The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (4 page)

Again, he looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t really know. I haven’t been with a woman in five years.”

Tallulah was shocked out of her anger. That this man—quite beautiful, really—hadn’t been with a woman in five years could only mean one thing. He was a bumfucker, an aficionado of other men. That was a pity, although if he was one of those obsessed cheaters, perhaps it wasn’t such a loss. Tallulah saw all manner of those ganymedes out here in the lonely wastes of California. Some men wanted to avoid the pox-riddled dirt of the hog ranch. For some men, it was just handier to reach for the nearest cock. Men were lazy swine, after all. They accepted the nearest receptacle they could stick their johnsons into. But the few men who would turn down a willing woman, who were dead set upon the Greek life, were usually androgynous and liked to wear women’s drawers. This vigorous and stunning man hardly seemed the sort to put on earrings and prance about in petticoats. He might be a promiscuous toad, but Tallulah couldn’t imagine him drinking tea with his pinkie finger extended.

“You don’t seem very…very
botanical
to me. You seem like an ordinary backwoodsman. You’re one of those hotheaded Osos, aren’t you?”

“The Bears, yes. We intend to proclaim California an independent republic. Most Spaniards I know will be satisfied and pleased with that.”

“I believe you,” said Tallulah. “Most Spaniards don’t feel any great loyalty to the government in Mexico City. Now get out from behind my bar. I’m the one who’s supposed to be behind there.”

They switched places. Tallulah was appalled to find herself ogling his superbly rounded butt as they passed by each other at the end of the bar. Cradled between the leather leggings, the curvaceous globes swayed impudently, and her mind went nearly blank with admiration. Then it occurred to her.
What am I doing? I just tossed over one chiseling jackass because he dipped his wick with other women. Already I’m ogling the beautifully molded ass of a confessed bumfucker? Tallulah, get your brain out of the back alley. He doesn’t want you. He’ll never want you.

“Tillie, is it?” the fellow asked saucily. “I do hope you weren’t terribly dead set on that cheating guy.”

Well, one thing could be said for ganymedes. A girl could certainly talk to them and feel relaxed and comfortable. But when this fellow angled his hip against the bar and crossed his ankles as he leaned, the delicious bulge of a slug-like cock was revealed, nestled in his crotch. Out here men just wore thin pantaloons under their leggings, and even in the dim lamplight Tallulah could see the outline of his prick’s crown. She struggled to avert her eyes, and poured more
aguardiente
for both of them. “Not terribly. But he was the most dashing fellow among this crowd of ruffians and loafers. You’ve been in California long? Then you know that Californio men are so lazy all they want to do is drink, gamble, and lasso animals. Sam was a step above that. He ran a good cattle operation. I did admire him.”

“I run a good farming operation up the Sacramento River.” Tallulah had no idea why this man would be trying to impress her. What was the point? “Acres of citrus trees, several thousand head of longhorn. There’s no time to be lazy. But I know what you mean. I employ Diggers to labor for me.”

“And what is your name? Might I have heard of your farm?”

“Ah,” he said and held out his hand for Tallulah to grasp. “I’m sorry. Milo Stephens. You may have gotten some grapefruits or oranges from my farm, Virgin Groves.”

Tallulah even smiled, amused. “Virgin? My. It’s been years since I’ve been able to say that.”

Milo’s icy aqua eyes danced, reflecting the lamp flame. His delectable bowed lips curled up at the corners. “To your credit. You’re a spitfire, all right.”

The compliment warmed her innards. Already her confidence was being rebuilt thanks to this appreciative ganymede. “So why Virgin Groves? The land was so virgin when you purchased it?”

“Not the land, although that is true. It was untouched by man. Me. I was reborn a virgin when I had to start my life all over again.”

Tallulah wondered what that meant. She presumed it had something to do with him not having touched a woman in five years. “I wish it was that simple to become a reborn virgin, Mr. Stephens. Sometimes I think all these men I’ve screwed have really and truly screwed me.”

“I take it this isn’t your first encounter with a disloyal suitor.”

“How do you know?”

“A woman who had never been betrayed wouldn’t react as violently as you did. She would be too shocked to throw things, too taken by surprise. That you even threw things lets me know this isn’t your first experience.”

Tallulah tried to be flippant. “Well. What woman has
not
been betrayed a hundred times?”

“You seem a lot more sensitive to it than most.”

Milo may have been a ganymede, but Tallulah couldn’t confess her husband’s transgressions to him. “Yes, I am very sensitive to it. There is no excuse for a man to need hookers when he has a perfectly amenable belle waiting for him, if only he had the gumption to walk another half a mile!”

Milo raised an eyebrow and drank. “Less French pox, too.”

Tallulah was getting angry again. “Well, don’t you agree with me? I mean, back when you—when you
did
touch women. Were you a chiseling cheater as well?”

“Me? No. I was married.” A faraway look came into Milo’s eyes as he looked out the bodega window. The sun was rising. Tallulah had been awake all night waiting for Four-Fingered Sam to show up from his hacienda, serving roostered gamblers in her bodega. Now she’d have to wake her assistant, if he wasn’t sprawled half off his bedstead, corned. Origin Oakley could oversee making breakfast for the early-rising guests if his bender hadn’t been too severe the night before.

“So being married prevented you from philandering?”

Milo returned to reality and briefly glanced at Tallulah. “Yes. Of course. Why would I philander if I had a woman I was in love with waiting for me? There’s no reason.”

“Exactly!” Tallulah pointed at him with vindication. “What is
wrong
with men? They have to drain their penises every six hours? It’s a medical necessity or the sperm backs up and comes out their eyeballs? Jumping Jiminy. Men are dogs.”

“I didn’t say men didn’t have to drain their penises every six hours. That part’s probably true.”

Tallulah examined Milo’s face for any sign of jest. But either he was serious or was doing a good job stuffing down his laugh. “You refer to your ganymede life now. Yes, I’m sure you ganymedes run around bumfucking every six hours. I’m the proprietor of an inn. I have to listen to that noise every night. It’s like living in a barn.”

Milo frowned and put his palm on his abdomen. “Ganymede? Who are you calling—Me? Now wait just a second here.”

Tallulah’s curiosity was piqued. She wanted to hear this powerful stud’s explanation. Then she loathed herself. Her heart actually leaped when he tried to deny being a ganymede! “Why do you protest—”

“Land’s sake!” Origin Oakley banged in the bodega door. The enormous Californio spurs that he wore jangled like an entire cavalry, and he headed straight for the bar, predictably. He had no reason to be wearing the spurs—he lived, along with Tallulah, in a little house directly behind the inn. So he had not been riding this morning. He just liked how dashing they looked. “Them damned greasers is finally coming to scalp us and you’re sitting here drinking
aguardiente?
Give me some.”

Tallulah sighed and shared looks with Milo. She didn’t know if her handsome new ganymede friend was acquainted with Origin, but everyone in the small settlement had to be, eventually. “What makes you say they’re coming?”

“A rider just came from the Cosumnes River, where Frémont’s men have engaged with a hundred greasers in battle! Yes, indeed. Frémont sent fifty of his irregular hunters and riflemen to beat back the greasers into Mexico. Castro has loathed Frémont ever since that great man stole some of Castro’s horses near Monterey, so we shall see a bloody pitched battle, mark my words! Frémont is already proclaiming the war has begun in defense of American settlers—us.” He lifted his glass, nearly overflowing with
aguardiente
, to his lips and gulped.

Tallulah said, “Fifty of us versus a hundred of them?”

Milo explained, “The Mexicans are usually armed with old flintlocks and sabers. Believe you me, those numbers are fair.”

Origin paused in his gulping and looked suspiciously at Milo. “You’re one of those Osos, aren’t you? Why aren’t you down there fighting the noble battle for our Republican government?”

Tallulah could see Milo struggle to maintain composure. He could have very well pointed out that Origin wasn’t down at the Cosumnes River either. To his credit, he refrained from being rude to the inn assistant. “I’m waiting, actually, for Frémont to arrive in Sonoma. Tomorrow I have a supper with Comandante-General Vallejo. I’ve heard Vallejo supports California annexation. He’s been paying his troops out of his own pocket for awhile and has been ignored by Mexico.”

“That may be true.” Origin knitted his brows. “I hate to say it,
compadre
, but the time for rational discussion has ended. Tomorrow you may sip
aguardiente
with the general, but war is inevitable.”

“Today,” Tallulah reminded her friend. The sun had risen, birds were chirping, it was already “tomorrow.” She had known about Vallejo’s supper because he’d requested many items from her storehouse. She usually wound up serving at these events anyway.

Tallulah treasured and valued Origin. They had become fast friends a year ago when Tallulah had first arrived in Sonoma, downtrodden and alone. Having just left the Mormon group he’d come to California with, Origin was downtrodden and alone too, so they forged a pact to stick by each other’s sides. Even so, Tallulah was constantly reminded of Origin’s downfalls. One was his abundant love of the vine.

Origin ignored her. “I have heard you are the loudest Oso to proclaim the superiority of the rule of the people! Or are you all talk, sir?”

“I assure you,” said Milo with narrowed eyes, “I am far from all talk. I merely think it is prudent to have the Comandante on the side of righteousness before we resort to more violent methods. And so far, I’ve seen no enemy to engage. I prefer to wait for Frémont’s arrival.”

“Yes, yes,” said Origin thoughtfully. “Find out the outcome of this Cosumnes battle. Then we can unite our adopted country!”

Milo grinned, and Tallulah thought she’d never seen a more handsome man. Those sparkling, intelligent eyes! It was a shame of the worst sort that he preferred buggering men. “Believe me, Oakley, I didn’t leave my farm to some Digger Indians just to come out here and dine with Vallejo. This will be done. We will suffer under the oppressive yoke of Mexico City no more.”

And so, as stimulated as she was by the rancher’s idealism, Tallulah had to drag herself off to bed. She could get maybe four hours’ sleep before her Digger maid woke her to prepare things for Vallejo’s supper. Milo offered to walk her “to her home,” but it was only several yards behind the bodega, and Origin wanted to keep drinking with Milo.

She stripped off her
camisa
shirt as she entered her upstairs bedroom. She closed the curtains of the two windows so sunlight wouldn’t interrupt her sleep. She didn’t bother unbraiding her hair—if she took it down after her nap, it would flow over her shoulders in shining wriggles, perhaps attracting the attention of that stunning—

Like hell!
Why did she persist in thinking of that muscular backwoodsman?
He’s an androphile, you idiot. He likes to suck cock.
Then she giggled.
Well, so do I. We have that in common.
Tallulah draped her embroidered white muslin skirt over a chair and leaned back on her pillows. The last thing she saw before slumber overtook her was her ivory dildo on the nightstand. She and Four-Fingered Sam had been playing with it a few days ago. She would have to put it back in its box, because she’d only use it by herself at this rate.

Men. It was impossible to get along with them. But the law wouldn’t allow you to kill them, either.

“Vallejo lives a genteel life here, does he not?” Reynaldo asked Lieutenant Gillespie as he handed his reins to a trooper and surveyed the solid adobe buildings that fronted onto Sonoma’s plaza. A two-story barracks had a wide balcony that ran around the entire building. A crenellated tower connected with Vallejo’s Casa Grande domicile, where Gillespie and Corporal Reynaldo Vargas were heading. Frémont had chosen Vargas for this mission because Stuttering Zeke Merritt loathed Vallejo and wouldn’t be able to hide his disdain.

Reynaldo was part of the advance guard coming to warn Vallejo about what had transpired on the Cosumnes River. Reynaldo didn’t look forward to giving this report, which was why Frémont had sent them ahead while he lollygagged back with the hundred horses they’d captured from Castro. The initial report had been that a hundred of Castro’s men were on the rampage toward Sutter’s Fort, but all Reynaldo’s detachment had discovered was a couple of vaqueros collecting horses intended for the Mexican militia. The vaqueros were taking them to the south side of the bay, to Castro in Santa Clara.