The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes by Linda Alvarez Page B

stint on the work. Even knowing some men cared more for their horses than for other people, Austin relaxed a little.
    DeVille glanced over as he gave his gelding’s nose a final stroke. “How’d you come to work for Miz Larimer?”
    He probably had his eye on the widow, or at least on her ranch. Since a gambler didn’t seem likely to have money, maybe he was hoping his nice teeth would recommend him. Austin said, “How’d you come to be a dandified flatterer?”
    DeVille said, without seeming to notice the insult, “Some are born to glory. I, however, am the son of the worst ruffian in Holmestown, New Jersey, saved from disgrace only by the good offices of Captain Harcourt.” He plopped down on a hay bale.
    “The archangel Michael couldn’t save you from disgrace,” Harcourt said.
    His tone was familiar and absentminded, as if this sort of remark was common to him. They were friends, then, and not employer and employee? A strange pair. Austin said, “Don’t let Miz Larimer hear you blaspheming. If she’s your goal, that is.”
    Harcourt said, shortly, “I have no interest in the lady.”
    “She’s rich,” Austin said, testing.
    “Is she?” DeVille asked. “Rich and a warrior queen. I think my heart just might leap out of my chest.”
    Harcourt thumped him on the back of the arm. “Later,” he said.
    A pistol slid into each of DeVille’s hands. “Yessir,” he drawled. “I’ll take the cookhouse, sir, and cover the back. Austin, you coming with?” He smiled and winked. Austin startled; the smile charmed, and the wink had looked almost seductive. Some men would go after anything that moved, true, but surely not if it moved in pantaloons.
    “I’ll take the well,” Harcourt said.
    Outside, Austin settled with one hip braced against a water barrel while DeVille paced endlessly up and down the side yard between house and cookhouse, talking endlessly as well, his voice clearly audible across the yard.
    “Speak up, I don’t think they can hear you in town yet,” Austin said.
    Cheerfully, DeVille replied, “The widow seems to have an itchy trigger finger. I can’t enjoy my money if she accidentally blows my head off.”
    “And Harcourt?” Austin asked. The other man was only just visible as a dark bump on the well house, if one knew where to look. It was too bad he wasn’t over here, chatting. Austin had never seen anyone like him before. “Why’s he hiding, then?”
    “He’s in reserve in case things get difficult,” DeVille said. “So, Austin, you like poetry?”
    “No!”
    “Well, how about this one? You might like this one, it’s better than you think.” And, without letting Austin interrupt, DeVille charged into a recitation and then another and another.
    Just after midnight, the attackers ran into the yard, whooping and firing pistols. Austin had never heard more than a single gun firing at once. The noise was bone-shaking.
    DeVille appeared unaffected, apart from dropping Alexander Pope in the middle of a rhyme and plastering himself against a corner of the house. “How kind,” he said. “They brought friends. At least they’re not on horseback.”
    “Miz Larimer,” Austin said, from behind the water barrel.
    “Hush,” DeVille said. “Stay hidden.”
    “I thought hired guns were supposed to be brave.”
    “Only an idiot nominates himself to get shot.”
    The widow’s voice rang out. “Get off my property or I’ll pump you full of buckshot.”
    A foul reply from the yard was followed by her shotgun blast. Shouts and pistol cracks, and more shotgun blasts, covered any more dialogue. Austin followed DeVille’s slow creep around the corner and was nearly knocked down by a reeling, brawny figure wielding a flaming branch in one hand and a pistol in the other. The intruder swung the pistol at the side window; Austin leaped at him, wrestling for the torch before he could shove it through the hole in the glass and set the house afire. The torch went flying into the yard,