through Colorado.
Girl Gunslinger Gains Reputation
Correspondent Wells Blackburn – April 20th 1887
'Jeannie Morgan is becoming a familiar name in Colorado. This young woman, a unique individual in many ways, is drifting the west and leading five young male friends who appear to be acting as her protectors – but not in the usual sense of masculine protection. Miss Morgan needs no protection in that respect. The protection she seeks concerns her nature. It is a queer one – she is a woman who has romantic notions for others of her gender as well as those for men.
Her appearance and manner are devastating, and when she enters a room, all eyes are upon her. She equals men in height, and male clothing in the style of a cowboy adorns her with panache. Miss Morgan, unlike the majority of women of the great frontier, is far from ugly or plain. Rather the opposite. She is boyish, slim and athletic, and her piercing pale blue eyes are hypnotic. This woman is – indeed – extraordinary. She clearly possesses warmth, a rollicking humour and a flamboyant manner, but she can just as easily dramatically transform into a frightening coldness. It has been noted by observers that she is competent in the fight, but her phenomenal gun hand – fast and accurate – is sensational. Challenges by intrigued and jealous gunmen threaten her daily – a matter usually ascribed to the male sex. She has been known to kill in self-defence.
Miss Morgan is leaving a trail of jealousy in her wake as a result of her notoriety and her more positive qualities, one of which is her adoration of children, who idolise her in return. As if this were not enough, both men and women develop fancies for her, often unwittingly and beyond their better judgement. Even those who detest her – and there are many – are seduced by her. The woman is a paradox. Her apparent fearlessness instils awe in strong men. No-one quite knows how to handle her, and no-one knows when – and where – she and her boys will turn up.'
ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY - THE STORYLINE
Badass pants-wearing tomboy beauty Jeannie Morgan grows to be a cowgirl & the fastest gun west of the Mississippi. But when she discovers that her sexuality is as fluid as a miner's whiskey & both men & women enjoy her magnificent lovemaking, she feels as though she's been trampled by a cattle stampede.
She's born in vibrant New Orleans in 1865 and strongly rebels against the upbringing of a Victorian girl. The family head west where she finds her true calling on her Pa's ranch. However, the explosive mix of her looks, her charismatic power, her lethal gun & finally her sexuality go against her & the townsfolk want her out or dead.
How will she survive? Or will those very qualities see her through to a charismatic conclusion?
Available as e-novel & paperback & on Kindle Unlimited.
IF YOU'VE READ & ENJOYED THE STORY SO FAR,
I'D BE INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL IF YOU COULD LEAVE A POSITIVE REVIEW ON AMAZON.
THANK YOU SO MUCH!
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The Extraordinary Tourist - TET Life -
New Book Alias Jeannie Delaney - Book 1 - Go West, Girl!
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Western Alias Jeannie Delaney Book 2 - The Outlaw's Return
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