Training Ivy [How The West Was Done 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Neil couldn’t deny these things, nor could he explain them.

  As the other three fussed over the unconscious Shortridge, Neil decided to do something uncustomary. He went to the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey. He wasn’t a drinking man normally, but the scene he’d just witnessed was enough to drive a man to drink.

  He had just lifted the tumbler to his lips when he was bashed in the back of the skull with a heavy object. “Great balls of fire!” he sputtered angrily. This was too much! He was going to suffer a brain injury if these items continued to be flung at his head!

  Putting the tumbler down without sipping, he scooped up the object, which was, of course, the harmonica. Only now it was mangled beyond recognition, as though melted in a fire.

  Slowly, cautiously, Neil turned to face the room. On the table before where Shortridge had sat, of course there was no harmonica, only the glass of water that had managed to remain unspilled. Neil looked down to the twisted object in his hand. It was warm and even wet, perhaps with the saliva of the person who had played it.

  An unearthly shudder raced up and down his spine, stiffening his nipples almost erotically against his shirt. This, of course, brought to mind fucking, a subject that could distract Neil even in the worst of times. And the moment the memory of Ivy’s plump, rosy cheekbones softly brushing against his caused his cock to elongate, an unseen hand distinctly squeezed his ass.

  Neil’s prick expanded with pleasure. But when he realized the other three conscious people in the room were over by Shortridge shaking and slapping him—and that he would only want to be touched by two of those three people—he shuddered with horror instead. He looked over both shoulders—of course, there was no one there. Grabbing the tumbler, he gulped down the whiskey as fast as he could, lest something else interrupt him again.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the fiery liquid to burn his virgin stomach. Ah, that’s better. Instantly he felt spoony, and he allowed the grogginess to cast a fog over what was happening. In fact, if I move to join the others, Shortridge might distract me from—

  Unseen ghostly lips now moved tenderly along the side of his neck. Neil froze like a statue, feeling the distinct licking of a spirit tongue along his jugular.

  “I was strangled before I was thrown into that shit pile,” said the mournful woman into his ear.

  Great balls of fire.

  Before Neil could even halfway collect himself, the woman continued. “I come to warn you that even more citizens will be driven back into darkness and ignorance before this is over.” She had a sad lilt to her voice, yet her message seemed to contain hope. Now her tiny feminine hand caressed his chest with thin, insubstantial fingers that prodded him sexually.

  Feeling even more absurd, Neil whispered, “Mrs. Vipham? Have you come to tell Zeke something from your place with the greengrocer?”

  The spirit mouth now distinctly kissed the side of his neck. A succubus from beyond the grave, trying to seduce him! The thought that it was the ghost of Zeke’s mother should have repelled him, but Neil was perversely aroused. As the hand probed his chest and moved down his abdomen, the sensual siren whispered, “There will be a fire tonight at seven o’clock in the Elks Club building. All will be revealed then.”

  “What exactly will be revealed?” Neil inquired.

  The hand descended to his crotch and squeezed his prick boldly. Neil gasped, his eyes sliding shut. Then the hand, and the dubious specter it was attached to, vanished. Neil knew this because the light that had drenched the room suddenly dimmed, as though a lamp had been blown out, although none had.

  He was dumbfounded. Nothing remotely like this had ever happened to him. He was certain he’d just been carried away by the foolish sham of the entire séance. What was the first thing the succubus had said to him? “I was strangled before I was thrown into that shit pile.” Well, why would Zeke’s mother be talking about a shit pile? Greengrocers might create a sort of compost pile in which they tossed their vegetable peelings, the odds and ends, or rotten produce they couldn’t sell. Perhaps that was it.

  Wait. Rodney’s wife, Minerva. Neil himself, along with Ace Moyer, had discovered her body in a manure pit. She had been shot, so he’d assumed that was the entire story. It was simple enough to assume that the snake they’d discovered coiled around her rifle had unintentionally shot her and then she had somehow stumbled into the manure pit.

  The specter who had just been fondling him so erotically was Rodney Shortridge’s dead wife!

  Now Neil’s friends were helping Shortridge back into his chair. “Oh, cinnamon!” he was still wailing while Harley brought the entire whiskey bottle to him.

  Ivy came to Neil and clutched his arm. “Neil! I know that song Rodney’s dead wife was playing.”

  “Cinnamon?” Neil asked groggily.

  “That’s what I thought at first, too. But the lyrics actually go ‘O, Sinner Man.’ Someone is telling us the murderer can run but he can’t hide.”

  “Yes!” roared Shortridge. To Neil’s chagrin, Shortridge began to bellow in a lopsided, off-key manner.

  O sinner man

  Where you gonna run to?

  O sinner man

  Where you gonna run to?

  All on that day!

  To cut the horrible moment short, Neil leaned on the dining table and demanded, “Well, what does it mean, Shortridge? Was Minerva known to sing that song?”

  “Yes!” sobbed Shortridge, his mouth all askew with emotion. “She would suck on her little mouth harp and sing the different choruses in between.”

  Neil exhaled with anger when Shortridge commenced to bawl.

  Run to the sea

  O sea won’t you hide me?

  Run to the sea

  O sea won’t you hide me?

  All on that day!

  “All right, look,” Neil said, drawing Ivy to where Harley leaned on the sideboard with an amused expression. Neil showed them the mangled harmonica as Rodney continued to wail in the background. Zeke had commenced blubbering into his own glass of whiskey about the greengrocer and his mother. “This just hit my head. Someone—something—is obviously trying to get my attention, I’ll grant you that much. And I don’t think it’s Zeke’s mother.”

  “Yes,” Harley drawled. “I must say, those were some interesting results. If Minerva Shortridge’s ghost was playing that harmonica, she’s definitely the one with the information we seek. Perhaps whoever killed Minerva is the same one who killed Whit Gentry.”

  That actually made sense to Neil, but he couldn’t figure out how to tell his friends he’d been seduced by a dead woman. Or that a being from the other side had spoken in his ear. But he couldn’t allow his fears to halt their investigation, so reluctantly he said, “I think we need to get the body snatchers to exhume Minerva Shortridge’s body.”

  Ivy drew back, aghast. “Oh, Neil. Whatever makes you say that?”

  “Because she just told me she was strangled as well as shot. If we find out that’s the truth, I’ll have no choice but to go along with your idea that she’s our spirit guide.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Miss Hudson.”

  There was Ivy in her element, working the telegraph machine. Harley was surprised at the swell of pride he felt, watching her address each eager Irishman in line waving papers at her, demanding things. Cool as a cucumber, she discerned what each man was attempting to say, interpreting their chicken scratches. Even, in a few cases, finding a better way to word the message.

  Ivy spoke soothingly. “So instead of saying, ‘Goddamnit, Verla Grubbs, you are a lowdown whore,’ you probably meant to say ‘Dear Verla, I heard you are engaged to Langley Wallingford.’”

  “Uh, yeah,” said the skeptical tracklayer. “I suppose that’d sound better.”

  Harley was in the Union Pacific office to see Neil, actually, to discuss exhuming the body of Minerva Shortridge. Harley had been overjoyed to hear Neil admit he had heard Minerva’s voice telling him she’d been strangle
d before being thrown into the pile of shit. Neil could only be of help in their quest if he became convinced they had assistance from beyond the veil.

  But Neil was gone chasing some Brule Sioux who had gotten drunk and stolen cattle. So instead Harley read a telegram from Simon Hudson, who was still at the end of the railroad line at the Dale Creek Bridge.

  A FELLOW HERE IS LIMPING FROM BULLET IN LEG. I WILL HAVE HIM ARRESTED IF YOU THINK HE IS ONE WHO ATTACKED THE STAGE.

  Although Harley didn’t feel in his gut it was likely this was the fellow he’d shot two days ago, he had Ivy telegraph back YES PLEASE ARREST. For some reason, perhaps his incredible gift for hunches that had never led him astray, Harley felt the culprit was right here in town. If he hadn’t been so distracted by the sexual vibrations of the bountiful Miss Hudson and the virile Neil Tempest, Harley felt he might have even noticed walking right by the fugitive.

  “Now, you must have some supper,” Harley declared after Ivy had serviced requests from twenty clamoring railroad men. “Allow me to take you next door to the Belle of the West restaurant. I’ve been told they cook a tasty trout almandine.”

  Harley should have been gleeful that he was accompanying Ivy to supper and had therefore “won” out over Neil, at least temporarily, but he wasn’t. He knew why. He wanted Neil around. He enjoyed Neil’s presence. He wasn’t in competition with Neil. Harley didn’t want to wed or win any woman’s hand. He much preferred it when the three of them worked and played together as a team.

  The restaurant was indistinguishable from a bordello, but since they hadn’t finished building the Union Pacific restaurant, it was their only choice in town. Ivy ordered champagne and a fricasseed fowl of indeterminate origin and regarded Harley with a sigh.

  “Captain Park,” she started. It was never a good sign to be addressed so properly. She leaned over the table and spoke intimately. “I do enjoy being toyed with by you. You’ve opened up so many vistas for me that I never knew existed.”

  Harley smiled with confidence. “I presume you’re referring to the orgasm.”

  She blushed! The dear girl was actually blushing with embarrassment, perhaps recalling how her juices had flowed down his forearm, his fingers embedded in her twat. “Yes, the…orgasm. I do enjoy all the techniques you’ve been teaching me, Captain Park.”

  But? Harley waited for the “but.”

  “But I fear it cannot continue. I am the daughter of Simon Hudson, after all. The biggest merchant in town. People will find out and talk, and I know it goes against your theory of life, but I do wish to wed. I know you’re not a marrying man, with all your traveling and scholarly pursuits. But I did not come to Laramie City to toy with an Orientalist. I did come here assuming it would be my final resting place, a place where I could find stability and adventure at the same time.” She sipped champagne and added, “Stability with a husband. I don’t expect you to change your personality and desires. But I must ask you to respect mine. I have come too far to change mine. I do wish to be wed. That fellow in Hyde Park just wasn’t the right husband.”

  “You interpret me wrongly, Ivy,” Harley said, surprising himself. “You’re right that I enjoy travelling. I’m a surveyor, after all. I consider myself an ethnologist, studying the mores and habits of various races and tribes.”

  “Yes. That’s part of who you are.”

  “Yes. But.” Now Harley had a “but,” and he didn’t even know what it was. “If you think I’ve just been toying with you out of boredom or until I can venture off on my next journey, you’re mistaken.” He took her hand in his. “I’m as shocked as you to discover that I have sincere and very profound feelings for you, Ivy. I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you were a different sort of woman—bold, direct, matter-of-fact, yet blessed with creativity, an open-mindedness, a curiosity about things of a mystical nature. I find that I don’t look forward so much to my next venture.” He chuckled to relieve the tension. “There is no need to go further afield to discover strange doings when this town is just chock-full of them.”

  Ivy smiled in agreement but said, “And Neil? You toy with him just as much as you toy with me. I admit I am fascinated to watch the two of you”—she glanced from side to side, but only wallpapered tracklayers were cavorting at the other tables—“expressing your desire for one another.”

  “It stimulates you.”

  “Yes, it stimulates me,” Ivy whispered. “But, Harley. You may say you have romantic or emotional feelings for me, but you can hardly have them for Mr. Tempest! So you truly are toying with him. Why, the two of you can barely stand each other when you’re not kissing.”

  Harley squeezed her hand. “It only appears that way, my dear. We are the sort of men always at each other’s throats precisely because of the great attraction we feel for one another. I’m actually extremely fond of the head of security. He’s like a rough diamond I can shape with my mature skills. He’s a loose cannon, to be sure, a rowdy cowboy crying out for refinement.”

  “Well,” Ivy scoffed. “I’m sure you won’t tame him. He’s Australian, after all. And does he really require taming?”

  “Not taming, precisely. Maybe more like training.”

  “Hmph.” Ivy wrenched her hand from his and finished her champagne. “I often think I am the one who requires training.” She smiled again. “And I do like your training methods, Captain.”

  Harley said warmly, “El Ladid. My delicious one.” Taking her hand again, he lifted it to his mouth. He snaked out his tongue and touched the tip of it to her fingertip. She tensed with delight. “‘Know there are women of all sorts, some that are worthy of praise. In order that a woman may be relished by men, she must be lusty, with black hair and eyebrows of Ethiopian blackness.’”

  Ivy appeared confused. “But I have dark brown hair. Oh, is this that manuscript you’re translating?”

  Harley nodded. “‘If one looks at a woman with those qualities in front, one is fascinated. From behind, one dies of pleasure.’” He didn’t want to tell her that the manuscript also said, “‘She speaks and laughs rarely…She never leaves the house. She has no woman friends.’” Some things just did not translate well into English, and he suspected Ivy would have suffragist leanings.

  Ivy smiled but looked at the glassy-eyed head of Harley’s trout. “But I do not think it’s proper for us to continue with my training if Neil isn’t present. Does that make sense?”

  Harley was overjoyed that she’d consent to continue the training. Agreeing to Neil’s presence made it even better. “Of course, El Ladid. That makes perfect sense. We wouldn’t want him to feel we were doing anything behind his back.”

  “And he needs training, too.” Ivy pouted.

  “Of course!” Harley cried, motioning for more champagne. “‘A man who is appreciated by women should have a member of ample dimensions and length. Such a man ought to be broad in the chest and heavy in the buttocks—’”

  Ivy giggled. “Is that desirable?”

  “I’m only quoting what the book says. ‘He should know how to regulate his emission and be ready as to erection. Such a one will be well-beloved by women.’”

  “I’ll say,” Ivy agreed, raising her glass to be refilled.

  * * * *

  The letters BPOE were emblazoned on the Elks Lodge lintel. Harley told Ivy it stood for Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, that the club had chosen the elk as their emblem over the bison.

  “There’s that damned bison again,” Ivy mentioned as they stepped into the Grand Hall. An enormous mounted elk on a pedestal greeted them, and the couple walked silently past it on plush carpets. “Bison keep on popping up every time we turn around. Did you know there was a bison painted on the tobacco pouch that was planted on Shortridge?”

  “Yes,” said Harley. “A bison hasn’t been sighted around here in several months, which makes it even stranger. Now, doesn’t that look like a lamp behind that stained glass window? It’s not just the setting sun.”

  “No, a la
mp is lit behind it.”

  “Good. There must be a caretaker fellow around here somewhere. Hello?” he called, his voice echoing into the balcony.

  With Harley leading the way up to the balcony, Ivy was free to admire his muscular haunches. She did feel wicked at how bold she’d become in both thought and action since arriving in Laramie City, but it was the sort of wickedness that made one thrill with pleasure. She knew she’d just told Harley it was wrong for them to gallivant without Neil, but one could look, couldn’t one? And it was sheer joy to observe the army captain in motion—feral, in complete control, a coil about to spring free.

  Why had none of her beaus ever told her about the female orgasm? Could it be that they didn’t know of its existence? What bumbling fools! Ivy had half a mind to dash off a telegram to her recent fiancé.

  DEAR JOHN. A CRUDE AND SENSUAL SURVEYOR DEMONSTRATED TO ME WHAT FEMALE ORGASM IS LIKE. I DON’T EVER WANT HIM TO STOP.

  Ivy giggled as she mounted the stairs behind Harley. In fact, last night after the séance, she had experimented with Harley’s techniques, alone in bed. By using her own fingers to imitate him, Ivy was certain she could achieve somewhat the same effect. But she hadn’t wanted to continue, for fear the exquisite sensation would be depleted and she wouldn’t be able to muster it again for Harley or Neil.

  As a result of having stopped short of fulfillment last night, Ivy was now hot under the collar, ogling Harley’s ass as he leaned down each aisle of chairs, looking for a caretaker. Since Harley had promised her he wasn’t just canoodling with her for the sheer hell of it, Ivy felt free to indulge her fancy. She was a modern woman in the forefront of contemporary thinking, and Harley’s blatant, unashamed enjoyment of anything prurient or even slightly forbidden had riled her. She had no warning that when she traveled to Dakota Territory she would be spreading her thighs for the slick expert fingers of a brutally sensual army captain.