The eyes were cop’s eyes. Edgy, cold, and everywhere. Leonard saw something shiny on the waist of her jeans.
He turned the phone to the side and enlarged the picture just enough to see the badge—hoping for a badge number.
He got even more than that.
“You did well, Tomás. Come back here tonight—at ten. Bring two whom you trust. I’ll have an important mission for you, for tomorrow.” He looked up and met the young man’s eyes. “You and I will see to it this gringa pays the price for what she did.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be here.”
Of course, he had to make an example of this woman. She needed to understand that she couldn’t just come into his territory with impunity and take his people. Tomás had said they didn’t recognize her, and that was likely so. He’d find out who she was, made easier now that he wouldn’t have to find a way into the police database.
A female cop would be harder to trace. A female bounty hunter? He didn’t think there were very many of those, not even in the very large city of Los Angeles.
Soon, the bounty hunter would learn a valuable lesson. Leonardo Acosta was here now, and these streets were his streets. No one—not man or woman, cop or bounty hunter—could come onto his streets and take his property without consequence.
* * * *
Sweat dripped off Ricoh Stone as he forked manure and straw into the wheelbarrow. The heat and humidity had both been high today, and he couldn’t count that a bad thing. Not under the circumstances. He didn’t care about the stench of the work—he was a cowboy and used to that. He didn’t care that after ten straight hours of tough physical labor his muscles had begun to scream in protest.
Physical pain was actually part of the goal.
Ricoh shoveled shit and did his best to blank his mind, ignore his emotions, and just breathe. Maybe if I keep working long enough and hard enough the memories will stay away. Maybe, if only for tonight, they’ll stay the hell out of my dreams.
It wasn’t working so far, but Ricoh had never been one to quit at the first sign of resistance, or failure.
Except for that one time.
Here he was, a man about to complete his first half-century of living, and he found himself right back at that one place—that point in time where, he understood now with the wisdom of age, his life had veered off into...what?
Hell.
His life had gone to hell all those years ago, and he’d been existing there ever since.
Ricoh tossed the pitchfork on top of the full wheelbarrow. He grabbed the handles and propelled the one-wheeled vehicle through the barn, down the path, and around the corner to the compost pile.
Using all his strength he heaved the handles up, up-ending the barrow and dumping the fresh load.
This was usually a job assigned to the newest ranch hand, not the ramrod. Ricoh didn’t care about that, either. He needed the work and the hope of exhaustion it brought.
He pulled the metal conveyance out of the way and forked the new manure into the pile. The stench rose up, an almost visible wall of stink, strong enough to make his eyes water, and maybe that was a goal, too.
There was a world of difference between a man’s eyes watering from the acrid stench of shit and crying because he’d been gob-smacked by a blast from the past.
Ricoh tried to push the memories away. But they seeped in, abrading already raw nerve endings. If he closed his eyes, he knew what he’d see.
Fuck. I don’t even have to close my eyes. Forever emblazoned in his thoughts was the moment he’d looked up that night just a few weeks ago and seen her.
His Angel. His demon.
Since that night he’d gone to Lusty Appetites to help those two Kendalls celebrate their engagement to Holly’s niece, Jacqui, his soul had been in an uproar.
Or his spirit had been awakening from a twenty-eight-year slumber.
Ricoh hauled the wheelbarrow away from the pile, tossed the pitchfork into it, and headed back toward the horse barn for another load.
And came to an abrupt halt when he realized someone stood, blocking the door to the building.
“Out of my way, Moore.”
Duncan Moore, one of the two hands under his direction—and one of Holly’s husbands—stood in the doorway and didn’t appear to be very happy to be there.
“Nope. Sorry, boss, I can’t do that. I’m what you might call an emissary.”
“You’re what I might call dead if you don’t move your damned ass.”
“No can do. It doesn’t look like it, but right now, I’m standing in that most worn of all clichés, between a rock and a hard place.” Duncan Moore removed his hands from behind his back. He held two longnecks, the heat of the day drawing condensation on the obviously chilled brown bottles.
Ricoh met his gaze and saw not fear but compassion. If he’d given the situation any thought, he’d have realized that eventually there’d be an intervention.
He wasn’t just a ranch foreman, working for wages. In that strange yet wonderful way the people of this area had, they’d made him a part of them.
This was home, and the people who lived here were his family, his only family, and maybe he really needed to think about that, too.
He needed to focus, not on what had been ripped from him all those years ago but on what he had now.
You had a hand in that, hombre, because you didn’t stand, and you didn’t fight. It wasn’t just taken from you. You pushed it away with both hands.
With a flash of insight, Ricoh realized that was the source of the turbulence eating at his soul. Not what others had done, but what he’d failed to do.
“You draw the short straw?”
Duncan smiled. “It should be a comfort for you to know that you’re respected to the point that no one felt compelled to volunteer to speak to you—though we all agreed someone had to.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
His method—trying to work himself into the ground—sure as hell hadn’t worked. Maybe it was time to try something else, though he had no idea what.
He accepted the beer Duncan offered him and took a long pull. The cold liquid slid down his throat, quenching his thirst and buying him a few precious seconds. “I appreciate your concern—everyone’s concern. But I’m okay.”
“Bullshit. You’re about as far from okay as any man I’ve ever seen.”
“Look, Moore, I understand that being a married man means you’ve had to learn how to ‘share your feelings.’” Ricoh gave those words what he considered was just the right amount of contempt. “But I’ve still got my balls, thank you very much, so don’t be expecting me to spill my guts to you anytime soon.”
Ricoh knew a few dozen men who’d respond to his words, and his tone, with their fists. He half braced himself and waited.
Duncan laughed in his face.
“I’m not going to take a swing at you, boss. Mainly because my parents raised me to respect my elders.”
Ricoh straightened. “I might be nearly fifty, but I can still wipe the floor with you, boy.”
Duncan shrugged. “Then I’d have to crawl back into the main house, bruised and bleeding, and give Miss Carrie, Miss Ari, and my wife something else to wring their hands over and worry about. And I refuse to do that to them because they’re already worried enough about you.”
“Well, fuck.” Ricoh knew the women were likely worried about him, and he hated that. Every woman he’d met hereabouts was a lady down to her toes—and every one of them had treated him with warmth and welcome and even respect.
“Look.” What? What could he say? He wasn’t a man to talk about what was bugging him. And there was no way he could tell them what was eating him, really, because it wasn’t only his story to tell.
It was Angel’s, too.
Despite the fact that his overwhelming emotion had been anger when he’d seen her that night, he knew that what had happened to him all those years ago had happened to both of them.
They’d been torn apart by e
lements outside their control at the time. What had happened to them was very similar to that damned chick flick—Romeo and Juliet.
Talk about the oldest cliché in the book. That was his past, exactly, a fucking cliché. The rich white rancher’s daughter and the lowly Hispanic ranch hand. He and his Angel had been doomed from the start.
She’s no longer a seventeen-year-old girl, and you’re no longer a penniless vaquero.
“I’m not asking you to spill your guts, Ricoh. Not to me. But maybe there’s another way to handle the situation. Everyone is worried about you.” Moore looked around the yard. “I’ve learned that avoiding a thing doesn’t work in the long haul. And what you’re doing now isn’t working, either.”
“You bring anything else with you besides a cold beer?”
“Yeah.” Duncan inhaled deeply. “I don’t know the ‘what,’ but I do know the ‘who.’ I was there at Jacqui’s engagement party, remember?”
“So?”
“So, go and talk to the woman.” He nodded. “She spends the bulk of most days out at that building site, just past the edge of town. It’s going to be a roadhouse. Angel’s Roadhouse. Talk to her, boss.”
“Maybe I will.” When he was ready.
“Good. That’s good, then.” Duncan nodded, slapped him on the back, and then left him to his thoughts.
Ricoh thought about the pile of shit waiting to be cleaned up, and he thought about his aching muscles—and that very nice hot tub waiting for him back in the newly finished foreman’s house. His house.
He’d work for another hour but maybe with a little less vigor. And he’d think about what he might say to his Angel, if he could find the nerve to go and see her.
Chapter 5
Kat sipped the cold, crisp Chablis and enjoyed the sight of the three men working together to produce a meal. Clearly, they were used to this. All three were big men, yet their movements amid and around each other were smooth, as if they each anticipated the other’s needs and actions.
“You asked how it’s done,” Paul said as he began to pan sear the salmon. “You’re right, of course. A woman can only legally have one husband. And which one should she marry? That could be a dilemma.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” She couldn’t see being in love with three men and yet choosing to marry only one, legally. How could the other two not be jealous? Why not just live together? Of course, that would be fine if there were no children. Kat was a fairly modern woman, but a little old-fashioned in some ways. There were protections that were extended to those legally married. If there were children involved, then she believed the parents ought to be married. And that reminds me of another question.
“There’re traditions in our families, and generally it’s easiest to fall back on those traditions,” Lucas said.
“So the oldest man becomes the legal husband. Even in the case of twins and triplets, one is born first. We tend, therefore, to keep very good records when it comes to that.” Wesley met her gaze.
He said that with enthusiasm, as if he wasn’t the youngest of the three of them. Kat told her inner imp to shut the hell up. There’s no reason to go down that road.
“The legal marriage takes place usually the night before, or sometimes, the morning of the Commitment Ceremony.” Paul picked up where his brother left off. “That ceremony is held in Lusty, most usually these days in the community center. It’s a ceremony of coming together, when all who are in the ménage say vows and pledge themselves to each other. The vows are not only given between the woman and her men but between the men, too. The husbands promise to be a team with the interests of their wife and future children at the center.”
“Our ceremonies have all the pomp of a wedding because, in essence, that’s what they are.” Lucas set a tray with fresh cut veggies, cheese, and crackers on the table. “It’s a very happy time for everyone.”
“But what about children?”
“Yes, we usually have children—you know, nature does take its course.” Wesley winked.
“I know you have children. But who’s the father?” Kat thought that would be a thorny problem. How could one man know if the child born was his or not?
“The husbands are the fathers,” Paul said.
“No, I mean really.”
“Yes, really.” Paul met her gaze. “Let me ask you a question first. What does it matter?”
“Well...” Kat exhaled. “Suppose the child needed...I don’t know, a kidney or a bone marrow transplant?”
“That’s an extreme qualification, and it actually hasn’t ever happened in Lusty, that we’re aware of,” Paul said. “But if it did, I suppose all of the fathers would be tested to see which one provided the closest match. But beyond that, it really doesn’t matter.”
“We grew up with two fathers—Craig and Jackson Jessop. We called both men dad. Both were there to help with homework or take us to task when the need arose. Both love us unconditionally and both raised us.” Lucas put plates and cutlery on the table.
“When we were kids, we wondered, but just because we were kids, and that’s the kind of thing a kid will wonder about. In reality, we had two fathers. That was kind of cool because there was always a dad available for whatever we needed.” Wesley met her gaze. “It wasn’t really strange for us because that’s what we knew as normal.”
“When children are small, they ask their parents where they came from.” Paul flipped the salmon and then turned to her. “The parents usually say, ‘you came from the love your mother and father share.’ That is no less true for us and the other families in Lusty. We come from the love between our fathers and our mother.”
“Always just one mother in the mix?”
Paul nodded. “Right now. There were a couple of times, in the past, when the balance of the ménage was the opposite—two women and one man.” He shrugged. “I have no idea why it’s been so rare, as everyone in Lusty is free to live however they choose.”
Lucas looked at her. “I was wondering about that myself. It could be because the families tend to produce more male children than female children.”
“My question really was, do the men sometimes choose second or third wives to join the ménage?”
“Never.” Paul lifted the cast-iron pan from the stove and carefully removed the salmon fillets onto a platter. He set the dish down on the counter beside the stove and faced Kat. “We would share you, but you would never share us. No other men are allowed inside the ménage, either, in case you were wondering about that. This isn’t a twenty-first century version of free love or a civilized....” He let his words trail off. “This is our version of family. A ménage marriage is just as sacred to us as a marriage with one man and one woman would be to those husbands and wives.”
“Actually, more so.” Lucas nodded. “Of the people in Lusty who’ve committed themselves in a ménage marriage, there’s never been a divorce that I know of.” Both his brothers shook their heads.
Kat now knew one thing about the brothers Jessop. Whatever was happening between them, on their side, at least, it sure as hell wasn’t casual. They were serious and wanted her to know it.
It’s not casual for me, either. No, not casual, but as to it being more than an affair, how could she know?
“I’m not looking to get married.” She knew she’d said words to that effect back in Lusty, but she thought the sentiment bore repeating.
Something passed between the brothers, something she didn’t understand. The men grinned, and the atmosphere lightened.
“We know. We’re just getting to know each other, remember?” Lucas said.
“Supper’s ready.” Paul brought the platter of crispy salmon fillets to the table while Wesley took a rice casserole out of the oven. They’d also steamed broccoli and baby carrots. Lucas grabbed the veggies, and then all three men joined her at the table.
“You’ve put paid to the theory that most men only cook chicken or steak.”
“That would be me,” Lucas said. �
�But these guys both really like to cook.”
“Our dad, Craig, used to trade off with mom on cooking duty. More often they worked together. Dad prefers to cook Italian, but he really can make just about anything.”
“We have two brothers and a sister,” Paul said. “That made nine people to feed every night, which meant a lot of food. And as we’re all fairly close in age, it also meant a lot of cooking.”
“What about your other dad?”
“He didn’t care for it, so he settled for being the fetch-and-carry man.” Wesley grinned. “And at least a couple of times a month, he’d head out to Gatesville and come back with pizza or fried chicken.”
“I’m not much for cooking.” Her mother had tried to teach her, but she would always rather do the really cool stuff with her dad.
“So what do you eat, usually? Frozen dinners?”
“All I can say is God bless the microwave.” And Kat laughed when all three men shuddered.
“My goodness, woman, we found you just in the nick of time,” Wesley said. “Here, have extra veggies.”
Kat laughed. Wesley could do that—say the most outrageous things and get her to laugh.
“There is one other thing you need to know,” Paul said.
“What’s that?”
“We’re not going to seduce you tonight,” Lucas said.
“We want you to think about it and ask as many questions as you need to.” Wesley’s smile softened as he looked at her.
“Because when we bring you to our bed, we need to know that it’s what you really want. The first time, we need it to be a deliberate choice—not a reaction to the heat of the moment.”
“Huh.” She’d never been rejected in quite this way, and her temper began to stir. But then her inner imp, for once, gave her wise advice.
They’re not rejecting you. They’re ensuring that you really consider what taking on three lovers at the same time is all about.
That was all well and good, but Kat had the feeling that when the time came it wasn’t going to be her head making the final decision.
* * * *
Love Under Three Valentinos [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 5
