The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) by Karen Mercury Page A

verdant green, but at this time of summer it was only covered with dead grass, curtained by shimmering waves of heat.
    Tallulah said, “I’d soon like to add another story to the inn, maybe join it to those old soldiers’ quarters behind it. If you’re going to succeed in your rebellion—and I know you will—I’ve a feeling Americans will be pouring into California. It seems to be a land of milk and honey, and this valley is wildly fertile.”
    “Yes. I’ve seen Vallejo’s peach groves. They were planted by the padres and tended to lackadaisically, but with more attention the fruit could be better than mine up the Sacramento.”
    Tallulah said abruptly, “I know why you had me kiss the corporal.”
    “Oh? Why is that?”
    They stopped walking, because to continue farther meant they’d have to step into the bodega. Already the voices of two dozen irate and enthusiastic rebels floated over to them, some apparently already dangerously oiled. Milo would have to make a rule. No getting roostered before the revolt. Tallulah could help by not serving liquor.
    Tallulah straightened his neckerchief. He was oddly touched. No one had done that since his wife. “Because part of you wishes to share me with the corporal. You wanted to see how you reacted to the kiss. Whether or not you beat him forty-six ways to Sunday out of ire that he touched me.”
    Milo looked out at the distant golden hills studded by gnarled oaks. She was a very perceptive woman. “That’s possible. I would like it if all three of us could share—could enjoy each other—on equitable footing. I’m pleased to report that I was entirely unmoved by jealousy. That must mean I don’t love you and will never be foolish enough to want you for a wife.”
    She looked up at him from under her sooty lashes. Her look was impish. “A wife? Who said anything about a wife?” She smiled, snakelike. “You did.”
    She patted his shirtfront, turned on her heel, and entered her bodega. She left Milo standing there, feeling utterly foolish for the first time in many years.

Chapter Eight
     
    “I thought we counted thirty-three Osos?” Reynaldo asked. He squinted his eyes in the predawn light. There only seemed to be about ten men who had managed to stagger into the darkened plaza, gathering by the flagpole. And these men were the ragtag and bobtail of all creation—the rabble with deerskin trousers, some wearing only terrible things shaped like trousers. They shuffled in boots, moccasins, or their bare feet. What a morass of civilization! They were consistent in two things only—they had good rifles and awfully bad hats, some of them more holey than righteous. Milo himself had donned a fresh red turban and he looked appropriately fierce. “Captain Stephens, what happened to the other twenty-three men? I don’t see Scott, Sears, Beaulieu.”
    That muttonheaded assistant of Tallulah’s, Origin Something, answered for Milo. “Oh, they’ll be along shortly. The fact of the matter is, we never actually went to sleep last night. We were so fired up over the glory of the new California Republic we just never went to bed. Bill Todd was amusing himself making a flag for us to run up this here flagpole. Sears’s wife donated a petticoat for the white background.”
    Bidwell giggled. “He thought to draw a bear on the flag using berries as dye, but it came out looking more like a pig.”
    While the battalion chuckled and snorted, Reynaldo sighed deeply and looked back to Milo. Milo appeared to be thinking the same thing he was. If they hadn’t gotten any sleep last night, it meant they’d been getting hell-fired up on bug juice, not patriotic fervor. Tallulah had been able to refuse to serve liquor until she turned in around midnight, but she couldn’t stop Origin Something from serving the men. And Reynaldo had seen many liquor casks stashed in the barracks as well. Right now, many of the men swayed precariously, still roostered from their bender.
    Reynaldo