The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (13 page)

She must tread lightly with him. In fact, it was acceptable to her if their relationship continued as merely a physical one, with mutual sexual gratification being the goal, as long as Milo didn’t dally with anyone else. She couldn’t bear this, she knew now after her experience with Four-Fingered Sam. She had thought she was light and easy, maybe even sort of a fresh judy. After fleeing from Ned on the California Trail, she had bitterly thought to get a strange sort of revenge on him—strange, since he could hardly ever have heard news of her, having probably settled in eastern Oregon—by having a string of affairs with hardy, virile pioneers.

This was a safe enough occupation in the Far West, where there were thirty men to one woman, and that one woman was usually a whore. Sadly and ironically, though, these hale men had proven to be not much better than her husband at remaining faithful. One after the other, she’d caught them dipping their wicks at the brothels, and in the case of Four-Fingered Sam, when she lived only yards down the road from the hog ranch!

She knew now, since meeting Milo, that the premier quality she required in a lover was faithfulness. No French pox for her! She had relaxed since Milo had also expressed disgust for adultery. As domineering, steely, and brutal as this man was, she knew she could trust his word that he wouldn’t dally with another belle—probably because she was his first in five years.

And that knowledge filled her with pride and joy. The most eligible stud on the entire frontier and he’d chosen
her
to toy with! That was enough for now. After the heart-stopping shock of discovering Ned had screwed everything with a hole, including the butter churn and beer keg, she’d considered herself unlovable anyway. There were no more thoughts of romance in Tallulah’s heart. Those silly frivolous notions had been burned away with her husband’s betrayal. She was perfectly content, even excited, to play the slut behind closed doors for the magnetic, powerful mountain man. She had never seen such icy blue eyes, such a magisterial Jewish nose, such shimmering athletic shoulders. Yes, this was satisfactory to her. And even better if they could include that delicious Spanish corporal. It didn’t upset her to watch Milo touch another man, for some odd reason. In fact, it stimulated her to heights she had never dreamed possible.

Now there was a rebellion to attend to. Milo and Reynaldo had vanished inside Casa Grande and had not emerged. Origin, a silver flask of bug juice stuck into his gun belt, had gone to round up the distinguished Sonoma citizens, and they, too, had disappeared into Casa Grande. Many antsy farmers and vaqueros were gathered either at the barracks or the Blue Wing, murmuring in low voices in a mixture of English and Spanish. Everyone fully expected shots to ring out any moment, and at least a dozen men were cleaning their pistols and rifles. Untended longhorn cattle lowed in the plaza, munching at the few remaining sprigs of dead grass, milling among the bones of their brothers.

Unable to withstand the tension, Tallulah exhaled loudly and strode back inside the bodega. Standing at the bar, William Todd was still fiddling with that infernal flag he’d started to design last night. “See?” said Todd, his fingers stained with blackberry juice. “The bear is looking proudly at the star.” Tallulah herself had provided the long red cotton strip that decorated the bottom. She’d whiled away an hour last night stitching it. Todd had then mixed up some brick dust, linseed oil, and Venetian Red paint donated by Jacob Leese, ironically now a prisoner, to paint a red star in the corner. The alleged bear, however, was a sorry mess.

“That still looks like a pig,” Tallulah heartlessly commented.

Apparently, Todd had finally reached his breaking point. He whipped off his coyote skullcap and slammed it onto the bar. “It does
not
look like a pig! That’s a bear! That’s a damned bear! Why would I paint a
pig
, for God’s sake? We’re all bear hunters, and we’re brave and spirited like old Bruin!”

“All right, all right!” Tallulah cried, placing calming hands on poor Todd’s shoulders. “I’m sure it’s sufficient enough to run up the flagpole just as soon as Milo and Corporal Vargas come out of Casa Grande. Later, I can stitch you a proper bear.”

“This
is
proper!” shrieked Todd. He slammed his hand into the bowl of blackberries. Black juice spurted everywhere—onto his white shirtfront, her bar, her apron. “What’s so improper about this?”

A vaquero Tallulah knew from an outlying rancho leaned over the bar. “
Es un cerdo.
”
That’s a pig.

Tallulah had to snatch up the still-wet flag when Todd grabbed the blackberry bowl and smacked the vaquero across the face with it, sending his sombrero flying. She whisked the bowl of Venetian Red paint away and scurried down the bar away from the brawl, where she smoothed the flag out on the bar.

“That
is
a pig,” opined Four-Fingered Sam. They had barely spoken since their falling-out, but Tallulah didn’t harbor much resentment against him anymore. She knew what she had done wrong, she had rectified it, and would never repeat that experience. Especially not with Sam. “They should just raise the Stars and Stripes, in my opinion, instead of declaring this new and separate Republic of California.”

Tallulah sighed. “I know. Spaniards think the swine is an emblem of rape and force. This might be taken the wrong way. I’ll get to work immediately sewing one that more resembles a bear than a pig.”

“
Si,
” said another vaquero. “Spaniards see this, they’ll think they are dealing with robbers.”

“There’s Milo!” someone out on the avenue shouted.

Luckily, Tallulah was at the door end of the bar, and she was already prepared to sprint. Leaving behind the flag and the bowl of red paint, she was the second or third to dash out the door. Even here in the street, there were already so many men that she had to shove farmers and caballeros aside in order to catch a glimpse of Dr. Semple. He was overseeing the loading of baggage into carts, and citizens onto horseback, readying them for transport to Sutter’s Fort so they’d be out of harm’s way.

She cared about the plight of poor Comandante Vallejo, his brother Salvador, Jacob Leese, and Prudhon. All of them she’d known for a year since arriving as a bedraggled “widow.” They’d opened up their hacienda doors to her. They’d paid her, given her jobs, loaned her men to labor and materials to build with. She knew they’d be back once the danger was past.

The crowd surged toward the plaza. She was lifted up on tiptoes, gripping the greasy leather sleeves of a few mountain men. The butt of a rifle nudged into her hip, and the handle of a bowie knife pressed against the other as the men flowed toward the enormous double gates in the center of the barracks adobe. The rabble that enveloped her bellowed various oaths, such as, “Long live Americans!”

“The Republic of California forever!”

“Live by the sword, die by the sword!”

“I never said that! I don’t want to die by the sword!”

“Only Spaniards use swords, because they never have any ammunition!”

“Down with Spaniards!”

And then, there they were.
Her lover,
Milo Stephens—Captain Milo Stephens—emerged from between the two fortress doors. He had replaced his buckskin shirt with a gold-buttoned frock coat of red material—not a Mexican army uniform obviously but something that looked to have been stolen from a British soldier. Frontier men had to scrounge for clothing that looked even halfway military, so Milo could very well have done that, and he looked incredibly dashing. His gold buttons glinted in the sun and his knee-high black boots that replaced the scruffy moccasins flashed with authority as he strode masterfully toward the crowd.

Corporal Vargas was at his side, looking equally grim and superior. Vargas had obtained the battalion’s naval supplies from Frémont and was outfitted in the blue flannel sailor’s shirt with the stars on the collar. It struck Tallulah how similar, really, the two men were. Not just that they were both tall, dark-haired, handsome brutes. But they almost looked like brothers as they strode purposefully toward the boisterous crowd—two brothers of the same mind, same heart. They were truly partners in the most intimate and highest sense, although Reynaldo had tried to encourage Milo to walk the official path and wait for direct orders from President Polk. Reynaldo had eventually capitulated to the will of the masses and they were now two sides of one coin, balancing each other out.

A new thrill Tallulah had never felt swept through her chest as her men came forward. This was not the time for romantic nonsense, but she had to actively fight the urge to fling herself into Milo’s arms. He was the least romantic man she’d ever known—a good thing that he didn’t even make the effort to pretend—and he would have abhorred that.

“It is done!” Milo bellowed, not missing one step in his stride.

A cheer rolled over the entire central plaza at this proclamation, and the tide turned back toward the Blue Wing. Tallulah stumbled a bit, now hanging onto men’s sleeves only by her fingertips, but a strong hand against her bum soon buoyed her up.
Milo
. They were crushed and jostled together—on her other side she was smashed against a bear hunter who still radiated the odor of his prey—and Milo’s eyes definitely twinkled with merriment when he finally looked directly at her.

“I have your flag!” Tallulah had to shout. “Now that secession is assured, men have been pouring in from the countryside. Some seek protection, some to join you.” Tallulah was thrilled that of all the men clamoring for Milo’s attention, literally grabbing at his elbow, he was talking to
her
, an innkeeper.

“Good!” Milo shouted back. “We need every hand we can get. There is some dissention still.”

Indeed, by the time they were carried to the Blue Wing, Tallulah had to corral a red-faced, enthusiastic Origin to help in pulling the bungs on some casks of liquor. She could not very well deny the men their due now that their initial rebellion had gone swimmingly. They were allowed to celebrate—for now, anyway.

Reynaldo leaned far across the bar and grabbed Tallulah’s sleeve as she stooped to swipe up a bottle of good and rare French wine she’d been saving. “I’m assigning these three men to guard your liquor and collect money. Each man must pay for what he drinks.”

“Oh, certainly,” Tallulah agreed. “That’s so very thoughtful of you.”

In fact, it was not only thoughtful but necessary of Reynaldo, as the Blue Wing bodega had never been so packed as a sardine tin as it was now at nine in the morning. Perhaps a hundred men were chockablock in the adobe room, those who could standing on the swaying tables and clinging to the rafters to remain on their feet. Reynaldo had to urge Milo to stand on the sturdier bar Tallulah had imported from St. Louis, Cowie and Fowler holding his ankles to prevent his being knocked off.

The crowd quieted a bit when Milo roared, “This day we proclaim California a republic, and our pledge is that private property shall be protected. We have strengthened our position and continue to hold it under the authority of thirty well-armed men and the rule of the people!”

Most of the roughnecks roared their approval, but Milo was right—a few voices of dissention were heard. One fellow Tallulah knew as an original settler, Captain Richardson from Sausalito, screamed, “We’re not supported by the United States or Captain Frémont! We’ll be completely unable to withstand General Castro when he marches upon us!”

“Yeah!” shouted a cattle rancher from the coast. “I move to abandon this whole action. I’m going home and I’ll join up with Castro if he comes knocking on my door!”

There was a general hubbub of discussion then. The very foot-thick clay walls vibrated with the buzz of the men’s talk. Tallulah was kept busy whisking and filling glasses across the bar. Reynaldo’s bodyguards, true to his word, literally rattled customers by their shirtfronts for money before they’d allow her to serve them.

At this juncture, just as Tallulah was pausing to sip whiskey from a caballero’s mug herself—the tension was so great, she could not resist a few gulps!—Milo looked down at her. He stood on the bar like a glorious Roman statue, one of those victorious European men with feet spread wide with the vigor of conquest. With his Hawken rifle slung across his back and his gun belt bristling with armament, he was the perfect conquering hero. The tails of the red British coat enhanced the shapely slope of his ass, and the fringed buckskins were stuffed into the black leather boots. Only, strife among his troops was tarnishing his statuesque patina. And yet the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile when he caught her gulping someone else’s whiskey.

She knew she had never gazed upon such a glorious man before.

Inhaling deeply, Milo hollered over the babble of the crowd. “Saddle no horse for me! I will lay my bones here before I will take upon myself the ignominy of starting an honorable task such as revolution, then fleeing like a coward, like a thief, when the enemy is in sight. In vain you will then say you had honorable motives.”

“Yeah!” shouted many men in agreement. But the babble of argument had silenced.

Gathering strength, Milo continued, “Who will believe you then? Flee today, and your long life won’t wear off your disgrace! Choose now! Choose today what you will be.”

There was an eerie, short pause during which the final tones of Milo’s last words chimed, rattling the glassware and metal in the room. It was a stimulating, thrilling moment, looking up at Milo with his nostrils flaring. The men didn’t have to hold his ankles anymore, as people had fallen away from him, as if to better gaze up at him in awe.