Going for the Gold 5
Blowing Off Steam
Everything they thought they knew is blown away.
When Field Trueworthy blackmails riverboat captain Rushy Wakeman into partnering up, they’re unstoppable in their sleek steamer, El Dorado. Their rivalry turns into deep love, and with the addition of high-spirited hooker Calliope, the trio outraces and outwits every shyster on the river.
They contract with cold-blooded river magnate Soquel Haight to transport opium, as Field’s son back east is dying and they need money fast. Accidentally stumbling over a few dead bodies earns them the reputation of well-respected outlaws.
But their fondness for public displays of affection and dangerous riverboat racing puts them in Haight’s bad books. They can’t keep their hands off each other and are rocketing hell-bent into perilous waters. These three hustlers are being hustled themselves, and what they learn will turn their whole boat upside down.
Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys
Length: 69,637 words
BLOWING OFF STEAM
Going for the Gold 5
Karen Mercury
MENAGE AND MORE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage and More
BLOWING OFF STEAM
Copyright © 2012 by Karen Mercury
E-book ISBN: 1-61926-361-0
First E-book Publication: March 2012
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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DEDICATION
For SG.
Thank you for the inspiration, and for knowing a guy who knows a guy. Now go grab your juice box and have a nap.
BLOWING OFF STEAM
Going for the Gold 5
KAREN MERCURY
Copyright © 2012
A pilot, in those days, was the only unfettered and entirely independent human being that lived on the earth. —Mark Twain
Chapter One
November 1853
San Francisco
Rushy Wakeman had to walk through the Chinese laundry to reach his boat, the barrel of a revolver jammed between his shoulder blades.
The crude and discourteous gunman shoved him through the reedy swamp where the Celestials from Kwangtung washed laundry for citizens. Rushy had heard the other outlaw call the gunman Mike, and this malodorous Mike gent viciously poked him in the back with the gun as they sloshed through pools of miners’ undergarments. Rushy wound up with someone’s drawers clinging to his ankle.
He stumbled toward the El Dorado, his graceful paddlewheel riverboat with the lean hull, capable of great speed. Fervently he wished there was some way he could warn his partner Field Trueworthy of these arriving outlaws. Captain Trueworthy was currently on board finishing a cylinder bore. Field was a mechanical genius and was repairing the finest engine to ever ply the Sacramento River. She had recently bested Rushy’s own record of six hours ten minutes for the San Francisco-to-Sacramento run. But with this fellow urging him onward with an impolite sidearm, the other chap ranting and waving an official piece of paper, Rushy had a sinking feeling.
They might never get a chance to best their own record.
“This here boat is well stacked!” cried the fellow waving the papers.
Indeed, the feathering at the top of the El Dorado’s two stacks was highly intricate, giving a token of her fanciness and reliability as the sleekest, plushest, speediest boat on the river.
Since the paper-waving fellow seemed to have some knowledge of steamers, Rushy found the grit to say, “Captain Fulton isn’t done working on the engine.” Luckily, he had the presence of mind to recall their code names. Fulton was some gent who had invented a whole new breed of riverboat, so Captain Trueworthy had selected that code name, in cases of emergency. “He’s finishing the cylinder bore by hand, and it’s not sitting absolutely true yet.”
Mike shoved Rushy up the landing stage. “We don’t care none about no damned boring cylinder. When you went showing off in Sacramento acting like the big dog of the tanyard about your fancy vessel, every Tom, Dick, and Jorge between here and Tierra del Fuego heard about it. And we aim to take it back for the fellers you stole it from.”
Rushy protested, “But I don’t even know if those papers are real! You haven’t allowed me to see them. How do I know you’re not some damned pirate?” He leaped onto the main deck, where longhorn cattle vied for shitting space with grunting hogs that skittered between crates of canned oysters, bundles of shovels for miners, bags of coffee beans, and a veritable flood of beer, rum, and champagne.
Damn it all to hell. They were going to take all their cargo as well as the boat itself. Rushy spun to face Mike, who was ragged out in a dandy-enough rig to be an agent of some kind, fancy waistcoat with a watch chain arrogantly displayed. “Captain Fulton owns half this boat! You can’t just put a lien on it without consulting him first.” Rushy’s own Smith and Wesson was in his gun belt, but it would take some intricate maneuvering to overtake two armed thugs. Mayhap if he yelled loud enough, Field would be alerted, and—
“Grundman,” Mike grunted. “Show him the papers. And Captain Kidd.” He meant Rushy. Captain Kidd w
as his code name. “Holler for your partner to get out here from the engine room.”
Gladly. “Captain Fulton! On deck, full chisel!” Field would know by the moniker that something was awry and perhaps sneak out with all pieces blazing. Meanwhile, Rushy shook the paper that declared NOTICE OF PUBLIC ACTION. But he wasn’t so educated as to read the rest—Field could help with that, being a graduate of the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where he helped design elaborate locomotive engines. “Captain Fulton! To the main deck, ready about!”
His shrieking only served to rile the nearby critters, and a steer took an inordinate interest in Grundman, nosing him in the ass with an upward thrust. The louse leaped forward and swatted the bovine nose with the remaining papers in his hand—the hand that wasn’t also holding a pistol.
“Listen up,” Rushy said with authority, pointing to the deck. “You can’t just come in here and seize my boat with your ‘public actions.’ It’s mighty little of this world’s goods I’ve got aside from this boat. Given all the facts in this connection, you’ll alter your tune mighty sudden when our solicitor gets wind of this.”
“Public actions.” Mike chuckled. His big red nose was misshapen, like a chayote squash, the way a constantly oiled fellow’s nose got. “It says public auction, you flatheaded dolt. Auctioning off this floating farm is the only way your creditors will get their money back.”
Rushy seethed. “You’ll go to perdition, you miserable old critter!” But this outburst only encouraged Mike to cock the revolver’s hammer and raise the barrel to Rushy’s throat. Mike had a steady hand. He had probably shot more men than Rushy had.
“What’s the uproar here?”
Relief washed through Rushy’s being at the sight of his partner Field, currently known as Captain Fulton. Fresh from the engine room, where it was a good twenty degrees hotter than the ninety Fahrenheit that it was on deck, Field’s shirtless state was a welcome sight. Such an aristocratic fellow was Thomas Field Trueworthy, an educated engineer of Scottish descent who knew how to apply science to the common purposes of life. Rushy was just an ignorant Mississippi riverboat helmsman, but with Field’s knowhow they had already achieved much in the past several weeks.
Field narrowed his eyes, the nostrils of his extremely Greek nose flaring skeptically. His thick chestnut hair spiked up every which way, as though a butcher had coiffed it, and drips of sweat rolled down his muscular throat, glistening in the sprinkling of satiny hair that peppered his chest. The pirates probably did not admire how Field’s biceps flexed as he wiped his oily hands off on a rag, or how shiny the soft line of hair that arrowed down his abdomen. Field came forward slowly, his boot heels sounding against the wooden deck.
“Cap’n Fulton!” barked Mike, extending a falsely welcoming hand, while not lowering the pistol from Rushy’s throat. Field didn’t accept the hand, but Mike continued, “Michael Hunt, Shipping Agent for concerns back East in St. Louis. You’re in possession of a stolen steamer, and we aim to take it back to reimburse the rightful owner.”
“How do you know who the rightful owner is?” Rushy protested. “All the ownership papers on the El Dorado were lost at sea. Any tomfool rascal from the bottomless pit can just waltz on in here claiming to be the owner—who could prove otherwise?” He took a few sideways steps to nervously hand Field the Notice of Public Auction. Field also wore his gun belt, the usual practice in the Far West, but it would be a gymnastic feat if they could shoot the pirates before they were shot themselves.
Grundman now leveled his own pistol at Field’s head. “We’ve got original ownership papers from St. Louis, and it’s obvious to any dumb ox that someone painted the name El Dorado over the original name of New World. Five hundred thirty tons?”
Only Field’s deep mahogany eyes flicked up from the paper. “Five hundred thirty tons,” he agreed.
“Walking beam engine.”
Field corrected Grundman. “Brand-new walking beam engine.”
“Twin stacks. A hundred fifty feet long?”
Field narrowed his eyes and nodded tersely.
“Rich red upholstery in the texas saloon? Marble-topped tables in cabins? Brass chandeliers?”
“Land’s sake!” Rushy exploded, taking a protective half step toward his partner. “Ain’t that just too precious and convenient, these crackers coming here like it was a monkey show, waving papers about? There are two hundred side-wheelers in America with walking beam engines and red velvet upholstery. I’ll stake my affidavit they’re just wandering about San Francisco harbor hoping some muttonheaded lummox is going to hand over their wheel to them! Cap’n Fulton, we’ve got to get ahold of Mr. Fosburgh.”
But Mike Hunt only pressed the gun barrel to Rushy’s temple now. “Tobias Fosburgh is your solicitor? Ha ha.” What kind of cracker actually said “ha ha” aloud? “That figures. Only lawless thieves and hustlers use Tobias Fosburgh.”
Field said with a bit more urgency, “This document appears to be legitimate, but your sidearm is most convincing of all, sir. Could you please lower it while we negotiate?”
Mike Hunt did so, but scowled. “Negotiate? What’s there to negotiate? This vessel belongs to our employer, and we aim to take it.”
“Where do you think we’ll go?” Field said logically. “You can’t hide a five-hundred-ton steamer.”
Mike snorted. “Captain Kidd here succeeded in hiding her all these months in San Francisco Bay.”
Field tilted his head. “Well. Your man”—he indicated the sallow Grundman with the beady eyes—“seems to know a thing or two about steamers. It would be helpful if I show him some of the modifications I’ve made to the new engine. I’ve replaced the old worn water tank, most of the piping, rods, and cams, as well as completely rebuilding the steam cylinder. It would probably help if I showed it to you.”
Grundman’s tiny eyes lit up with excitement. “Ja, boss, ja! Let us go see the engine room!”
Had Field gone loco? He was going to give these jackasses the particulars of their beautiful boat without even trying to block their game? “What are you doing?” Rushy shouted at his partner. “You’re just going to give up without a fight? What makes you think those documents are legitimate?”
Field calmly said, “The barrels of these revolvers make me think they’re legitimate, Captain Kidd.”
Now, there seemed to be some import in Field’s eyes, and Rushy certainly didn’t want these smelly pirates to get the drift there was dissention among the El Dorado’s crew. But Rushy had worked hard and risked his life many times over for this paddle-wheeled packet, only to have these two highwaymen come running all over him like fire in dry grass. With no legitimate representation whatsoever, any out-and-out shit sack could commandeer any vessel he wished, as long as he had enough powder!
“Yes,” said Mike Hunt greasily. “Show us the engine room. I don’t think we need this louse of a thieving helmsman, though.”
He was about to shoot him! Without thinking, Rushy cried out, “Run, Captain Fulton! Run!”
The jig was up. He struck for the rail with several long-legged strides, cleaving the herd of barnyard animals like the Red Sea, intending to fling himself over the rail. A ball exploded so close to him that his ears rang loudly. He didn’t think he was hit, though, and continued running in place through the sulfurous cloud of black powder smoke, gripping the spines of two cows that flanked him apathetically.
He was a bigger target propped up by the beef ribs, so he dropped to the deck with feet already wheeling in a blur. However, three steps out he had the misfortune to slide right into an enormous pile of cow shit. It was like trying to run on water, and he immediately flopped to the deck face-first, probably breaking his jaw in the process.
It didn’t matter, though. Because one of the highwaymen came up behind him and clobbered him over the head with a revolver handle, and that was the last thing he remembered for awhile.
* * * *
These men were contemptible buffoons, but Field wasn’t accus
tomed to dealing with gunmen. The Mariposa mining region where he’d toiled until recently had certainly been peopled with enough staggering, soaked doughheads to satisfy a lifetime’s requirement, but never had a piece been leveled at his head before. He didn’t blame Rushy for trying to make a break for the rail. Rushy Wakeman was gentle at heart, with a great love of children and furry critters, but he wasn’t the most astute businessman in California. A bit of a lunkhead, actually, but the best damned pilot on the Sacramento River.
And Field had fallen in love with him.
Now he rushed to examine his prone partner’s body but was stopped by the gaping maw of Mike Hunt’s gun barrel, right between his eyes.
Mike squinted. “Show…us…the engine room.”
Field had frozen solid in midstride. “We do need the pilot—he’s the premier pilot on this entire river.”
Mike was such a hard case his mouth barely moved. “I hadn’t heard the illustrious name Captain Kidd in these waters, before today. I thought Rushy Wakeman was the best pilot on the Sacramento.”
Damn those code names. Wasn’t Mike Hunt, Agent, sharp enough to have asked any blubberhead ashore who piloted the El Dorado before storming it like a jackass castle? Still, Field could try. “You didn’t think Captain Kidd was his real name, did you? His real name is Rushy Wakeman.” Field straightened up slowly. “Piloted out of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Later he piloted on the Hudson, which you’d know if you’ve heard of Rushy Wakeman.” He glanced down. “May I at least remove him from being stomped on by the beeves?” Grundman’s ball had only hit a sow, and although poor Rushy still breathed, he was facedown, his fashionable burgundy velvet frock coat smashed into a pool of shit so fresh it was already festering in the hot Indian summer air.
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