by Lee Savino
“It’s probably not safe for you to go about at night like this.”
“I do as I like. I have been coming here at night since I was a girl.” She tugged the bowl, and he let her take it.
“Your husband let you?”
“My father, and then my husband, yes. They would not meddle. Besides, most of the people of the town and the valley know me, and respect their healer. They learn quickly: no one is to enter this place without my permission.”
He raised a brow.
“You are the first man here in a long time.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady. I was never any good at following rules.”
“No, just dishing out punishment to others who break yours.” She mixed the ground herbs together, adding another powder with brisk, angry movements.
So she hadn’t forgotten the birching. “You tried to kick something that is very important to me,” he said.
A mocking smile curved her lips. She raised a hand to brush back a strand of hair, and her sleeve slipped down to her elbow. Sebastian watched it fall, mesmerized. “You men think you’re so tough, but you are really all babies.”
“Looking for the next place to nurse,” he said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the hook on her dress that had come undone and shifted, revealing the curve of her breast. If the fabric fell a little further…
Both of them flushed at the same time. Francesca clutched the neck of her dress, found the undone hook and refastened it. Sebastian turned away. He was bantering with her like she was a strumpet.
“Forgive me,” he said, facing the window. “I have been in the company of men far too long.”
“So have I,” she said.
He kept his back to her while she finished puttering around her work space. The night air cooled his thoughts.
What was he thinking, flirting with a widow?
“Lord Chivington? I am finished. I’m leaving.”
She’d cleaned the area and had blown out all but one candle. Instead of the smock, she’d pulled a shawl around her shoulders.
“I’ll escort you back to the hacienda.”
As they made their way over the field, Sebastian cast about for some neutral topic.
“It’s a lovely ranch, if I may say so.”
“Thank you. My father founded it. It was his life.”
“When you spoke of your husband’s death...you said “they”…do you know that your husband’s death was carried out by more than one man?”
She scrubbed a hand over her tired face. “I do not have proof, only suspicion. My father and husband worked hard to make this farm and keep it successful. After my father’s death, a man came and said his boss had a debt against the land. It seems my father had borrowed money from a man named Doyle without telling Cyro.”
“Doyle?” Sebastian recognized the name of a Colorado business owner, pimp and cheat, who had met his demise late summer last year.
“Yes,” Francesca said, not noticing Sebastian’s reaction. “And though the loan was small, it had grown year by year, and my father hadn’t covered all the payments. They had papers to prove the debt and the land was used as collateral. So Cyro took over the payments, but a few bad years in a row and he fell behind. He hid it from me, but I could tell it strained him. I begged him to let that portion of the land go, but Cyro did not think we could make the ranch work without it.”
“Cyro kept much of this secret from me, but after his death, I found ledgers in his office. I believe he went to negotiate with the thugs Doyle sent to collect, and Charlie the Red shot him.”
Sebastian thought fast. Doyle was dead, but his men were still trying to collect their fat payments from debtors.
“Are you still paying the loan?”
“No. They drained my father and husband dry. These men have no honor, I will not send payments any more. So far they have not come to bother me.”
“You think they will though, now?”
“I don’t care,” she snarled. “They can cut me down like a dog. I will not yield.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” He opened the garden gate for her, and would’ve held the one to the house, but she waved him away.
“I am not tired,” she admitted. “It has been awhile since I had a night of rest. My mind spins ‘round and ‘round and I cannot sleep.”
“I understand.”
She seemed smaller, softer in the cloak of darkness. He suspected that she was tired beyond exhaustion, with a weariness that wouldn’t be cured with one night of rest.
They walked around the kitchen gardens, stopping in the stone courtyard in front of the doors leading into the dark dining room.
“Mind if I smoke?”
She waved her hand to give him permission and seated herself to watch him light up.
“I must say, America makes fine tobacco products.”
“How long have you been here?”
“In the colonies? Almost two years now.” He hadn’t realized it had been that long. “It’s been a grand old time. As soon as I’m bored, someone walks into a saloon and starts shooting up the place.”
“I only shoot men if they deserve it,” she scoffed, and he realized that all the months he’d been pursuing his own leisure, she’d been struggling to survive. He knew life was hard out here; he rubbed elbows with the working masses often enough, in the saloon. He’d just never come face to face with someone so beautiful and regal, whose life was defined by hard labor.
“Señora De La Vega, I must say…back in the woods, where we first met…I’m sorry if I frightened you. It wasn’t my intent.”
“I wasn’t frightened.”
“Are you sure? You tried to shoot me at the first.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “I thought you were speaking of when you whipped me.”
“Oh, no. I’m not sorry for that at all.” He grinned.
“You better take care, Englishman. As you say, most American women will shoot you as soon as look at you. Make sure you do not give them any more reasons.”
Sebastian felt almost giddy. He relished witty repartee with a beautiful woman almost as much as a good lay, and this was a chance to cheer them both up. “Quite. Though I have just as many women who appreciate my skill with a whip as not.”
She frowned and he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a tantalizing whisper. “With the right preparation, I find a little flagellation doesn’t go amiss in the bedroom. Pain makes the pleasure sweeter.”
She drew in a quick breath. In the darkness lit only by stars, he couldn’t quite make out the expression on her face. But he’d guess she was more intrigued than anything.
“You should not speak of such things in polite company.”
“I didn’t know I was in such company, Señora De La Vega.” He puffed his cigar, content that he’d rattled her.
She sat ramrod straight, but her breath quickened. His little widow was excited. “You, sir, are a scoundrel.”
“Oh, I know.” Sebastian smiled around his cheroot. “Comes from too much money and having not enough to do. I’m an ignoble noble. A lackadaisical lord.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
She bent her head, and he’d bet anything her face was flushed. It made him wonder what the rest of her was like, if he tossed away his smoke and pulled off her shawl, kissing her neck before he ravished her on the flagstones of her own garden.
Steady, Sebastian. Look, don’t touch. She’s a lady and a widow, not the local soiled dove.
It wasn’t fair. They had a connection. Helping her soothed his chivalrous itch and though he could not expect grateful sighs and kisses from this damsel, he was more than happy with scathing comments and sharp looks. He’d even take a cold shoulder, if it was as lovely as hers.
He was sure she felt the same pull towards him. She was annoyed, she found him ridiculous and alarming at the same time, but even though she sat perched on the edge of her seat, looking like she wanted to
flee at any moment, she stayed.
Ana Maria Francesca De La Vega (the fourth) was the most fascinating person he’d met in a long time.
Lord James Sebastian Chivington the third was the most fascinating person she’d ever met. Just sitting next to him, hearing him suggest lascivious things while he puffed that damn cigaro... He followed her around like a dog all day, even stalking her to enter her personal space, and she let him. It was as if he was a magician weaving a spell with a birch instead of a wand.
It was the whipping, she decided. It had connected them. The sting was brutal and unpleasant, but left her whole body aching with another, sweeter pain.
What had he said about pain and pleasure? She wondered what he meant. Then scolded herself. Cyro was not six months in the ground and she was already panting after a man like a bitch in heat. How twisted, to enjoy a beating, and wonder what it would take to earn another.
She was a horrible woman to want to find out.
Though his manner made her grind her teeth, she found him easy to talk to. She had no one else to share these things with. She had to be strong for Juan and Ana and all the others who were looking to her to lead them.
It had been nice, for a few moments, to be tied and helpless, forced to submit to another’s will. The pain baptized her, washed her clean.
The thought frightened her. But here sat her confessor, jovial, fair, and handsome, and completely unaware of the feelings he’d aroused in her.
She could never let him know.
A part of her grieved this. She needed an ally, a confidante, someone to lean on. Someone who accepted her for who she was. Who could sit by her and listen to her fears.
Someone worthy of entering the apothecary.
She sat very still next to the smoking Brit, wondering if she’d found the someone she’d wanted all along.
By the time Sebastian went to bed that night, his thoughts were consumed by the lovely Spanish rose.
Women found him fetching; he found women interesting and dull. Interesting when their brains weren’t suppressed by the expectations of marriage and breeding. Women of the ton were sometimes beautiful and sometimes intelligent, but mostly bored, as he was, closeted in their lives of leisure and crippled by petty concerns. With no problems to speak of, it was easy to spend time fussing about the temperature of your bathwater.
Of course, smart or stupid, he always enjoyed what lay beneath a woman’s skirts and fascinating toilet, and he enjoyed the seduction process. That was another reason his father had banished him to America.
In the past two years, he’d enjoyed his time with strumpets, especially the bawdy ladies of the West. As objects of desire, though, they had a certain hardness he couldn’t get past, a product of their vulgar situation. He needed a sharp, capable lady with the intelligence and business sense of a bawd, and the eager passion of a whore.
All this time hunting buffalo, he should’ve been hunting hoydens. A rarer breed and much more fun.
Of course, now he found one, he couldn’t touch her. His soldier stood at attention, awaiting orders that would never come.
Sighing, Sebastian sat up and took matters in hand. As he stroked himself, he imagined what it would be like to bed a woman like Francesca: to watch her pupils widen, her breasts rising and falling with her panting breath as he whispered lovely, despicable things. He’d pleasure her until little tremors ran through her body, and watch her eyes flutter and chest flush when she came.
Sebastian finished with a groan, and settled back. It was no use. He could spend himself every hour, and all too soon his thoughts would drift to his dark lady and his dick would grow so hard, he’d fear it’d snap off.
Of course, if he seduced the widow, no telling if his Man Thomas might meet exactly that fate. Francesca was a woman ruled by passion. He pitied her late, older husband. How had the man kept up with such a youthful bride?
Poor sod, Sebastian thought, and wondered who he was sorrier for, the late Cyro Montoya or himself.
He rolled over and punched the pillow. He may as well try to get some sleep. In the morning, he would see what he could do to help the widow Francesca. And if asked whether it was chivalry or another, baser reason that made him stay, he would lie.
His opportunity came the next day, when he, Juan, and Cage rode the rest of the perimeter and found another broken fence. Several cows had roamed out, fallen into an acequia and couldn’t get out. Juan sent his boy back to fetch reinforcements. Francesca arrived first.
“It happened last night, señora. We are lucky they haven’t drowned.”
“There weren’t just cattle here.” Cage pointed out the horse tracks in the mud. “Someone drove them across where the water is deep enough for them to drown.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Sebastian asked.
Francesca didn’t answer. She looked very tired.
“We need to get the cattle out,” Juan called. “This water is everyone’s, but it is meant for the farms, not a cattle wallow. They will destroy the bank.”
“Get them out,” Francesca said. “Tell all the vaqueros to take the cattle far away so this doesn’t happen again.”
“What if we cannot get an animal out?” Juan asked.
“Kill it, and butcher the carcass.”
“Wait. No need for that.” Sebastian dismounted. “We drive the cattle further up where it’s shallow, and build a ramp for them to climb out.”
Juan looked at Francesca and she nodded. “Do as the Englishman says.”
“I’ll get the others, and bring some logs,” Cage said.
Sebastian started stripping off his coat and shirt.
“What are you doing?” Francesca asked.
“Helping,” Sebastian said. “With your permission, of course.”
She nodded.
When the vaqueros came, Sebastian explained the plan. Cage and the others arrived dragging logs to split and make a makeshift ramp.
They labored through the hot day, and Sebastian kept the same pace as the others, even as his fair skin flushed with the heat and sun.
“You know, when I signed on to give you a taste of Western adventure, this wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Cage joked as they tried to coax a lowing cow out of the water.
Sebastian just grunted.
Cage leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “So what’s the story? Someone drove these cattle in here. Who’s trying to make trouble for our hosts?”
“Francesca’s father got into debt with Doyle.”
“Doyle?” Cage also recognized the robber baron’s name. “Not a man to be indebted to. But now he’s dead.”
“His men aren’t. Francesca thinks her husband was killed by the Royal Mountain Gang.”
Cage let out a low whistle. “Those men are dangerous. I think Bigs and Johnson run the gang now. I can ask around, find out if they’ve been seen in these parts.”
“Thank you, Cage. And for sticking around.” Sebastian wiped mud off his face. Francesca and Ana had arrived bearing food for the noon meal.
Cage followed his employer’s line of sight. “Just be careful with her. That ain’t no soiled dove. You’re sniffing around a respectable woman, and a widow to boot.”
“I would never disrespect her,” Sebastian sniffed. “Other than some discipline to make sure she understands how she should treat me, I’ve been the model of propriety.”
“I’m sure.” Cage rolled his eyes. “But watch yourself. That young woman has been neglected too long. She’s a simmering pot about to boil over.”
Cage’s warning rang in his ears as Sebastian went to take lunch. Francesca handed him a tamale wrapped in corn husks, biting back a smile.
“You are covered in mud.”
“I am that,” he said cheerfully. “All in an honest day’s work. Can’t say I’ve ever had one of those.”
Francesca snorted.
“I’d say you had the harder part,” Sebastian couldn’t resist adding.
“Why is that?”
He leaned closer, on the pretense of taking another tamale. “It can’t be comfortable riding around all day on a birched arse.”
She sucked in a breath and he felt delight at shocking her. He usually wouldn’t swear in front of a lady, but after watching her move easily through the groups of rugged ranchers, snapping orders in Spanish, he knew she wouldn’t be a stranger to curse words. “Usually the welts feel worse the second day. Speaking of which, how is your bottom?”
Her nostrils flared. “That is hardly appropriate for you to ask.”
“My lady, since meeting in the woods, we’ve shared more than most.”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “You are a scoundrel.”
“I am that,” Sebastian said happily. “But you also led me to believe you’d be brave enough to answer an honest question.”
She glared at him and he winked. A few vaqueros came over and saved him from a tongue lashing as Francesca had to stop and serve them. Sebastian hung close by, eating and enjoying the pretty flushed face of his Spanish widow. Across the way, Cage caught his eye and shook his head. Sebastian’s grin only broadened.
Finally, he and Francesca were left alone.
“Well?”
She bent close, fishing empty corn husks out of the tamale bucket and tossing them to the ground. “Yes, Englishman. My ass is bruised. But over all, it is fine.”
Sebastian settled back on his heels with a satisfied smile. “You slept well, didn’t you? The night after the birching?”
“Yes.”
“Señor Chivington,” Juan called, and Sebastian sauntered off, but for the rest of the day he caught Francesca watching him.
He’d gotten under her skin. He was behaving like a complete ass, tormenting a widow, but as long as he knew it, he might as well have fun.
She avoided him until late in the day, when the cattle were safely out and Sebastian and Juan were planning on the next day’s labor: repairing the acequias. The British lord had earned the respect of the head vaquero. The two approached Francesca and laid out their plans. She rewarded them with a tired smile.
“Well done,” she said. “How long will it take? We still must finish planting.”
