Karen Mercury
Authors: Manifested Destiny [How the West Was Done 4]
Tags: #Romance, #Erotica, #Fiction, #Western
How the West Was Done 4
Manifested Destiny
Army scout Foster Richmond has struck Black Hills gold, but his partner, photographer Worth Ludlow, fears it’s hexed by a Sioux curse. This seems evident when Foster’s witchy old flame Orianna pops back into Laramie, Wyoming, and throws a monkey wrench into their courtship of the stunning widow, Miss Tabitha Hudson.
Orianna drops the bomb that their little son needs Foster back in San Francisco. Tabitha can’t give up all she’s worked for—her new journalism career or the two rough-and-ready men she’s fallen in love with.
A séance held by local psychic—some say crackpot—Caleb reveals a traitorous web of sorcery, ghost dogs, and poisoned gloves. The trio refuses to accept they are the victims of the ex-flame from hell, and fights back with every weapon in their arsenal—including the crafty spirit of a dead miner—to protect their love.
Genre:
Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys
Length:
65,384 words
How the West Was Done 4
Karen Mercury
MENAGE EVERLASTING
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting
MANIFESTED DESTINY
E-book ISBN:
978-1-62241-103-0
First E-book Publication: August 2012
Cover design by Les Byerley
All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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Manifested Destiny
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MANIFESTED DESTINY
How the West Was Done 4
KAREN MERCURY
Copyright © 2012
French Creek, Dakota Territory
July, 1874
Almost from the first moment they found gold, calamities happened.
First, Foster Richmond had to prevent a Sioux scout from cutting off his own wife’s nose for allegedly dallying with someone else. Foster had to remind the overly-excited scout that he was a member of an American military expedition and, as such, could not go around cutting off women’s noses.
Then many oxen were stuck in a swampy morass and had to be shot. Then Foster stumbled upon Worthing Ludlow bathing naked in French Creek, immediately after Captain Yates lost his compass and couldn’t take sightings to make maps. Then a private died of dysentery. Many things seemed to go wrong all in the course of a two-day period.
Before the funeral, Lieutenant Colonel Custer had asked Foster to take a message back to Fort Sanders near Laramie City two hundred and fifty miles southwest. But the worst calamity brought on by the gold discovery was definitely the accidental sighting of Worthing’s physique. This was the only mishap that would permanently wind up altering the course of Foster’s life. And once viewed, it wasn’t something that could be erased from his mind.
“Go find that happy-go-lucky photographer,” Custer had ordered Foster. “He should be making somber, respectful photographs of this unlucky private’s funeral. The photographs will show the hardships of expedition life in the Far West.”
“Sir,” Foster agreed, and started off. As the only white scout on the expedition, he was called upon to do all manner of things for Custer. But he was already sore that he had to go to Fort Sanders and separate from the exciting—and profitable—Black Hills expedition. He didn’t want to leave the gold claim he’d just staked. Several companies had already split off north to find the “permanent camp” that would allegedly be perfect for erecting a new fort.
So as Foster struck for Worthing’s tent, he consoled himself that while at Fort Sanders, he might be able to recover his old dog, Phineas. He had left Phineas behind in Laramie City, and he wanted that dog back. Phineas was a Newfoundland dog of the sort that had accompanied Lewis and Clark across the continent, and she could certainly hold her own with these hunting hounds Custer had. Phineas could catch a ten-pound salmon in a raging creek and drop it at one’s feet.
Foster poked his head into Worthing’s tent. Worthing obviously wasn’t in there, but Foster became curious at the sight of a pair of cast iron dumbbells on the ground. He had vaguely noticed that Worthing Ludlow had a better-than-average physique, and now he knew why. It wasn’t as though photographers were the halest sort of men, like scouts. All photographers ever had to do was climb to the top of a nearby peak in order to get the best panoramic view of a wagon train. But they hardly walked for miles trapping, shooting, riding, the occasional bear wrestling, as Foster had been accustomed to for two years now.
“Worth’s down in the creek,” another private informed him.
Foster struck off for the creek but not before another private giggled. “He’s down there using rosewater to wash his perfectly muscular arms.”
But the private’s heart wasn’t in it, the teasing of the photographer, and another fellow of the Seventh Cavalry called out what could be interpreted as a challenge. “Yes, that Worth’s a thoroughbred, a regular strongman. He used to wrestle and box for money. It’d be amusing to pit him against another strapping stallion—but who would that be?”
“Worth is built like a brick house,” someone else added. “No one could beat him.”
Foster couldn’t help but rein in his horse and demonstrate he was at least listening. He knew he wasn’t the most beefy buffalo around—in fact, as a ginger-headed Scotsman, he needed to keep a slouch hat slapped onto his head. But as a scout living the healthy out-of-doors life, his stamina and longevity could far outstrip the biggest strongman in camp. That, and he had wrestled a grizzly. “Horatio Ross or Owen Hale might be up to the task,” he suggested.
The private bawled back, “Company C already went north, so Owen Hale’s gone. You look like you’d be up to the task, from what we’ve seen you do.”
“Yeah,” said another fellow. “You always run twenty miles without stopping following Injun sign. I’ll bet you could beat a photographer any day.”
Foster nodded. “Find Horatio.” He dug his rowels into his horse’s sides and struck up the high riverbank that hid the creek from the encampment.
He had better find Horatio as well. Horatio had agreed to draw up partnership papers for Claim No. 1 as the Custer Mining Company. Other civilians were doing likewise, and many were staying along French Creek to mine their claims. Foster, however, was stuck riding to Fort Sanders. It was probably an important message he had to telegraph to General Terry in St. Paul, probably something to do with the location of the new fort. But Foster was sorry he had to leave his gold claim.
Thinking about the gold, Foster reined up on top of the riverbank, scanning the glittering creek for a sign of the photographer. At once he saw some clothing hung over aspen branches, so he rode down to where he could shout and be heard over the babbling creek.
As he reined up cold, his lower jaw hung open.
He had never paid much attention to Worthing Ludlow, who was always fiddling with his portable darkroom when he wasn’t inside his dark wagon. So now, when Foster caught a glimpse of the nude photographer standing balls-deep in the rushing water with his back to Foster, he was taken by surprise.
His first reaction was to flee in shame. Worthing stood there carefree, apparently soaping his balls and penis, judging from the jerking of his arms, the flexing of his biceps. But it was his stupendous ass that riveted Foster to the spot. The muscular globes seemed nearly buoyant in their highly developed curves. Worth’s ass was so well-defined the globes were even dimpled.
And his exquisitely sloping back was colored a rich chestnut by the sun. Worth kept his sandy hair shorn close, and the beautiful column of his neck instantly made Foster’s mouth water. Although an incredibly athletic buck of a man, the back of his neck gave him a vulnerable, boyish look that was perhaps enhanced by the fact that Foster was ogling him without his knowledge.
This made Foster feel randy and perverted at the same time. To ogle a bathing fellow without his knowledge while your prick plumped with lust against your thigh, wasn’t that a bit poofy? But then, men stuck out in the sticks without even a prairie flower for a companion had been known to turn to other men for amusement. Foster had entertained poofy notions before, after a few cups of whiskey, if he was stuck in the bushes, bored.
Hell, he had tangled once with an Indian youth who had also been wandering about, bored. Foster didn’t even speak that particular dialect, he was just hot to go. He had frigged and fucked that stripling as though he were the most desirable she-devil, with no compunctions afterward. Another time he had suddenly found himself embracing a tree, humping the hungry mouth of some army lieutenant or other who kneeled eagerly at the base of the trunk. That had been a fine sojourn when out on patrol. Sucking on each other’s tools had been a mutually satisfying lone occurrence that neither one of them had ever mentioned again.