Cold Steel and Hot Lead [How the West Was Done 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (5 page)

And now the circus was stuck here due to high snowdrifts, and she was serving Joe the Rubber-Skinned Man and a pockmarked giant some plates of calf’s liver and peas. Her sister Tabitha back in Hyde Park, New York, would be green with envy to know that her day consisted of hobnobbing with such colorful characters. What could possibly be more exciting?

Well, perhaps the arrival of the two handsomest men she had ever seen in her life.

They weren’t with the circus, as far as Alameda could tell. They looked like businessmen in their brocaded waistcoats and warm wool greatcoats. But she didn’t recognize them as being from Laramie, so they must have been traveling east on the train when it got snowed in. They were a perfectly cultured pair of exquisitely stunning men—dark-haired, delicious, vigorous.

The fellow with the wide striped necktie was dashing, his brunet locks curling around his shirt collar. His lovely expressive eyes spoke of great intelligence, and he was obviously extremely athletic. The other fellow had a silk scarf wrapped around his neck and the most luminous, riveting eyes Alameda had ever seen.

Alameda hadn’t been attracted to any man since coming to Laramie, being resistant to masculine charms after the disaster that was Ralph Ellis in Hyde Park. But now for some inexplicable reason, Alameda practically shoved her fellow worker Irene aside in her zeal to serve these men. She felt vibrant, more alive than she had been in many months, as she steered toward their table to take their order. She was proud of the way the duo took note of her, swiveling their heads and resting their eyes on what she knew to be her extremely shapely form.

Scouring her brain for something witty to say, she started, “I presume you’re not with the circus. You don’t have tattoos that I can see.” But she wasn’t halfway through the sentence before a wheezing, choking fit overcame her.

Damn it all to hell.
This goddamned asthma.

She couldn’t breathe when this happened. She knew that her face turned red, and she clutched at her throat, her thankfully empty tray banging to the floor.

Both men instantly jumped to their feet.

“What’s wrong?” said the necktie man, laying a warm hand on her shoulder. “Did you swallow something? Are you choking on something?”

The scarf fellow said, “I think she has asthma. I’ve seen this before. We need chloroform liniment.”

The necktie man boldly felt her waist. While Alameda couldn’t breathe and tiny clear bubbles were flitting in front of her eyes from lack of air, she still had the presence of mind to take pleasure in the touch of his hands. They were firm and sure, definitely the hands of an athlete. “No. I think it’s something else. Come, miss. Let’s go in the back, away from prying eyes.”

Alameda managed to gasp a few shreds of air, enough to prevent her from fainting as the necktie man led her into the kitchen. She waved a limp hand at Rusty Pipes, one of the chefs. Rusty assisted by saying, “Oh, is she having another fit of asthma?”

“That’s what I thought,” said the scarf fellow. “You don’t happen to have any chloroform liniment?”

Rusty said, “We use mustard oil mixed with camphor. Let me go find it.”

The necktie fellow seemed to have ideas of his own, though. He sat Alameda onto a chair and was unbuttoning her bodice! Her face must have been red as an apple, though, for he soon lost patience with the velvet-covered buttons that slithered between his fingers. He rent the shirtwaist so expertly that her ample bosom burst free like sausage from a casing, bouncing in what normally would have been an enticing manner, if Alameda could breathe.

Expertly yanking the short sleeves of her camisole down to her elbows, now her alluring swan-bill corset was exposed to anyone’s view. She would have cared more about propriety if she wasn’t choking on her own throat. When the athletic man whipped out a bowie knife to cut the front laces of the beautiful corset as though they were butter, Alameda’s considerable and buoyant breasts burst free of their cage. Immediately she gulped several half-breaths of good, clear air and could feel the color return to her face. Leaning forward with her hands on her knees, she breathed, glad to see that her nipples weren’t exposed to view—he had politely refrained from cutting too many laces.

The first thing Alameda noticed was that he smelled dreamily like a very citrusy eau de cologne, and she breathed it in thankfully.

“There.” He smiled soothingly. “Much better, no? I hope I didn’t ruin a very expensive corset.”

“It looks expensive,” said the scarf fellow. “It’s very intricate, and you ruined it because you wouldn’t wait for that mustard oil.” Alameda didn’t lift her head, so she had a very good view of the scarf fellow’s crotch. She was remotely amused to note that the sight of her ponderous, nearly naked breasts had caused his penis to inflate, and she could even see the outline of the glans under his wool trousers. For some reason this didn’t irritate her, as it normally did. Normally a man’s ballooning johnson was the last thing in the world Alameda felt like viewing.

The necktie fellow didn’t take his eyes off her face, not even to cast a disgusted glance at his friend. “But it worked,” he whispered, gazing at her as though she were a child. Or a patient.

“Are you a doctor?” she gasped.

“No. Just a legislator.”

The scarf fellow added, “Senator Derrick Spiro, heading to Cheyenne to introduce a women’s measure.”

Senator Spiro corrected him. “I have a council seat in the upper house of the legislature. Essentially the senate.”

“Ah.” Alameda viewed Senator Spiro in a new light. He had a fine unlined forehead and very flashing umber eyes that were laden with compassion and intellect. It was also to his credit that his gaze remained fixed on her face, not her swaying bosom. “For women’s right to vote?”

“Yes. I think it’s for the best if we legalize women’s suffrage. I also sponsor a bill guaranteeing married women property rights separate from their husbands.”

Alameda was going to say that her sister Liberty, the town’s schoolmistress, would like to hear all of this. She was always going on and on about women’s suffrage and voting. But Liberty already had a couple of beaus and certainly didn’t need an introduction to this delicious Senator Spiro. Then Rusty Pipes finally returned with her jar of mustard oil and camphor. He stood behind Senator Spiro with the dumbfounded look that told her
he
was about to bust forth with an expanding bone in his trousers. She was relieved when the scarf fellow whisked the jar from Rusty’s inert hand and squatted down before Alameda.

“How did you know my corset was too tight?” she panted.

For the first time, Derrick Spiro’s look became shaded. “I’ve seen it happen before. My wife…Rudy, give her that jar. We’ve got it under control, buddy,” he said to Rusty, who only backed off a few feet.

Rudy was unscrewing the lid. “Isn’t it better if I apply it?”

Derrick accepted defeat, settling back on his haunches on the floor. “True. You’re the one who wouldn’t get overly excited.”

What did Senator Spiro mean by that? Rudy’s erection was so plump that when he squatted it became lodged in an obviously painful manner. His testicles strained against the seam of the crotch, filling it amply. He was already overly excited and not the sodomist the senator seemed to imply. Rudy took a swipe of the mustard oil anyway. She straightened her spine, jutting out her pendulous breasts so they swayed just inches from the men’s faces. But she was only allowing Rudy to apply the mustard oil to her breastbone, not attempting to seduce the senator.

Who was married, evidently. She stuffed down her deep disappointment. Of course a politician had to be married. A bachelor wouldn’t succeed far in that line of work. A politician needed a wife to provide the proper image of stability. No one would vote for a bachelor.

She knew she didn’t need the ointment. She had obviously been overly constricted by her corset. She just wanted to feel the touch of a man again. It had been so long. Especially since she had been touched by someone she wasn’t repelled by.

“So who are you, Rudy?” she asked, to detract from his attentive stroking. She felt very smug and superior that when he massaged the oil in, her majestic breasts jiggled in their steel stays, drawing the senator’s hungry eyes downward. Her stiffened nipples were hidden beneath the double satin fabric, but his look was so heated it was as though he touched her. She was gratified when she glanced down that the senator’s prick bulged beefily in his crotch. “Are you the senator’s assistant?” Assistants could be bachelors, even if they were androphiles, as Derrick had implied.

This made Rudy chuckle. He inched forward as he needlessly squiggled his oily fingers over the upper slope of her breast, nearly slithering his fingertips into her underarm. It was deliciously naughty, especially with her tits jutting forward assertively like that, bobbing in their cage. In fact, if Rudy rubbed just a bit more strenuously, one of her nipples would poke over the lacey rim of the corset. That torture would serve Senator Spiro right, for being married.

“No,” said Rudy distractedly. “We only met this morning. I’ve been in town for two weeks. I just do rope tricks—not a member of this troupe that got stuck here.”

“He’s an escape artist,” said Derrick, a hint of pride warming his voice.

“That’s nothing,” said Rudy. “I’ve been a trapper, a bullwhacker, and a Pony Express rider.”

Apparently Derrick wasn’t jealous of Rudy, for he now proudly added, “He’s been a trick rider—you know, shoot the apple off someone’s head from under the horse’s belly.”

“You’ve all had so many more experiences than me,” said Alameda ruefully. “I’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing with my life. I’m twenty-eight, unmarried, the most exciting thing I’ve done was to take the train to Laramie City, and now I serve miners and tracklayers. I’d like to learn trick shooting as well. Maybe you can teach me.”

“Certainly,” said Rudy. He had smeared her entire chest with the warming oil and had no choice but to sit back on his haunches, too, alongside his friend. Alameda brought the camisole straps back up over her shoulders, shaking them back and forth so her jiggling tits settled back in their cages. The men watched with rapt attention. “There was some brouhaha earlier over by the train station having to do with the circus.”

“I heard about that!” cried Alameda, her fingers stilling on her shirtwaist buttons. The ones that hadn’t been rent aside by the stimulating and delicious senator. “That’s all anyone’s been talking about in the restaurant. Poor Kittie Wells volunteered to help with an illusion and vanished!”

“Did you know her?” asked the senator.

“Oh dear, you say it as though she’s already dead,” Alameda noted. “Yes, I know Kittie. She’s betrothed to one of the Freund brothers who do business with my father. You may have seen, Rudy, the Freund and Brothers mercantile store on First Street. We often—Kittie and I that is, along with some other women—have tea and play croquet and lawn tennis. Or used to. I had no idea to expect such horrendous snowstorms. New York is child’s play compared to these blizzards. Now we just play billiards.”

Derrick asked, “Can you think of anyone who might want to kidnap her?”

“Oh dear me, no. Bob Freund would have no need to, since they’re to be wed next month. Although I daresay, Kittie might not protest too heartily if someone were to steal her away.”

“What do you mean?”

Alameda didn’t know whether she should confide in these two delectable strangers. But as they were strangers, she would never see them again once the train steamed off, so she really had nothing to lose. “She’s not very eager to marry Bob Freund. Her father is forcing her to do it. There was another chap she really preferred to wed, but I suppose he didn’t have enough money for her father’s liking.”

Rudy finally looked at his partner. “Perhaps this other fellow, then. Perhaps they eloped. And just used Montreal Jed as the scapegoat.”

The senator looked piercingly at Rudy. “But remember what Phenomenal Percy said? About the Italian acrobat?”

My, how flamboyant and colorful these men were! What exciting lives they must lead, especially compared to Alameda’s boring existence. She said, “Phenomenal Percy? Italian acrobat? This is all so delightful.”

Derrick said, “Not nearly as delightful as it sounds. Does this true love of Kittie’s resemble an Italian, by any chance?”

But then the manager Jack Hammer came striding up red-faced. “Alameda! Customers are clamoring for you. Irene can’t do this all alone. Get back out there.”

“Oh, cheese it, Jack,” Alameda dared to say as her two saviors got to their feet. Jack would never get her in trouble, not with her being the daughter of Simon Hudson. But she knew she should get back to work, so she accepted Derrick’s hand and stood.

“I’m sorry I ruined your bodice, duck,” he whispered so close to her ear she felt his breath against her neck. And calling her “duck”! That was an untoward thing for a married man to do!

“Don’t mind. I can sew buttons back on. I’m grateful to you for figuring out what was wrong with me.”

Those rich umber eyes locked on hers. He seemed to be inhaling her essence. “You’re so buxom if you didn’t get some relief you would have strangled inside your own corset.”

Although this was probably a compliment and made her feel extremely misty between the thighs, Alameda turned to Rudy, who as far as she knew wasn’t married or very interested in women. “I should like to take shooting lessons from you. Wouldn’t that be a lark? I could practice at first with just an apple until I became good enough to shoot one from your head.”