Karen Mercury Read online

  How the West Was Done 4

  Manifested Destiny

  Army scout Foster Richmond has struck Black Hills gold, but his partner, photographer Worth Ludlow, fears it’s hexed by a Sioux curse. This seems evident when Foster’s witchy old flame Orianna pops back into Laramie, Wyoming, and throws a monkey wrench into their courtship of the stunning widow, Miss Tabitha Hudson.

  Orianna drops the bomb that their little son needs Foster back in San Francisco. Tabitha can’t give up all she’s worked for—her new journalism career or the two rough-and-ready men she’s fallen in love with.

  A séance held by local psychic—some say crackpot—Caleb reveals a traitorous web of sorcery, ghost dogs, and poisoned gloves. The trio refuses to accept they are the victims of the ex-flame from hell, and fights back with every weapon in their arsenal—including the crafty spirit of a dead miner—to protect their love.

  Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys

  Length: 65,384 words

  MANIFESTED DESTINY

  How the West Was Done 4

  Karen Mercury

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  MANIFESTED DESTINY

  Copyright © 2012 by Karen Mercury

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62241-103-0

  First E-book Publication: August 2012

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

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  DEDICATION

  To Jook.

  Thanks for being the product tester. Your services are invaluable.

  MANIFESTED DESTINY

  How the West Was Done 4

  KAREN MERCURY

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  French Creek, Dakota Territory

  July, 1874

  Almost from the first moment they found gold, calamities happened.

  First, Foster Richmond had to prevent a Sioux scout from cutting off his own wife’s nose for allegedly dallying with someone else. Foster had to remind the overly-excited scout that he was a member of an American military expedition and, as such, could not go around cutting off women’s noses.

  Then many oxen were stuck in a swampy morass and had to be shot. Then Foster stumbled upon Worthing Ludlow bathing naked in French Creek, immediately after Captain Yates lost his compass and couldn’t take sightings to make maps. Then a private died of dysentery. Many things seemed to go wrong all in the course of a two-day period.

  Before the funeral, Lieutenant Colonel Custer had asked Foster to take a message back to Fort Sanders near Laramie City two hundred and fifty miles southwest. But the worst calamity brought on by the gold discovery was definitely the accidental sighting of Worthing’s physique. This was the only mishap that would permanently wind up altering the course of Foster’s life. And once viewed, it wasn’t something that could be erased from his mind.

  “Go find that happy-go-lucky photographer,” Custer had ordered Foster. “He should be making somber, respectful photographs of this unlucky private’s funeral. The photographs will show the hardships of expedition life in the Far West.”

  “Sir,” Foster agreed, and started off. As the only white scout on the expedition, he was called upon to do all manner of things for Custer. But he was already sore that he had to go to Fort Sanders and separate from the exciting—and profitable—Black Hills expedition. He didn’t want to leave the gold claim he’d just staked. Several companies had already split off north to find the “permanent camp” that would allegedly be perfect for erecting a new fort.

  So as Foster struck for Worthing’s tent, he consoled himself that while at Fort Sanders, he might be able to recover his old dog, Phineas. He had left Phineas behind in Laramie City, and he wanted that dog back. Phineas was a Newfoundland dog of the sort that had accompanied Lewis and Clark across the continent, and she could certainly hold her own with these hunting hounds Custer had. Phineas could catch a ten-pound salmon in a raging creek and drop it at one’s feet.

  Foster poked his head into Worthing’s tent. Worthing obviously wasn’t in there, but Foster became curious at the sight of a pair of cast iron dumbbells on the ground. He had vaguely noticed that Worthing Ludlow had a better-than-average physique, and now he knew why. It wasn’t as though photographers were the halest sort of men, like scouts. All photographers ever had to do was climb to the top of a nearby peak in order to get the best panoramic view of a wagon train. But they hardly walked for miles trapping, shooting, riding, the occasional bear wrestling, as Foster had been accustomed to for two years now.

  “Worth’s down in the creek,” another private informed him.

  Foster struck off for the creek but not before another private giggled. “He’s down there using rosewater to wash his perfectly muscular arms.”

  But the private’s heart wasn’t in it, the teasing of the photographer, and another fellow of the Seventh Cavalry called out what could be interpreted as a challenge. “Yes, that Worth’s a thoroughbred, a regular strongman. He used to wrestle and box for money. It’d be amusing to pit him against another strapping stallion—but who wou
ld that be?”

  “Worth is built like a brick house,” someone else added. “No one could beat him.”

  Foster couldn’t help but rein in his horse and demonstrate he was at least listening. He knew he wasn’t the most beefy buffalo around—in fact, as a ginger-headed Scotsman, he needed to keep a slouch hat slapped onto his head. But as a scout living the healthy out-of-doors life, his stamina and longevity could far outstrip the biggest strongman in camp. That, and he had wrestled a grizzly. “Horatio Ross or Owen Hale might be up to the task,” he suggested.

  The private bawled back, “Company C already went north, so Owen Hale’s gone. You look like you’d be up to the task, from what we’ve seen you do.”

  “Yeah,” said another fellow. “You always run twenty miles without stopping following Injun sign. I’ll bet you could beat a photographer any day.”

  Foster nodded. “Find Horatio.” He dug his rowels into his horse’s sides and struck up the high riverbank that hid the creek from the encampment.

  He had better find Horatio as well. Horatio had agreed to draw up partnership papers for Claim No. 1 as the Custer Mining Company. Other civilians were doing likewise, and many were staying along French Creek to mine their claims. Foster, however, was stuck riding to Fort Sanders. It was probably an important message he had to telegraph to General Terry in St. Paul, probably something to do with the location of the new fort. But Foster was sorry he had to leave his gold claim.

  Thinking about the gold, Foster reined up on top of the riverbank, scanning the glittering creek for a sign of the photographer. At once he saw some clothing hung over aspen branches, so he rode down to where he could shout and be heard over the babbling creek.

  As he reined up cold, his lower jaw hung open.

  He had never paid much attention to Worthing Ludlow, who was always fiddling with his portable darkroom when he wasn’t inside his dark wagon. So now, when Foster caught a glimpse of the nude photographer standing balls-deep in the rushing water with his back to Foster, he was taken by surprise.

  His first reaction was to flee in shame. Worthing stood there carefree, apparently soaping his balls and penis, judging from the jerking of his arms, the flexing of his biceps. But it was his stupendous ass that riveted Foster to the spot. The muscular globes seemed nearly buoyant in their highly developed curves. Worth’s ass was so well-defined the globes were even dimpled.

  And his exquisitely sloping back was colored a rich chestnut by the sun. Worth kept his sandy hair shorn close, and the beautiful column of his neck instantly made Foster’s mouth water. Although an incredibly athletic buck of a man, the back of his neck gave him a vulnerable, boyish look that was perhaps enhanced by the fact that Foster was ogling him without his knowledge.

  This made Foster feel randy and perverted at the same time. To ogle a bathing fellow without his knowledge while your prick plumped with lust against your thigh, wasn’t that a bit poofy? But then, men stuck out in the sticks without even a prairie flower for a companion had been known to turn to other men for amusement. Foster had entertained poofy notions before, after a few cups of whiskey, if he was stuck in the bushes, bored.

  Hell, he had tangled once with an Indian youth who had also been wandering about, bored. Foster didn’t even speak that particular dialect, he was just hot to go. He had frigged and fucked that stripling as though he were the most desirable she-devil, with no compunctions afterward. Another time he had suddenly found himself embracing a tree, humping the hungry mouth of some army lieutenant or other who kneeled eagerly at the base of the trunk. That had been a fine sojourn when out on patrol. Sucking on each other’s tools had been a mutually satisfying lone occurrence that neither one of them had ever mentioned again.

  While there was nothing wrong with admiring a nice stiff prick, today it irritated Foster for some reason. Maybe because he wanted to see Worthing’s nice stiff prick, he dismounted and called out, leading his horse to the creek’s edge.

  “Worth! Custer needs you.”

  Worth made a half-turn, and indeed his monumental prick was in his fist. His eyes were bewildered, as though he hadn’t even noticed Foster was there. And he probably hadn’t, as he wasn’t a scout, only a photographer. Foster chuckled but made no effort to hide his own erection that bulged the crotch between his leather leggings. He would grab that uninhibited buck if he damned well felt like it. Out here in the heartless frontier, mutual solace was one of the only things to find comfort in.

  Foster would grab any judy too, if there was a judy to grab. Gone were the days of being told what to do. That was one of the beauties about scouting for the army. As an independent scout, he wasn’t quite in the army, so he had a lot more latitude than the soldiers. He would grab anyone he wanted, but right now he had to water his horse.

  “What does he need me for?”

  “What do you think? He wants you to paint the Sistine Chapel.”

  Worthing looked incredibly stupid, standing there like a Greek statue with his cock in his hand. The penis was heavy, veined. His thumb and forefinger barely met around the thick trunk of it as he squeezed it, choked it. The red glans popped out from his fist like a blooming poisonous mushroom, and Foster wondered if he was dense. Worthing was so brawny from his dumbbell-lifting that his absolutely flat abdomen actually rippled like a wind-blown sand dune. The skin was a creamy chestnut that nearly shimmered with vitality, his chest sprinkled with intriguing silken brunet hair.

  Worth’s cheeks even dimpled when he smiled, but Foster didn’t look at his face much. “Very funny. I mean, what’s he want me to make a photograph of? I made that one of the entire encampment yesterday. Took me six plates that I’ll have to piece together.”

  “Private King’s funeral. I’ve got to get back because he wants me to take an important message to Fort Sanders. Wanted to make sure you were finished beautifying yourself first.”

  Worth finally let go of his cock. Rinsing off his bulbous, swaying testicles, he trudged to the bank. “Fort Sanders, eh? How are you going to find it? I heard one of the cartographers say all existing maps of these Black Hills are as useful as a blank canvas. And all these bogs we’ve been stumbling about in make for a mess.”

  “Just point the compass southwest, I suppose. It’s not like I haven’t been to Fort Sanders before. I lived in Laramie City for two years.” It irritated Foster that now Worthing Ludlow swiped up a towel from the rocky shore and fussily toweled his hair dry. The toned pectorals bounced and quivered, the nipples just burgundy pellets begging to be thawed by a warm mouth. The cock still jutted out at a right angle, bobbing heavily as Worth toweled his hair. What was he planning on doing, taking a sunbath?

  Perhaps because he was irritated, Foster snapped, “The fellers of Company D are roasting us to fight.” Worthing looked up at Foster blankly as he stepped into his drawers, so Foster continued. “They want to wager on it. Everyone’s wagering you’ll win since you’ve got all that nancy boy dumbbell-lifting.”

  Worth tilted his head. “I don’t know. You’ve got a lot of beef on you. Might be a pretty fair match. After the funeral?”

  Foster nodded, touching the brim of his slouch hat to indicate agreement before he rode back to camp.

  Worth called, “Bare-knuckle? We have no gloves.”

  With his back to the creek, Foster waved. He didn’t want to look at that stunning stallion any longer. If he rode at full chisel to the fort, he could be poking a prairie flower four nights from now. Then he wouldn’t have to resort to thoughts of an Italian fashion when looking at Worth’s bare ass or his long horse’s cock.

  He wanted to find Horatio, but Bloody Knife accosted him first. He was Custer’s chief Indian scout, as Foster was the chief white scout. Bloody Knife was an all right hombre, although he had recently fessed up to never having been into the Black Hills, the sacred hills being so protected by distance from the Platte and Missouri rivers. They had been promised to the Lakota in the treaty of sixty-eight, so realistically speaking, this expe
dition shouldn’t even be here right now. The truth of the matter was, once anyone had found gold, Indians would never be allowed to remain unmolested in their Black Hills.

  “Fireball,” Bloody Knife said soberly.

  Foster sighed. It was the scourge of his existence that he would be labeled with entirely unfunny nicknames involving his ginger hair.

  Bloody Knife said, “These Black Hills are very taku-wakan to the Lakota. I have a vision that it is not good for you to bring that message from Custer to General Terry.”

  “Why not? I’m sure he’s just telling Terry where we plan to go next—to build the new fort, you know.”

  Bloody Knife shook his head. “I do not think that’s what the message says, although I can’t be sure. But I’ll tell you one thing, Fireball. Since bad medicine will go with you to Fort Sanders, it is good that you are staying here for King’s funeral. Custer is already creating ill will by leaving before the funeral. You also created goodwill by stopping that man from cutting his wife’s nose.”

  Foster shrugged. “I’m not worried about any taku-wakan stuff. I’ve got to do what I’m ordered to, or I won’t get my pay.”

  Or the gold I’ve already taken out of French Creek. He spurred his mount to where Custer’s tent had already been struck. Custer waved him over. They walked behind a supply tent before Custer slapped the dispatch into Foster’s hand. It was rolled up but sealed with wax, so Foster stuffed it in the possible bag he nearly always had slung over his shoulder.