Disorder in the House [How the West Was Done 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (3 page)

That wasn’t unusual. On a postmaster’s salary, it was always tempting to chisel supplies out of the Indians. With a storehouse full of shovels, waistcoats, and valuable boots at one’s disposal and hordes of settlers clamoring for these things, the temptation was just too great.

Levi said, “From the looks of these papers I just perused, it might even be worse than that.” He picked up one page and rattled it. “Looks like he accidentally left behind this bogus treaty covered with a bunch of scribbles where Indians might’ve signed away land that was rightfully theirs.”

Tempest looked at the page. He, too, looked confused at the illegible “signatures” scrawled by alleged chiefs with names like Brave Buffalo and Caeser Moxus, accompanied by pictographs of dying bison, soaring eagles, and squashed tortoises. The pictographs didn’t have the ring of authenticity to Levi. Indians could usually draw much better than that. “I just saw Caeser Moxus the other day, but he didn’t mention any treaty.”

Levi couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Oh? Caeser Moxus is a real Indian’s name?”

He was glad that Tempest chuckled, too. “Well, what we
named
him, obviously.” He waxed serious again. “That land in question is over by my ranch, out toward the Snowy Range. I was going to ride back there tomorrow night after I finish dispatching the latest load of murderers and thieves that we rounded up during the festivities last night. The new train arriving, you know. Everyone knocking up a lark. Those brawlers are mean enough to eat off the same plate as a snake. I’m to be made marshal of Laramie, so I can’t guarantee much security here at the fort anymore. I could investigate it for you, see what I find.”

The festivities reminded Levi of something that was never far from his mind. This head of security might have heard of Ivy Hudson. Levi would like to accompany Tempest out to the Snowy Range, but he wanted to figure out who Miss Hudson was, or where, first. She must be related to this Simon Hudson fellow whose name was all over papers as a proprietor of railroad ties and lumber.

A stunner like that wouldn’t last long in a gal-starved town like Laramie, if indeed she wasn’t already married and arriving there to meet a husband. And if so, she’d been having one hell of a last fling. That, or the husband in question was extremely heinous.

So Levi said, “About those festivities. On the train yesterday—”

But a new voice sounded in the tiny room. It was a voice of such resonance and command that both men stood at attention as though suddenly in church.

“Caeser is dead.”

The speaker was a very tall, athletic, dark-skinned gent. Although his Southern accent pinpointed him as being from the Georgia region, his proclamation gave Levi the expectation of seeing a toga-clad actor in a Shakespearean play. Again, Levi chuckled. “
Et tu, Brute?
Is this part of some assassination conspiracy?”

Neil Tempest stepped between Levi and the serious actor. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Colter. Garrett’s just a cook here at the fort.”

For a cook, he certainly cut an imposing figure. Garrett looked strong enough to strangle a steer. He was clad in the usual private’s hodgepodge of attire—the army was never good about replacing uniforms and usually seemed unsure of who was stationed where, anyway. It was usually left up to the soldiers themselves to cobble together a “uniform,” and Garrett had decided to strut about in a pair of tight and red long drawers, most pants probably being too short for his powerful, long legs. He protected his legs with a pair of fringed leather chaps, which were stuffed into worn Wellington boots. He had retained his official dark blue frock coat with sky-blue piping but had replaced the cap with a wide-brimmed planter’s hat. Strange getups weren’t uncommon in the West.

Tempest turned to Garrett and asked, “What makes you think Caeser is dead?”

Garrett addressed his answer to Levi and seemed to be staring at his neck, strangely enough. Maybe he was afraid to raise his eyes, being only a cook. “I just know it.”

Tempest scoffed. “If you ‘know’ it, you must have also been present when he died. How did he die, then? Should I slap these bracelets on you and put you in the brig?”

Garrett turned his beautifully heavy, almost Oriental eyes onto Tempest. He looked Marshal Tempest in the eye. “No, I wasn’t there when he was killed. It was just something I heard.”

“Gossip, eh?” said Tempest. He finally regarded Garrett with seriousness. “This isn’t something that Caleb Poindexter might’ve told you, is it? Because I can check with Caleb.”

Who the hell was Caleb Poindexter? Levi was becoming restless and wanted to get back to the subject of Ivy Hudson. His brain wandered to his second encounter with the Egyptian lass, after he’d saved her from certainly smothering in a thousand putrid armpits during the crush upon arrival yesterday. His prick had been stiffly at attention before he’d even yanked her from that packed corridor, but when she collapsed back on his lap, he knew he was hopelessly lost. One might even say in love with her.

Yes, it sounded completely absurd, Levi knew that. He’d been briefly betrothed to a gal in Chicago when he’d been an idealistic journalist. When that hope and optimism had been abruptly shattered, of course he’d plodded through the usual roostered groupings in back alleys that young, disillusioned men were prone to. One always imagined that just one more faceless vertical fuck up against a trash bin with a half-cognizant gal would somehow enhance one’s opinion of one’s self, but of course it never happened.

Anyway, Levi wasn’t the most gullible chowderhead on the continent when it came to love. By the time he came west and first became an Indian agent at the Standing Rock reservation, he had given up the idea of ever marrying. There were not many unwed belles in the Far West, and being a lowly agent wouldn’t hold out much hope of riches even for a sallow grass widow with eight children. But the moment Ivy Hudson had fallen into his lap—even before she had straddled, kissed, and nearly fucked him—Levi Colter had been a goner.

Maybe it was her thick masses of slinky, sleek curls. When he had plunged his fingers through that pinned-up bundle of inky curls, all he’d wanted to do was tear out her hairpins and bathe himself in those tresses. She smelled of violets or some other prairie rose, as though she had a sachet tucked away in her bodice. When she sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck and plied him with that sly, talented mouth, violets had wafted over him. In fact, later that night when he’d frigged himself so furiously, he could smell the flowers drifting over him, as though she still thought about him at that very moment. Or maybe her ghostly hands even touched his cock. And he had sappily vowed never to wash that shirt again and balled it up in the corner of his trunk, to perversely sniff later.

And he had certainly never expected her to straddle him! Why had she chosen him, of the hundreds of men in the train, to latch onto with her long thighs? When she wriggled her hips and humped him like a brazen vixen, he’d nearly come off in his pants. He imagined he could even feel her mushy honeypot clamped right down over his bulging prick, and it was only some vaguely remembered sense of propriety—which was practically out the window at this point—that prevented him from consummating their sudden coupling.

That, and someone’s umbrella bashing his skull, and the fact that the train had stopped.

She wore this airy, almost transparent gown of the “artistic” mode that modern women interested in dress reform were prone to wear. When she slithered away through the press of passengers, her skirts had been hiked up just enough to reveal that a wet spot saturated her seat. He had sat there, stunned, for many minutes afterward. There was a wet spot on his crotch, too. And now that he thought about it, perhaps he should never wash that pair of pants either.

“What?” Levi now gaped stupidly. Neil Tempest had been saying something to him.

“I’ve got to get back to town. I’ve got a whole railcar of rowdies to deal with. Thanks for letting me know about Shady, Mr. Colter. I’ll look into it when I get back to my ranch.”

And Tempest spun on his heel, heading for the door of the agent’s office.

Completely ignoring Garrett, who still stood there as though about to burst into a sonnet, Levi followed Tempest into the open air of the parade ground. That odd, spectral white man pretending to be an Indian was thankfully gone, and Levi said conversationally, “Say, Marshal. You wouldn’t happen to know a lady by the name of Ivy Hudson? I think she might be related to this Hudson fellow who sells railroad ties. Reason I ask. I met her on the train yesterday—”

All of a sudden, Tempest stopped Levi cold. His arm went out at a right angle to his body like a picket fence gate, nearly slamming Levi in the gut. Clearly, Levi had said something wrong. Tempest’s eyes flashed angrily. “How could you have met her on the train?
I
was with her on the train yesterday. And I was with her all the time. I didn’t see you.”

Hell
. This must be the husband Levi had been dreading. Tempest didn’t seem like such a bad sort. He must have some deep, hidden flaws that made women run to other men’s arms. Obviously, Ivy had been fleeing from Levi on the train, knowing her husband, Marshal Tempest, was about to board looking for her. Levi had to step carefully. “Oh, ah, we only met very briefly. I saved her from a throng of roostered thugs. You know how worked up these railroad men can get. Pitching into each other. A regular husking frolic.”

Hands on hips, Tempest frowned something fierce. He repeated, “But I was with her every moment of the day. She wasn’t out of my sight for one second.”

Both men stared dumbly at each other, probably for different reasons. Marshal Tempest glowered, and Levi wondered if the door to his new agent’s office had a strong lock.

Then came that resonant actor’s voice again, off to the side. “It wasn’t Miss Ivy. Mr. Colter, you met Miss Ivy Hudson’s sister.”

Again, both men turned to regard Garrett with a religious intensity. His pronouncement probably made the most sense to Marshal Tempest, for he was the first to yell, “How do you know Ivy Hudson’s sister?”

“I don’t,” Garrett said simply. “I’ve just…
heard
that Ivy has a sister who was coming into town.”

It was slowly seeping into Levi’s entrails, with a great deal of relief. He guffawed as though he’d known the whole thing was a joke the entire time, practically slapping Marshal Tempest on the shoulder. “Yes, her
sister!
That makes sense! Did Miss Ivy tell you she had a sister coming into town on the train?”

Tempest frowned thoughtfully. “She has several sisters,” he admitted. “And she did send a telegram to a Miss Liberty Hudson, of Hyde Park, New York. I wonder if that’s the sister you met, Colter?”

With exaggerated heartiness, Levi assured the sheriff, “Yes, I’m completely sure that’s the one I met.”

“Do you happen to know where she went when she got off the train?”

Levi shrugged. “I was going to ask you that. She made a hasty departure.”

Tempest finally relaxed, shooting Levi a friendly glance. “Wondering the same thing, eh? Wondering if she’s married?”

“Well, I…”

Luckily, Tempest saved him the embarrassment of having to ask. “She’s not. None of them are. Yet, at least. Miss Ivy is betrothed to me.” This time, Tempest did slap Levi on the shoulder in a brotherly manner. “I’m sure she went to her father’s house on Garfield Avenue. Vancouver House. Why don’t you stop on by when you’ve arranged matters here at the fort? From what I’ve heard, she’s a very lively sort and doesn’t know anyone in town. I’ll mention to her that I saw you.”

“Oh, don’t bother, please!” Levi wondered why he protested so strongly. “We barely exchanged three words. I merely pulled her out of harm’s way when some roughnecks were half seas over.” He touched the brim of his Stetson to indicate to Tempest he wished to part, and they headed off in different directions.

Why did he protest? It took him another three seconds to realize why.

Liberty—oh, the name alone caused his heart to throb!—was no doubt extremely mortified by her behavior on the train. Just the sight of him would give her the noxious creeps. She had probably been counting on never seeing him again. She was the daughter of this wealthy lumber merchant and the future sister-in-law of the town’s marshal. She would never truck with a lowly Indian agent who earned the salary of a postmaster.

Once again, Levi steeled himself to give up all romantic hopes.

The two devilishly handsome white men were bickering over a couple of women. Naturally.

The dashing new Indian agent, who Garrett already knew wouldn’t turn out to be nearly as crooked as Shady Barnhart, was becoming extremely nervous over one of Simon Hudson’s daughters. Garrett O’Rourke knew deep, abiding love when he saw it. And this Levi Colter was already deeply in love with the woman he’d claimed to have only met briefly. Garrett knew they had done more than exchange just a few words. He didn’t know exactly what they’d done, but it was definitely more than mention the weather.

Garrett also knew that his own future was intertwined fatefully with this Indian agent, so he strode after Levi across the parade ground. “Mr. Colter. Please wait. Don’t you want to know about Caeser’s death?”

Levi spun on him irritably. “You know entirely too much, don’t you, Garrett—whatever your name is! You mysteriously ‘know’ this Indian chief is dead, and you somehow knew it was a different sister I had met on the train. Yet you live at the fort here, three miles from town! Yes, perhaps you
can
explain how you know so damned much. Starting with Miss Liberty Hudson.”