The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (5 page)

The sun was disagreeably warm. This lush valley was like a heated bowl at this time of June, a veritable hothouse of fertile soil. The rich plains were studded with oaks and nestled in hills of lofty height, intersected by a network of man-made ditches. Reynaldo was interested in the vineyards Vallejo had planted. Back in Massachusetts, Reynaldo had made tolerable wine from a forlorn and pitiable vineyard, and everything grew much more abundantly here in this romantically picturesque valley. Maybe he could look at the grapes after this miserable meeting with the great comandante.

“Yes,” Gillespie agreed as they went through a wide, tall gateway and into a courtyard furnished with enormous cacti. “Only one thing, Vargas. Vallejo is the one who sent those horses to Castro to begin with.”

Reynaldo jumped a foot in the air when a cannon exploded not a dozen yards behind him in the plaza.

Gillespie clapped him on the shoulder. “A salute,” he informed the jumpy corporal. “See? They’re hoisting the Mexican colors in our honor, too. For years Vallejo has desired the changes we’re about to make. He just sent Castro those horses as a formality.”

After ascending a flight of stairs to the first story of Casa Grande, a Digger servant let them in the main door. They passed through the vestibule down a long, fifty-foot room populated with heavy mission furniture of mahogany framework, and even some chairs from Oahu. A fine piano was the first Reynaldo had seen in California. Everything was fastidiously clean, the corridors off the main hall gleaming with reflected sun that poured through small square windows. Paintings of ancestors and landscapes decorated the walls. A gracious woman wrapped in a finely embroidered rebozo scarf greeted them. Reynaldo assumed it was Señora Vallejo.

“
Buenas tardes
,” Reynaldo replied and allowed her to lead them into the dining room.

He went stiff with mortification when he saw a lavish supper was already in progress. There were of course many gentlemen he was unfamiliar with sitting at Vallejo’s long table. Reynaldo turned his eyes first to Vallejo at the head of the table, jolly and mellow with liquor. Vallejo stood and approached as Reynaldo saluted. Vallejo spoke in English so as not to alienate Gillespie, no doubt.

“Greetings. Welcome to my table.”

Reynaldo introduced himself, and Vallejo waved a hand at each of his guests in turn. A Jacob Leese, who was apparently the
alcalde,
or mayor, as well as being married to Vallejo’s sister. There was a Don Victor Prudon, a Don Pepe de la Rosa, a Salvadore Vallejo who was no doubt the general’s brother, a—

Reynaldo froze like a waxworks figure. The only gentleman who ceased stuffing tortillas and stewed beef into his face and gabbing with a full mouth when introduced stood and made a little curious bow. It took an entire second for it to sink in.
This is that
pendejo
from Sutter Buttes. This is the bastard who fucked me up the ass, smacked me around, and then treated me like something on the bottom of his boot.

“This is Milosz Stefanski,” Vallejo said somewhere in the murky back recesses of Reynaldo’s addled brain.
Milosz Stefanski?
Reynaldo knew for a fact he’d falsely introduced himself as Milo Stephens. But then many people tried to make their foreign names sound more American, especially if engaged in the business of securing land for America.

Reynaldo was glad a length of table separated them, laden with dishes of potatoes in their jackets, pumpkin and garlic, tongue and garlic, cabbage and garlic, and tomatoes and garlic. In fact, the aroma of pepper and garlic infiltrated everything, but Reynaldo was stunned senseless by the return of that magnetic, beautiful bumfucker from the shores of the Sacramento.

And Milo wasn’t avoiding Reynaldo, wasn’t looking down at the table or nervously clearing his throat. He pierced Reynaldo with his icy blue eyes directly as he made his little bow, and after that Reynaldo wasn’t aware of much for several minutes. Señora Vallejo scooted a couple of diners apart to set a new place for Reynaldo directly across from Señor Stephens, he of the luscious ass and powerful build. Red wine was poured from a decanter into a glass for Reynaldo, but his fingers only lingered on the glass. He could not tear his eyes from this magnetic but fearsome settler.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten their encounter on the Sacramento shores—not for more than several minutes at a time within the past two weeks. Reynaldo had trucked with other men before. Naturally. What else was there to do in the Far West, especially in Frémont’s California Battalion? They just tramped endlessly up and down the coast, seeing no enemy, for most Californios were as disgusted with Mexican rule as they were. Why not enjoy a sweetly sucking, eager mouth, even if it was that of another grizzled battalion member greatly in need of a dentist? No one cared much as long as the end result was an explosive orgasm.

But even there, in the realm of “crimes against nature,” this Polish immigrant had stood out from the rabble. Reynaldo had first been stimulated by his curvaceous ass. Reynaldo was further riveted by his beautiful, piercing aqua eyes, his hawk’s nose that told Reynaldo he was no doubt of Jewish extraction. But the way he had dominated him on the river! That was the crowning glory, and Reynaldo was still in shock that he had allowed that to happen.

He had never been bound before—practically ravaged against his will by this brutal stranger. Yet, even more oddly, he had stood there submissively, allowing his wrists to be bound, unashamed that his cock jutted hungrily, visible for a mile around, even to those filthy spectators who stood there gripping their own johnsons. What was wrong with him? Reynaldo had pondered this nearly every moment since then. What sway did this powerful Polish stranger have over him that he’d happily, even eagerly allow himself to be violated in such a savage way? Worse still—
and enjoy it…
Perhaps there was a sort of power in being the submissive party—in being the one who was desired.

Dios mío
, how he’d enjoyed being ravished by that mouth-watering stud! Reynaldo justified it that Milo had taken the time to pleasure him as well, soaping up his prick and frigging him with a vigorous fist. Milo had been polite enough to get a bead on that spot inside him with his own bursting cockhead, jiggling it back and forth over the spot so the jism spurted from Reynaldo’s penis with unusual force. Reynaldo told himself that it showed concern and caring, even when Milo had rudely brushed aside his polite talk after the fuck was over. “I don’t care if I never see you again,” Milo had said, with as much concern in his voice as if his wagon had just run over a prairie dog. Even the soldiers who had just drained the seed from their compatriot’s pricks had more manners than that.

Reynaldo loathed this
pendejo
. It made him question every foundation he thought he stood on, to get so hot over a domineering, barbarous brute like this.

Oh. Lieutenant Gillespie, seated a few chairs down next to Dr. Semple, had been spouting some righteous-sounding blather. Reynaldo hadn’t been paying attention because Milo, between thoughtful bites of potato or pumpkin, kept flickering his gaze to Reynaldo, as though expecting something from him. Reynaldo didn’t know what.

Gillespie was droning, “The Mexicans wish to drive out the Americanos. The vaquero gathering these horses is sheer proof of that. Frémont has been required by our government to find out foreign schemes in California and counteract them.”

Milo’s eyes flickered now as he paid attention to the conversation. “We agree with you, Gillespie. Californios don’t want to participate in a useless struggle. Comandante Vallejo here was just saying he wishes that the United States keep and annex California.”

Someone was ladling stew onto Reynaldo’s plate, but he suddenly didn’t wish to eat. He gulped the wine to stop his stomach from growling. Vallejo pointed at Milo with his fork and said, “I’ve been disgusted with Mexican authority for years, that’s true. They are swiftly sending my country backward, not forward in terms of civilization. Architecture is in its infancy. Agriculture is done by ape-men. My countrymen’s idea of culture is strumming a guitar while bullfighting.”

Another settler of the Oso party known as Grigsby said, “How many cannon have you, Vallejo? Castro is going to have it in for us when he hears we’ve taken his horses.”

“I have nine big guns guarding this fort,” said Vallejo. “Two twelve pounders, the rest nine pounders. However, we’ve been nearly out of ammunition for some time now.”

“You can’t get any from San Francisco’s Presidio?” asked Milo.

Reynaldo didn’t hear Vallejo’s answer—and apparently, neither did Milo. An American woman bustled into the dining room and completely ripped the men’s attention from the conversation about guns.

She was a lanky beauty, nearly as tall as Milo and Reynaldo. Her sloe eyes looked to be ringed with kohl like a Far Eastern belle, although it was probably just their duskiness. She walked erect and proud, the corners of her leonine mouth turned up with confidence as she served a couple more platters of frijoles or tortillas. She moved on slippered feet, dressed in the Californio style—a
camisa
bodice with short cap sleeves that revealed sun-browned arms, a bright orange sash cinching her narrow waist.

It was her buoyant bosom that seemed to have riveted the Polish settler’s attention, bobbling saucily under the cotton of her
camisa
. As suspected, Milo wasn’t just a rough, ferocious brute who enjoyed manhandling other men. Reynaldo could tell by the hungry sheen in his eyes that Milo wanted to enjoy this bountiful American woman as well. This knowledge caused the pit of jealousy in Reynaldo’s stomach to burn even stronger. He could not live with himself to know he’d been dismissed by this brutal stud who then moved on to dominate this poor, gentle creature. He would protect her from this animal.

Reynaldo nearly lashed out in anger when she went to remove an empty bowl near Milo’s elbow and Milo dared to touch his fingertips to her wrist. It seemed that they shared a knowing look. So they were acquainted with each other! Milo had already begun to work his savage magic on the hapless woman!

Everyone else must have seen, too. Vallejo even stumbled in his speech. “But until war is officially declared, your hands are tied. Frémont can take no official action without word from Polk.”

“But I
have
brought word from Polk to Frémont,” Gillespie said impudently. “Two weeks ago I brought word through the isthmus of Panama from the States.”

“And he has told Frémont to wage war in so many words?” asked Vallejo.

“Not in so many words,” said Gillespie. “But we are familiar enough with his viewpoints to know how to interpret his words.”

“Excuse me,” muttered Reynaldo. No one heard him or seemed to care as he made a pile of his napkin and rose from the table. He knew they would just assume he wanted to visit the backhouse, and he swiftly followed in the American woman’s footsteps. Reynaldo was a lifelong bachelor, though not by choice. Women simply didn’t marry soldiers, and the few women a soldier bumped into were either prostitutes or the former shells of themselves, worn and haggard after the life-sapping journey across the plains. This was the sprightliest woman Reynaldo had seen in years, and he was determined to put his stamp on her.

It was not to be.

All the cookery was done in outbuildings to keep smoke from the house, and Reynaldo headed for the courtyard. Turning a corner, Reynaldo got just a glimpse of a sort of pantry where Californio women arranged the cooked dishes and put finishing touches on platters before his arm was yanked and he was slammed to the wall.

Milo pinned him with a forearm across the Adam’s apple, his thighs pressing Reynaldo into the wall. “
Pinche guey.”
You fucking idiot.
“Where do you think you’re going? Coincidence you get up the moment Señorita Tillie leaves the room.”

“
Jesús Cristo.
Tu maldito desgraciado
.”
You fucking bastard. And I’m glad you just told me her name.

Now Milo pinned him with his hips as well as forearm. The lusty bulge between Milo’s leggings pleasantly reminded him of their river encounter. Milo’s stiff cock nestled urgently against Reynaldo’s.

“Why is Señorita Tillie any of your concern, you fucking mountain man?” snarled Reynaldo.

Milo’s response was to wrench Reynaldo by the arm and shove him toward a thick wooden door. He used his knees and even stepped on Reynaldo’s boot heels with his moccasins to urge him through the doorway. They were in the forty-foot tower that connected Casa Grande with the nearly empty barracks around the corner. Milo pressed Reynaldo back against one of the glassless window frames as tall as a man, where he clung to the edge to prevent from being pushed onto the little balcony.

“I knew you were a deviant bugger,” Milo snarled. “You Spaniards are all twisted buggers who would fuck anything that moved.”

Reynaldo’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, although he realized he was the one cringing back into the wall. “I’m a son of Barcelona, an alumnus of Yale University. Who are you to accuse me of being deviant? You’re the one who beat my ass before humping me on the river.”

In a flash Milo had unsheathed Reynaldo’s sword and was pressing the blade to Reynaldo’s throat.
How in hell did he do that?
Reynaldo was completely helpless around this
pendejo
! He had been a soldier for ten years and this fucking farmer just came along and got the better of him. This fucking mountain man who had probably been tramping around for years wearing a dead animal on his head—
Dios mío!
Reynaldo glanced down and was glad that only two Californio soldiers lounged in the dusty courtyard, guarding the
calabozo
jail.