But now, instead of falling into a delicious slumber, a fresh wave of vigor came over Foster. He would have to repay this minx in kind for what she had done to—for—him.
* * * *
Tabitha knew that once she had properly fucked her husband, it would rile him to greater heights. She had no idea, though, that it would turn him into such an animal that he would tear the harness from her pelvis, toss it to the ground, then fling her onto her back on the mattress.
He took a handful of the necktie in one fist and tied it to a headboard rail so she couldn’t squirm away. “All right, Captain Badeaux,” he said menacingly, with only a hint of the playful husband she loved dearly. He was very good at playing the assertive dominant one. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s time to let me take my pleasure.”
Tabitha squirmed in fake protestation. “Oh, you damned rebellious slave!” She was a horrible actress and she knew it, but men never critiqued a woman’s acting skills in moments like this. As he immediately speared her with his still-hard cock, she flung her arms above her head and gripped the rails of the headboard. Fucking her husband up the ass had made her so randy her pussy actually squished as Foster skewered her with his beautiful tool.
She loved his sinewy hips, she loved digging her nails into the meaty globes of his reddened ass, she loved his lean muscularity as he held his torso above hers, allowing her to breathe. She dug the heels of his boots into his calves, wide open for him while pretending to protest. “You’re going to hang for this act of rebellion. You can’t just fuck a kitchen wench and get away with it.”
“I’ll fuck you if I want to,” Foster snarled, then gasped as he was violated himself.
Over Foster’s shoulder, Tabitha watched as Worth greased up his throbbing pole. Poor Worth hadn’t gained any satisfaction today, and the strapping buck was raring to go. As he impaled his partner’s ass, Tabitha felt a shudder go down Foster’s spine. Gooseflesh pebbled his shoulders and butt, and she squirmed more strenuously under the weight of the two men.
It was impressive how hearty Foster could be in this regard. He had just splashed such a load of jism across the bed, one would imagine he’d be satisfied for a day at least. But no. Here he was, going hard at it again. He even took all the weight on one elbow, using the dexterous fingers of his other hand to diddle her clitoris. She knew he liked it when her orgasm sucked at his cock, the waves of climax clenching against his prick, urging him on to his own orgasm.
Tabitha murmured, “Now you’re the one being used, you lowly slave. I begin to think you like it. Do you like being humped by the other slave’s big penis?”
“God yes,” Foster gasped. He volunteered, “I like being filled with a bucket load of hot semen.”
This nasty talk inflamed Tabitha. First fucking her husband then being on the receiving end of the two screwing men—it was soon too much for her. She allowed Foster’s fingers to coax her higher, higher into the mindless realm where all the senses shut down. An earthquake could have happened, and she would not have noticed it, that’s how focused she was on her inner core.
When her pussy burst into orgasm, she really did see stars. The walls of her vagina milked Foster’s cock, and she could feel him spasming inside of her. She could tell by the way Worth’s athletic body tensed in one great shudder that he was coming, too. He pumped Foster’s ass with tiny jerking motions, his eyeballs rolling up into his skull as he pounded his partner.
Tabitha’s neck was cinched to the headboard, so she could only wrap her arms around Foster’s broad back and pull him to her. She was nearly crushed under the weight of the two men’s torsos, but thankfully, Worth soon disengaged and stood. The newlyweds collapsed in a loving and sweaty embrace. Tabitha could hear Worth splashing about, washing himself. She knew she had to get up and syringe herself out with the saffron herbal soup she now kept on hand at all times in the icebox—not too awful if she warmed it up first. But it was just too pleasant lying tangled here with her noble, powerful, and spent husband.
It was so quiet she could hear the swish of something papery being shoved under the door. Montreal Jed. He was so horrified by their sexual doings he had taken to shoving pretty much everything under the door. He had once tried to slide a brandied sponge cake, with unfortunate results. Now, Tabitha could hear Montreal Jed standing on the other side of the door, breathing, so she roused herself. She shoved Foster’s inert form off of her and went to get her dressing gown.
Semen flowed down her inner thigh as she looked over Worth’s shoulder. He had folded back the pages of a newspaper, the New York Evening Post. She wondered what was so urgent that Jeremiah couldn’t put it on the desk downstairs. She gasped with happiness when she saw her own—maiden—name underneath her article about sheep ranching in the great Territory of Wyoming. Even better, one of Worth’s photographs was displayed prominently, a grassy valley populated with fluffy sheep, Mr. Boswell himself standing handily by with a pitchfork.
“We did it!” she cried and flew to open the door. “Jeremiah, did you see? Worth’s friend at that rag printed my article about—”
Jeremiah stumbled into the room. Evidently, he had been leaning eagerly against the door in an effort to eavesdrop. His curiosity about the sheep article must have been greater than his disgust at their voluptuous antics, for he fell forward with eagerness, crying, “Yes! I must congratulate you on your first serious, nontrivial article that doesn’t involve carpet brooms or oyster canapés.”
Tabitha even hugged him, although she knew he loathed physical contact. She didn’t have to stand on tiptoes this time, because she still wore Foster’s boots. “This is wonderful! If I can continue writing about more important issues, I could make enough money to contribute to the grocer’s bill and suchlike.”
“Yes,” Jeremiah agreed idealistically. “You could even contribute to my salary. I simply had to run this upstairs to you, to take a break from my amalgamating of metals.”
Tabitha’s father had generously allowed Jeremiah to set up a furnace in a Vancouver House outbuilding where he could melt his alloys of Black Hills gold from Foster’s mine, and various silvers and coppers. Jeremiah still disliked Orianna so intensely that he wouldn’t venture to the cottage Foster had set her up in, way across town. Orianna had been jailed for a month after the rodeo and had promised not to use her alchemy to harm anyone else, but Jeremiah wasn’t convinced that Caleb would protect him from her.
Jeremiah had a trustworthy boy bring the alloys to Orianna, where she earned her own salary soldering and sculpting the beautiful red, green, and yellow metals into grape leaves and vines for pendants and rings. Technically, little Abe lived with his mother, but he spent a great deal of time at Vancouver House because it was closer to Liberty’s schoolhouse. Foster had a theory that it was never too early to start a young one in his schooling.
Neil Tempest’s associate in Galveston had answered Ivy’s telegram. He had dug up some information on Pierre and Bettina Badeaux. Caleb was right—they had been hanged side by side on Pelican Island in 1821 during a raid on their Red House right after Pierre had returned from the sea.
Foster had roused himself now, stepping back into his pants so he could return to his law office. “You keep making that gold, Jeremiah, you won’t need a salary from us. That jewelry is the biggest boon ever to this family.”
“Well,” said Jeremiah. “We’re fulfilling our Manifest Destiny, aren’t we?” He spread his hands and looked idealistically beyond the bedroom wall. “White men ooze slowly but irrevocably over the Great Plains, the cattle and sheep basket of the wonderful, powerful United States.”
Worth grinned. “Taking what they want, leaving a trail of bloody bison carcasses in their wake. Hey, what’s this round stone in the photograph? I never noticed that before.”
Jeremiah said, “I was wondering that, as well. It does look as though something’s been carved on it, writing of some sort.”
Tabitha took the newspaper from Worth and brought it closer to
her face. There, at Boswell’s feet, was a stone that looked eerily similar to the Ezra Kind stone Foster had discovered. Ominously, she said, “Let’s go downstairs and look at your original photograph.”
All four of them clattered downstairs into the front room that was nominally Harley’s study when he wasn’t at his Serendipity Ranch. Worth riffled through a tall stack of photographs and papers, a few crackers and pieces of cheese even crumbling to the floor.
“This is exciting,” said Tabitha, holding Foster’s arm.
“Yes,” said Jeremiah, somewhat sarcastically. “Imagine what deathless tidbits of scientific information are inscribed on a rock. Mankind is holding its breath.”
“Here.” Worth rattled the photograph and took it to another table where there was a microscope. He bent over the eyepiece, focusing it, not breathing. Neither did Tabitha nor Foster, although Jeremiah lounged casually against the window as if certain of the stupidity of the rock.
“Profound statements on the nature of matter,” Jeremiah mused, completely jaded by the entire affair. “Perhaps it’s one of Shakespeare’s lost plays.”
Tabitha and Foster looked over Worth’s shoulder, although they could hardly see anything through the eyepiece. Worth said, “There seems to be some kind of…”
Jeremiah continued talking to himself like a weary, blasé professor. “The map to Atlantis. The Philosopher’s Stone. Or perhaps some cow just kicked up a piece of someone’s fireplace.”
“That’s it!” Worth trilled excitedly.
Jeremiah raced to Worth’s side, tearing Foster and Tabitha away. “What, what? What’s ‘it’? What did you see? Get out of my way!”
Worth shoved Jeremiah back. “Let me finish reading it, you blockhead!” he yelled. Enlightenment swiftly took over, though, as he glued his eyeball back to the microscope again. The thrill clearly welled in his throat when he said, “It says right here in black and white, ‘Foster and Tabitha Richmond. Thanks for finding me and giving me…’ I can’t make out the rest.”
Jeremiah was champing at the bit, but Worth allowed Tabitha to take a stab at deciphering the stone, as it was addressed to her. “‘Thanks for finding me and giving me a voice. Your gold mining partner. Ezra Kind.’”
Tabitha could scarcely believe her eyes, so she didn’t pull back from the scope right away. She continued looking at the words, clear as an unmuddied lake, plain as day. A message from the other side from their benefactor, Ezra! No one had noticed the stone when Worth had made the photograph of Boswell showing off his sheep. They would have to return to that spot to see if there really was a stone there.
She could hear one of the men slapping another on the chest. Foster said, “This is incredible! You know what we need to do? Give the original stone a proper burial.”
“Where, though?” asked Worth. “Back up at French Creek?”
“Sure!” declared Foster. “Don’t you think that would help put all the bad voodoo to rest? We can have Caleb ask Ezra if he’d like that, of course.”
“Or bring Caleb with us!” cried Worth, carried away with the idea. “I’m sure he’s getting tired of hanging around his tepee, chanting things.”
Tabitha could feel Jeremiah jumping up and down on the floorboards. “Oh, bring me, bring me!” He clapped his hands together like a schoolboy. “I’m getting tired of this dusty town. I’d love to see the Far West, where no white man has trod before!”
“Well,” said Foster. “A whole slew of white men are treading there at the moment. And you don’t like horses, and I’m not hauling you in a wagon.”
Worth said eagerly, “He could ride in my dark wagon with Phineas. Tabitha here could write articles about the Black Hills, and I could take new photographs that aren’t owned by the government.”
Tabitha finally removed her eye from the scope and saw three men staring at her, pinning her with their expectant gazes. No one moved a muscle, and it became obvious they were looking to her for approval.
She shrugged. “We need to inspect the claim anyway, and we could use a decent honeymoon.”
Her two men yee-hawed and punched each other with glee. Jeremiah was even more demonstrative. Flinging his arms up, he wiggled about like a man under a religious influence. He even cried, “Oh, praise to thee on highest!” and took off in an ecclesiastical fervor, smashing into the wall face-first. He slithered to the floor holding his nose, a dislodged painting conking him on the head, but no one paid him any mind.
The three partners slung their arms about each other’s shoulders. Their foreheads nearly touched as Tabitha said, “I’d like nothing more than to spend a few weeks in the wilderness with my men.”
Foster kissed her forehead. “I’d like nothing more than to spend an entire lifetime with the two of you.”
“At least one lifetime,” Worth corrected him.
Tabitha had to grin. She had seen some incredible things since arriving in Laramie. She knew she would see plenty more before her day was done. And this thought filled her with joy.
THE END
WWW.KARENMERCURY.COM
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen’s first three novels were historical fiction involving pre-colonial African explorers. Since she was always either accused or praised (depending on how you look at it) for writing overly steamy sex scenes, erotic romance was the natural next step. She is currently writing about the rough-and-tumble life of the transcontinental railroad in Wyoming, and lives in Northern California with her Newfoundland dog.
For all titles by Karen Mercury, please visit
www.bookstrand.com/karen-mercury
Siren Publishing, Inc.
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