The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes (7 page)

A few moments later, Harcourt said, “You keep your hands off the widow.”

“What if she’s pretty?”

“She’s respectable, Virgil. God knows, you could inveigle a snake into bed with you, much less a defenceless coloured woman. I don’t trust you farther than I could throw you.”

“What if I inveigled for the both of us?”

“Virgil.”

“Is it because she’s coloured? Are you afraid I’ll—”

“We were hired to protect her, not seduce her.”

“That tart back in Boise stick your sabre up your ass?”

“Virgil.”

“Jesus. You didn’t do her at all, did you? You wasted my money and didn’t do a damned thing.”

“She appreciated your
money,
not me,” Harcourt said, wryly.

“I paid her triple,” DeVille said. “She claimed she would make you so happy you’d be singing for a week. She had this thing she did with her—”

“I didn’t ask you for your help in getting a woman.”

DeVille muttered, “If you’re not careful, your cock’s going to dry up and fall off.”

Harcourt remarked, “Yours will wear out first. And remember, hands off the widow.”

The Widow Larimer did not look as if she needed protection. It was clear she would repel seduction attempts with the shotgun she cradled competently and lovingly against her incredible bosom. A second shotgun leaned against the porch railing beside her. She was a veritable goddess. DeVille moaned softly.

She called out, “I don’t need that fool gambler. I don’t care how cheap he is.”

“Boudicca!” DeVille rhapsodized. “Penthesilea! Mrs Bridger the Sunday school teacher back home!”

“Quiet,” Harcourt growled out of the corner of his mouth. To the widow, he said, “An extra gun can never hurt, ma’am.”

Austin stepped into view, cradling a rifle. “With all respect, ma’am, you sent me for some extra hands, what with everybody gone over to Destiny for the dancing.”

The widow snorted audibly. “You keep them out of trouble, boy. And they’re sleeping in the barn.”

DeVille murmured to Harcourt,
“He’s
got a pretty face. Can’t be more than twenty-five. Wonder if he needs someone to teach him the wonderful ways of the world?”

Harcourt eyed him sourly. “Hands off the wrangler, too.”

Austin didn’t hear their exchange, too busy wondering if the two men were going to be more trouble than they were worth. At least they had guns. And the coloured man was right, more guns were better; though he looked like, alone, he could whip his weight in wildcats. Austin would have bet a month’s pay he’d been in the war. What Harcourt was doing with a dandy like DeVille, Austin couldn’t fathom. Perhaps he was DeVille’s bodyguard. If DeVille was anything like Austin’s daddy had been, he would have a lot of reasons to need one, but it wouldn’t help him in the end.

Austin watched the visitors quickly care for their horses. The horses liked them, and they didn’t stint on the work. Even knowing some men cared more for their horses than for other people, Austin relaxed a little.

DeVille glanced over as he gave his gelding’s nose a final stroke. “How’d you come to work for Miz Larimer?”

He probably had his eye on the widow, or at least on her ranch. Since a gambler didn’t seem likely to have money, maybe he was hoping his nice teeth would recommend him. Austin said, “How’d you come to be a dandified flatterer?”

DeVille said, without seeming to notice the insult, “Some are born to glory. I, however, am the son of the worst ruffian in Holmestown, New Jersey, saved from disgrace only by the good offices of Captain Harcourt.” He plopped down on a hay bale.

“The archangel Michael couldn’t save
you
from disgrace,” Harcourt said.

His tone was familiar and absentminded, as if this sort of remark was common to him. They were friends, then, and not employer and employee? A strange pair. Austin said, “Don’t let Miz Larimer hear you blaspheming. If she’s your goal, that is.”

Harcourt said, shortly, “I have no interest in the lady.”

“She’s rich,” Austin said, testing.

“Is
she?” DeVille asked. “Rich
and
a warrior queen. I think my heart just might leap out of my chest.”

Harcourt thumped him on the back of the arm. “Later,” he said.

A pistol slid into each of DeVille’s hands. “Yessir,” he drawled. “I’ll take the cookhouse, sir, and cover the back. Austin, you coming with?” He smiled and winked. Austin startled; the smile charmed, and the wink had looked almost seductive. Some men would go after anything that moved, true, but surely not if it moved in pantaloons.

“I’ll take the well,” Harcourt said.

Outside, Austin settled with one hip braced against a water barrel while DeVille paced endlessly up and down the side yard between house and cookhouse, talking endlessly as well, his voice clearly audible across the yard.

“Speak up, I don’t think they can hear you in town yet,” Austin said.

Cheerfully, DeVille replied, “The widow seems to have an itchy trigger finger. I can’t enjoy my money if she accidentally blows my head off.”

“And Harcourt?” Austin asked. The other man was only just visible as a dark bump on the well house, if one knew where to look. It was too bad he wasn’t over here, chatting. Austin had never seen anyone like him before. “Why’s he hiding, then?”

“He’s in reserve in case things get difficult,” DeVille said. “So, Austin, you like poetry?”

“No!”

“Well, how about this one? You might like this one, it’s better than you think.” And, without letting Austin interrupt, DeVille charged into a recitation and then another and another.

Just after midnight, the attackers ran into the yard, whooping and firing pistols. Austin had never heard more than a single gun firing at once. The noise was bone-shaking.

DeVille appeared unaffected, apart from dropping Alexander Pope in the middle of a rhyme and plastering himself against a corner of the house. “How kind,” he said. “They brought friends. At least they’re not on horseback.”

“Miz Larimer,” Austin said, from behind the water barrel.

“Hush,” DeVille said. “Stay hidden.”

“I thought hired guns were supposed to be brave.”

“Only an idiot nominates himself to get shot.”

The widow’s voice rang out. “Get off my property or I’ll pump you full of buckshot.”

A foul reply from the yard was followed by her shotgun blast. Shouts and pistol cracks, and more shotgun blasts, covered any more dialogue. Austin followed DeVille’s slow creep around the corner and was nearly knocked down by a reeling, brawny figure wielding a flaming branch in one hand and a pistol in the other. The intruder swung the pistol at the side window; Austin leaped at him, wrestling for the torch before he could shove it through the hole in the glass and set the house afire. The torch went flying into the yard, but the big man still had his pistol. He shoved Austin backwards and aimed.

“Down!” DeVille yelled, and leaped. Both landed on the ground. Austin struggled free and sat up. The attacker fled, along with two others Austin hadn’t seen, in a confusing melee overflowing with drunken curses.

“Cowards!” the widow yelled.

Harcourt stepped into view, rifle to shoulder. A hat flew into the air as if jerked on a string; its owner kept running.

“Great shot!” Austin said, feeling strangely euphoric.

“I was
aiming
for his—Virgil, you all right?”

In the sudden silence, DeVille’s voice trembled. He still lay on the ground. “I can’t believe, after all I’ve been through, some brainless lickfinger son of a bitch—”

Harcourt shoved Austin to the side and yanked open DeVille’s coat. “No blood,” he said.

“Jesus Christ, something sure hurts. Right here.”

The Widow Larimer loomed over the men with a lantern. “Do
not
take the Lord’s name in vain, for if you died right now, you would surely go to the fiery pits of hell.”

DeVille squinted up at her. “I don’t think I like you any more.”

Events came together in Austin’s mind. “Miz Larimer, I think he saved my life.”

Harcourt produced a dented silver case from DeVille’s coat. “And this saved his. Virgil, you don’t smoke!”

Austin took the case and examined the bullet mashed into its tooled surface. The case would barely prise open. It held, not rolling papers at all, but pornographic playing cards. “Captain Harcourt, do you think they’ll be back?”

The widow said, “If they do, I’ve got a whole case of shells right next to my coffee and my thunder mug. You men can leave my property to me, now. Go on, get.”

There was no arguing with her. Austin carried Harcourt’s rifle and the silver case, then lit and hung a lantern while Harcourt assisted DeVille back into the barn.

Once inside, DeVille snapped, “Get your damned hands off me!” and shoved Harcourt away. He spun his hat on to the pile of saddlebags, followed it with his gloves, ripped his necktie loose, then sat down, hard, on the same bale as before, wrapping his arms around his chest. He’d seemed perfectly collected while bullets whizzed by, but after his outburst, Austin could see him shaking.

Austin said, “I think we could all do with a drink.”

“In my saddlebag,” Harcourt said.

Austin had not imagined spending the night sitting around the barn on hay bales, passing a flask from hand to hand with two men who had been, at suppertime, complete strangers. DeVille didn’t speak for a long time, only took two gulps of the smooth whiskey for Harcourt’s every one. The two men sat shoulder to shoulder and wore still, tight expressions that made them seem oddly alike. Austin took the flask from Harcourt’s hand and sipped, just enough for flavour and a touch of heat, and to try to ease an unexpected trembling.

At last, DeVille said, “That damned harpy is paying me double. You can tell her.”

Sympathy evaporating in a flash of steam, Austin snapped, “Don’t talk about her like that!”

DeVille snatched the flask, gulped, then upended it, looking disgusted when nothing dripped out. “She was awfully mean to me. You only like her because you think females have to stick together.”

Austin’s breathing stuttered. “What?”

“I’ve landed on more than a few women in my time,” DeVille said, still vainly shaking the flask. “Also, you smell better than a cowboy. Doesn’t the widow know?”

Austin glanced at Harcourt. He looked mildly curious. Austin took a deep breath and said, “The widow don’t hold with women wearing men’s clothes.”

DeVille shrugged. “Lot of people don’t hold with me being friends with Harcourt.”

“The reverse is also true,” Harcourt drawled. “What point are you making, Virgil?”

DeVille smiled, though Austin noted the smile wasn’t as brilliant as before the fight. He said, “If nobody knows about Miss Austin, here, I thought it might be a relief to her to let her hair down for an evening. So to speak.”

Before Austin could reply, Harcourt had thumped DeVille on the arm. “I told you, hands off the wrangler!”

“She’s
not paying us,” DeVille pointed out. “What d’you think, Miss Austin? Care to be entertained by two fine and discriminating gentlemen?” DeVille appeared to be completely serious.

Harcourt said, “Now wait just a minute, I never said—”

DeVille held up a hand to stop his words, in a graceful gesture like an actor on stage. “We can’t leave you out—”

“This woman is not a—”

“Don’t say it. You have some cussed strange ideas about women—”

“I respect women!”

“So do I!”

“You respect them right into bed with you!”

“Jealous? That’s not my fault. I sure as hell invited you along enough times!”

The two men glared straight into each other’s eyes as they argued. DeVille wore a strange half-smile, which appeared to enrage Harcourt more every second. They were sitting so close they could, Austin thought dizzily, lean forwards and kiss each other with no effort at all. Such a thing had never occurred to her before. She hadn’t even known she wanted to see it, until now.

She sprang to her feet. “It’ll be both, or none!”

DeVille snorted and shoved at Harcourt’s shoulder, then grinned. “I was right. They always like you best.”

Harcourt glared at him, then stood and took off his hat. “Miss Austin, don’t let that silver-tongued rascal talk you into something you might regret. Please understand, we’ll keep your secret, there’s no need to worry about that.”

Rough as it was, he did have a lovely deep voice. She could’ve listened to him all night. Now she’d have the chance. “That’s mighty kind of you,” she said, looking him up and down. His shoulders were broad and strong; his torso narrowed down to a waist more slender than hers. His thighs looked hard beneath his worn denim pants, and when she looked at the bulge his cock made beneath the fabric, her mouth watered. “But it’s you who don’t understand. I was married once. Earning my living the way I do, though, I haven’t been able to think about the pleasures of the flesh in a long time, because for sure, somebody would talk; and nobody’s going to put a woman, a fallen woman, in charge of their remuda. You two don’t have anything to do with that, do you? And I might as well make up for lost time.” She looked at DeVille and smiled.

He said to Harcourt, “You can’t complain about this one’s intentions, can you?”

Austin took a step closer to the men and tipped her hat back on her head. “You ain’t scared, Captain Harcourt?”

He glanced at DeVille, then back at her. His fingers tightened on his hat brim. “You two might want to speak in private. Perhaps I should take my leave.”

“Don’t,” Austin said. “Please?”

DeVille reached out and slapped Harcourt’s leg. “Come on, Harcourt. For the lady.”

Austin stepped forwards quickly, tugged Harcourt’s hat from his hand, and pressed her lips to his, interrupting whatever he had been about to say in protest. Her hat fell off. His lips were far softer than she’d expected, and he tasted like whiskey with all the burn gone.

She dropped his hat in the straw and ran her gloved hand up his chest. That was nice and firm. She scrubbed her palm across a nipple, but she could barely feel it beneath his clothing. His fingers closed over her wrist and lifted it. “Are you sure about this?” he said. Flickers of lantern light reflected in his eyes and glistened off the new dampness on his lips.