“Fuck me good,” she said, naughtily. “Fuck me good with that long, plump cock of yours.”
That must’ve done it. Foster’s breath caught in his throat, his nostrils flared, and his hips shuddered. Maybe she imagined it, but she thought she could feel the semen splash her cervix, and my, he seemed to have a load of it. He held her nearly off the floor with the power of his shuddering hips, and he did not breathe for a long time.
Someone was opening the door to the glasshouse, and cultured, chatty voices floated over. It must’ve been Mrs. Fowler, eager to show someone her meat-eating plant. “Not a single fly has ever entered my house!” she said proudly.
Tabitha swiftly disengaged herself, smoothing down her skirts. She had to smile when a veritable flood of jism ran down her leg. She whispered, “Your obligation is to Orianna and your son. They must come first until you can get Orianna to agree to bring him to Laramie.”
“I will have to build them a house,” he said hurriedly.
“Yes. And marry Orianna off to one of these lunkheads. Oh, my,” she said in a high, clear voice. “This palm reminds me of the many that I saw in Florida. You’ve been to Florida, haven’t you, Mr. Richmond?”
“Indeed,” Foster practically shouted, woodenly.
Tabitha was pretty certain neither one of them had ever been to Florida, but they strolled back to the ballroom without eliciting any more than a quizzical glance from Mrs. Fowler and her friends. The Fowlers lived only a few doors down from Vancouver House so were probably fairly accustomed to the wild ways of Simon Hudson’s daughters.
“You must do the reel with Orianna,” Tabitha said from the corner of her mouth.
“I only want to reel with you.”
“Why don’t you play the fiddle? You’re much better than that fellow. Let go of my hand. Oh, good evening, Henry!”
Tabitha went to greet Henry Zuckerkorn, her employer, who was talking the hind leg off one of Mrs. Fowler’s adolescent granddaughters. Orianna had been reeling with a politician Tabitha knew was connected with Senator Spiro, and Tabitha would line up many more dance partners for the evil witch of San Francisco.
Chapter Sixteen
“What is this contraption?”
Foster looked up from where he perched on the edge of the bed. They had been allowed to use Harley’s bedroom at Vancouver House while Harley shared the main bedroom with Ivy. Foster had removed his fancy leather shoes, his necktie and collar. He was unbuttoning the shirt when he glanced up to see Worth displaying a leather article with several buckles. It looked like something that might belong to a horse. “What’s a horse bridle doing in a bedroom?”
“I’d venture to guess,” Worth said, grinning, “that this attachment doesn’t belong in a horse’s mouth.”
Foster flung his shirt to the floor and gestured for Worth to bring the contraption closer. “You never know with Harley. He’s been around the world a few times. Besides being booted from the British Army for buggery, some menacing Somali’s lance gave him that nasty scar on his jaw.” The harness contraption was attached to a fairly large leather dildo, menacing in its own right. That men would have no need of an artifact such as this caused Foster to grin lewdly at Worth.
“That must belong to her sister Ivy,” said Foster.
“Yes,” Worth agreed wistfully, placing the dildo back onto a shelf of the armoire. “And thanks to you and your mess of a private life, we’ll have no call to use it with Tabitha.”
“My mess of a private life?” Foster lashed out automatically, then was sorry he had. It was blatantly evident. The mess he’d made of his private life was coming back to affect not only Tabitha but Worth. He ran his hand through his spiky hair, musky with some pomade Harley had on the dressing table. “It did occur to me. We could easily disgust Orianna and drive her away with some randy male shenanigans.”
Worth’s crooked grin let Foster know he liked this idea. Worth stripped off his undershirt but left the braces over his shoulders, giving him the look of a Roman wrestler. Remembering their wrestling bout up by French Creek—and the hearty frigging he had given this strapping buck just minutes before Orianna had re-entered his life in order to ruin it—put Foster in mind for some relaxation. He reached out his arms for Worth, and his friend came forward promptly.
“But you don’t want to drive Orianna away,” said Worth. “That’s the problem. It’d be easy enough to get rid of her. But she seems the sort to use your son as a pawn and never let you see him again.” He kneaded his fingers through Foster’s hair, apparently unaware that his bulging cock stared Foster directly in the face, making Foster’s mouth water.
“Or,” said Foster, taking a gentle bite from the succulent flesh above Worth’s navel, “it might excite her so, she’d never leave us alone.”
“Ah, that’s the game, is it?” Worth laughed. “That could be a very effective angle.”
But the only woman I want watching our games is Tabitha. “Give me that fat horse’s cock.” Swiftly, Foster unclothed the robust shaft, covering the shiny glans with his palm. He enjoyed running his mouth over its velvety, hot length while fondling the taut mushroom cap. With his thumb, he smeared the drips of jism over the slit, pleased to feel Worth’s substantial, muscular body shudder with such a simple motion.
“You’ve done this a lot before,” Worth gasped. He stood like a giant dumb stud, completely unashamed that his donkey’s prick was standing out eagerly, jutting out keenly for the warmth of another man’s mouth. But Foster knew Worth wasn’t a dumb ox. One couldn’t be, to make all those photographs for those New York and Chicago newspapers. He was merely a happy-go-lucky, uncomplicated fellow, which was usually a relief for Foster. He had enough complications in his life. Worth’s easygoing, blithe demeanor was often a comforting buffer from the rigors of the outside world.
Now Foster took a handful of Worth’s buoyant ass, excited to see the dimple there. He bit the beefy globe and moaned, licking the soft skin. “Yes,” he breathed. “When there are no suitable women around. And sometimes when there are.”
“I wish Tabitha could be with us right now,” Worth whispered. “Like we were at the creek, right after she beat you at the hoop game.”
“When I frigged your beautiful cock?” To demonstrate, Foster used the last of the jism drips to jiggle his fist about the tip of the penis. He loudly slurped at the tempting slope of Worth’s ass. “She doesn’t want to dally with me right now.”
“Can’t blame her,” Worth rasped. “But you’ve got to find a way to keep her, Foster. She just came out of mourning. She’s raring to go. She’s liable to run off with one of those Freund brothers.”
Foster paused, his hand squeezing the plump penis. Those damned Freund brothers. One had died a few years back in a bizarre baseball accident, but there were plenty more of those jackasses where that one had come from. There were plenty more similarly dough-headed rancher’s sons eager to get their hands on such a ripe tomato as Tabitha Hudson.
To wipe such worries away, Foster inhaled the length of Worth’s burly meat. Foster knew his throat muscles were toned and exercised enough by now to swallow the length of it, and he was gratified when Worth groaned so low and deep in his chest it vibrated his taut prick.
But Foster wanted a bigger reaction. Detaching his mouth for a brief second with a slurp, he lathered his two longest fingers with saliva and tickled Worth’s asshole. Worth responded by setting his feet farther apart on the carpet. Encouraged, Foster inhaled the prick again and slid the fingers into the slick rectum.
Oh, this one was a deliciously tasty thoroughbred. Foster knew the trust necessary to give yourself up like this to another man—or another woman for that matter, although it was a strangely vulnerable thing to have another man manipulate and stimulate your body like this. Worth’s trust in him was evident in the way his cock expanded inside his suctioning mouth, the eager way his slippery asshole sucked up the fingers, his haunches gripping and releasing. Worth’s long, thick cock was clean an
d delicious, and Foster delighted in gorging himself on its heft.
The bedsprings squeaked with Foster’s zeal to pleasure the cock. He frigged and sucked the monstrous appendage simultaneously, pleased with his ability to synchronize several activities at once. He reamed Worth’s asshole with his fingers, quickly finding the sensitive spot that would send Worth over the edge. He had no patience for dawdling now, wishing to bring Worth off in the most explosive manner possible—a manner Worth would never forget.
So he tickled the responsive zone frantically while squirming his tongue about the bursting head of the cock. He was rewarded with a mouthful of glutinous jism, which he gulped eagerly. He continued milking the cock into his mouth while diddling the inside of the slippery channel, pleased to feel the shuddering of Worth’s thighs as he emptied into Foster’s mouth.
But when Foster fell back onto the bed, he felt empty. He could only distract himself from thinking about Tabitha for short bursts of time. Then he was lovelorn again, like one of those opium addicts who can think of nothing else until they get more.
Worth clambered into bed with him and they held each other. Worth fell into an immediate and deep sleep. But Foster, knowing Tabitha was lying only twenty feet away on the other side of the wall, drifted in and out of slumber all night long.
Sometimes he was walking on a beach. He had the feeling it was Texas, because the land stretching back from the beach was so flat he couldn’t make out any terrain markers, any trees or hills. In another dream fragment, he was in a house known as the Red House. It had obviously been very grand recently, but holes in the walls showed it had been bombarded not long ago. Dozens of fallen palm fronds on the front porch attested to recent hurricanes.
In the dream, he went to a writing desk in a bedroom near an open window. From the window he could look out and see Pelican Island, where he knew traitors to their privateering organization had been hanged. He took a pen and assumed he would begin to write something while sitting at the desk but fell into a dark black phase of sleep then.
Which was just as well. He didn’t need to be tortured any longer than he already was.
* * * *
Worth spent a few hours with Sam Boswell, owner of the Wavy Stick ranch. Of course, they were not just slapping each other on the back and drinking forty rod. They were planning the rodeo that Ezra Kind had instructed them to hold, and many other town luminaries were there going over the ground, figuring out where to hold various events. Remington Rudy and Senator Spiro walked about looking important, and Tabitha’s father Simon Hudson was even there. Although Simon did appear to be drinking forty rod and slapping people on the back, he made Worth thoroughly nervous.
Worth had brought his camera so he would be good for something—he could sell the photographs to Henry Zuckerkorn, or to Boswell. He needed to drum up business anyway, and that was best done by meeting citizens, but he was very afraid of meeting Simon Hudson. Foster Richmond was the fellow who should be meeting Simon Hudson! Foster was Tabitha’s true love, her destiny since they had been parted at Galveston fifty years ago! Foster should be the one squiring the budding journalist about town, not Worth.
“Harley told me Foster signed the lease for the First Street law office,” Tabitha said flippantly. They strolled by a corral where many longhorns lowed, Tabitha’s hand in the crook of Worth’s arm. This was the first time today Tabitha had mentioned Foster.
“Tabitha, may I be frank with you?”
“Of course.”
“I think you’re overreacting to the presence of Orianna. Why should you break it off with Foster? You do know he’s pining for you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Tabitha said sarcastically. “I’m sure he pines for me every time he sticks his face in your crotch.”
Worth looked around to ensure no one had heard Tabitha. Jeremiah, standing nearby talking to Simon Hudson, waved. He wore a Stetson to fit in with the rodeo theme, and it made him look more like a lollipop than ever. “He does pine for you, Tabby! And how did you know about—I mean…”
“His face in your crotch? Worth, those walls are thin. I don’t mind the two of you cavorting at all. For some reason it doesn’t feel threatening to me. Perhaps because you’re not a girl. The thought of Foster touching another girl makes me want to wallop her—or him— into the middle of next week. But the two of you can hump all you want. Makes me no difference! If Foster was stupid enough to get himself entangled with that awful witch, he’s going to have to disentangle himself. Without my help, I might add.”
Tabitha was so hot, it was clear she was in love with Foster. If she sincerely did not care, why would she be so hot about the subject? Worth said soothingly, “Tabby, Foster is a mess without you. I agree, you’re stuck with the boy Abe. Let’s just hope he doesn’t turn out to be a holy terror.”
“A likelihood, being raised by her.”
“But Orianna? There’s no reason you should ever have dealings with her. Plenty of families go through this exact same thing. Best outcome, Orianna moves here and raises the boy separately from us, but we are allowed to help with his education. Or some such thing. I don’t mind critters. I could teach him photography, if he’s so inclined.”
“And worst outcome? She becomes so riled with Foster for courting me that she races back to San Francisco, never letting him see the boy again! You’ve got to admit, Worth. There is more at stake here for Orianna than just their son. Fact, I’d venture to say that the majority of her issue isn’t the son but her own heart. Don’t you agree she wishes to win Foster back? After all, it’s obvious that Firestone fellow threw her over.”
Worth had to agree. If it were merely a problem of the boy needing his real father, Orianna would have just sent a telegram, asking Foster to visit them in San Francisco. So he adeptly changed the subject. “Now, what was in that package your father gave you?”
Tabitha looked at the horizon with irritation. “Oh, just some trinket. It’s my birthday, and my father has never been very good at gifts. For Alameda’s debut in New York he gave her a fan with watercolor decoration, and a most matronly fichu of spotted muslin. Completely inappropriate. Now, why isn’t Foster wishing me a happy birthday?”
How had she steered the talk back to Foster? “How was he supposed to know it’s your birthday?”
“Well, you’re my beau now. You should’ve told him.”
“But I didn’t even know.” However, Worth liked that he was Tabitha’s beau. “Anyway, what do you think was the significance of the grape leaf Orianna found on your dining table? Like the sunflower that appeared when you used the talking board, there must be some—”
“I have a theory of the significance.” Suddenly, Montreal Jed was standing directly behind Worth. Harland Park stood next to Jeremiah, holding what looked like a telegram. “Grapes grow quite widely in California, don’t they? Well, the grape leaf is telling that old heifer to go back to California. Get thee behind me, woman.”
Tabitha chuckled and patted the former showman on the arm. “If only it were that simple.”
Jeremiah prattled on. “Of course, it also gave me another idea, since that witch also held gold nuggets in her hand. Wouldn’t it be absolutely stunning if someone could fashion that Black Hills gold into pendants and jewelry that depict grapes and their leaves? One could even mix the gold with silver or copper to create alloys of different colors for the grapes, vines, and leaves. Of course, I’m sure Orianna already figured that out, being an alchemist.”
Jeremiah’s three spectators were struck dumb. No one blinked—just stared at the clown.
Worth said, “That’s actually quite a good idea, Jed.”
“I like it, too,” said Harley. “Levi and Garrett have that mine up in South Pass, and it sounds like Foster’s got one, too. You could advertise Foster’s gold as ‘Black Hills Gold.’ I just saw the results of that telegram he sent from Custer to General Terry. All of the New York papers have reported it, so scads of hopeful miners are already on the train to Ogalla
la. Those Black Hills won’t be too sacred to the Sioux for much longer once our Manifest Destiny gets ahold of them.”
“I knew it!” cried Worth. “Bad taku-wakan to take gold out of those hills. That’s why we found that inscribed stone and Ezra is showing himself now.”
Jeremiah cringed back into the corral fence. “Taku-wakan? Someone had better advise Foster to pay some Indians to guard his claim.”
Jeremiah was simply full of good ideas today. Worth asked Harley, “Is that what’s in that telegram? Something about Foster’s claim?”
A different look of worry came into Harley’s craggy, handsome face. This worry was apparently even more severe than the gold claim worry. “No. This is from my buddy in San Francisco.”
“Right.” Worth remembered. “You cabled him, asking about Firestone.”
Harley looked grim. “I suppose it’s all right if I tell you—especially you, Tabitha.” Harley rattled the piece of paper but apparently had memorized its contents. “This buddy does a lot of business with Firestone, and he has met the boy Abe on a dozen occasions. Never has the kid been known to cry or act morose—he’s very spoiled with toys and childish treasures, actually. He has many friends, children of the privileged.”
“Well, then,” mused Jeremiah, “what was that abominable stupid bitch whining about?”
Both Tabitha and Worth chuckled at Jeremiah’s characterization of Orianna.
Harley replied, “Well, of course my buddy quite possibly hasn’t seen the child throw tantrums. That’s entirely possible. But I doubt he’d get it wrong that Firestone tried to boot Orianna and Abe from his house about six months ago. So far she’s refused to go, and Firestone is getting quite fed up, as there’s some society belle he wants to wed. A girl sixteen years old, ripe to give him the children he really wants.”
“Not some used child,” Jeremiah agreed. “With some old heifer in her late twenties.”
Karen Mercury Page 17
