Linda Alvarez - The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

They’d gone barely ten steps when Miss Kitty bellowed after them. “Virgil! Captain Harcourt!”

DeVille looked at Harcourt, who lifted his eyebrows. They retraced their steps. The cowboy sat at their vacated table. Seeing his face clearly for the first time, DeVille was startled by the softness of his features, though he was clearly no longer a young boy. Without beard or moustache, his lips had a plush curve, just waiting for someone to press with their thumb.

Miss Kitty poured the cowboy a glass of whiskey and placed it in front of him, but he didn’t drink it. Miss Kitty said, her expression fierce, “Some rowdies attacked the Widow Larimer’s spread, just outside of town. Austin here’s her wrangler, and he thinks they’ll be back.”

The Widow Larimer was a coloured lady. DeVille imagined she hadn’t been interested in the Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, either. Before Harcourt could say they’d risk their lives for free, he named their rates.

Austin looked up at that. He was beardless, but no fool, that was clear. “She told me to hire Captain Harcourt.”

“Where he goes, I follow,” DeVille said. “Ever since we were boys. But I’m only half his price, since he’s the better shot.”

After a little haggling, DeVille stowed away their advance money. Austin would ride ahead; they had to retrieve their horses from the livery. As they headed for the Widow Larimer’s ranch, Harcourt said, “You only follow me because it suits you. You’ve been getting me into trouble ever since we were boys.”

“He paid up, didn’t he?”

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.