The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (12 page)

But Milo had slept, Reynaldo was fairly certain of that. He’d seen Milo stagger off with exhaustion, not drink, to an inn room far removed from Tallulah’s little house. Only then had Reynaldo caved and staggered to his own barracks bunk, but not after staring at the proclamation Milo had been scribbling. He had signed it

With every consideration of respect and by will of the People. I have the honor to be,

Milo Stephens

Commander in Chief

At the Fortress of Sonoma

Something had bothered Reynaldo about that signature. It seemed a little stilted and formal for a document that should be raw with emotional angst and drive. So, since Milo had often stated it was only a draft, Reynaldo had sat in Milo’s chair and crossed out

I have the honor to be

And replaced it with

Your obedient servant

That looked much better. It showed that Milo wasn’t trying to capture California for his ragtag band of backwoodsmen. He was still a faithful servant of the United States government. And besides, the word “obedient” had been in Reynaldo’s tortured mind ever since meeting Milo Stefanski. Reynaldo was Milo’s obedient servant, that was evident to the biggest dumb ox. Three times he’d fallen prey to Milo’s sexual dominance. Three times he’d enjoyed the hell out of it. And now, walking toward Comandante Vallejo’s front door to declare secession from Spanish rule, Corporal Vargas was excitedly anticipating the fourth encounter.

Reynaldo admitted it, if only to himself. He was the most submissive servant on the face of the earth. Was this “being in love”? But a man couldn’t love another man. Was it possible? It was just unnatural.

Milo shared a meaningful look with Reynaldo before banging the door knocker loudly. As expected, it took more knocks and many minutes before Vallejo himself opened the door. By now, the rising sun bathed Milo’s beautiful face, his polar blue eyes steeled for confrontation.

The sight raised such emotion in Reynaldo, he was overcome. “Long live America,” he whispered.

“Long live America,” Milo answered.

They used to say v
iva los Americanos
. But the days of speaking Spanish were over.

Vallejo was belting his dressing gown and squinted at the four men, understandably. He recognized Milo first. “Señor Stefanski, what is the urgency? The sun hasn’t risen yet.”

“It’s
Captain
Stefanski,” Reynaldo corrected the comandante. He wanted to give his lover his due respect.

“Whatever you wish,” Vallejo said affably. “Capitán Stefanski. What is the matter?”

“As you probably predicted,” Milo said grandly, “we’re here to take command of your garrison from you in the name of the independent Republic of California. It is our object and earnest desire to embrace the first opportunity to unite our adopted country. But we must take you and other commanders into custody.”

“I see,” said Vallejo. “Very well then. Allow me to have my uniform brought. Only then will I allow you in.”

And he shut the door. The four men looked at each other.

Stuttering Zeke declared, “That bastard’s probably sneaking out the back door!”

Milo snapped, “He wouldn’t do that with his wife and children in here.”

“Besides,” said Reynaldo, “I sent Cowie around to guard the back.”

“Reporting for duty, Captain!”

Reynaldo turned and saw the enthusiastic, oiled Origin saluting, this time backed up by his compatriots Scott, Beaulieu, and Sears. They all teetered precariously, two of them using their rifles as crutches to remain standing upright. Milo told Origin, “You go find Semple and tell him to get Jacob Leese, de la Rosa, Prudhon, and Vallejo’s brother. Bring them to Casa Grande.” They were the other four eminent men of Sonoma.

Origin executed an abrupt about-face and marched off purposefully, but when Vallejo opened the front door clad in his uniform, the three roostered fellows fell into the house along with Reynaldo, Milo, Grigsby, and Zeke. They had the effect of stacked dominoes. Beaulieu fell into Scott, who fell into Sears, who fell into Reynaldo, and so forth. Milo wound up falling into Vallejo’s coat front and sticking his face with the pin of some war medal. It wasn’t a terribly dignified way to boldly take over a garrison.

Reynaldo elbowed Sears to get off him. Sears elbowed Scott, and so on down the line. By the time they were all standing upright in the foyer, the rear guard, Cowie, was already in the parlor down the hall, being served cakes by Vallejo’s wife. The idea that their presence was so harmless that Francisca would be pouring coffee for them irritated Reynaldo. He was here to take over a republic, not eat biscuits. He was glad when Milo took charge, or he would have.

Vallejo faced Milo. “Capitán, to what happy circumstance do I owe the visit of so many individuals?”

“Comandante,” Milo said respectfully, “we know you agree that it’s futile to try to live any longer under the Mexican government. Their representatives, Castro and Pio Pico, don’t respect the rights of Americans living in your
Departmento.
Castro continues to issue proclamations declaring every Yankee a bandit. To stop all of these insults, we are declaring California independent.”

Vallejo sighed deeply. “Would you like a peach cake?”

Reynaldo already knew Milo well enough to tell that when he squeezed his eyes shut, he was attempting to teach himself patience. “We will have to take you into custody, Comandante,” he said loudly, tightly. “I hold nothing but sentiments of regard for you. But this is my only choice.”

“Mariano!” cried Francisca with alarm.

Reynaldo turned to the comandante’s wife. “
No tengas miedo.
”
Do not be afraid.
“
Usted y sus hijos
estarán seguros
en la hacienda
de Sutter.
”
You and your children will be safe at Sutter’s hacienda.

Reynaldo saw that Beaulieu and his cohorts were freely serving themselves
aguardiente
from the sideboard, though the sun had just barely risen, so he touched Milo’s sleeve and nodded in their direction.

“Men, put down that liquor,” said Milo, but returned to his business of getting Vallejo to sign a letter of surrender.

Soon, Origin was back with Semple and the esteemed Sonoma residents. They must have known what was coming, because Salvador Vallejo was also clad in his Mexican dress uniform, and Don Pepe de la Rosa had a
mochila
knapsack full of daily supplies.

“I’ll take them to Frémont at Sutter’s Fort,” Reynaldo offered. “They’re safer there anyway. Once your proclamation to Stockton makes its way to Castro, we will be destined to certain destruction here in Sonoma.”

Milo smiled in that pleased way that was becoming more familiar to Reynaldo. “You must have read my proclamation. I wrote that in there. ‘Destined to certain destruction should we prove unsuccessful, we have the honor to be your fellow countrymen, and whether we conquer or perish we are resolved to prove ourselves not unworthy of those who built the glory of the American Flag.’”

“You see?” Reynaldo teased. “That’s why we chose you, Captain. You’re the most eloquent, the best-read. And I even took a degree from Yale.”

“Yes, but what was your degree in? Engineering? You’re a topographical engineer, and I’ve read literature and poetry my whole life. I’m better able to compose documents that require emotion and flowery prose.”

“I made a change to your document, late last night,” Reynaldo admitted. “Just a very tiny change to the closing. I know you’re the most eloquent writer, but I saw an improvement.”

“I look forward to seeing it.”

Reynaldo was soaking in the change that leadership had effected on Milo. Of course, it suited him very well, being in charge. He was what they called a natural born leader, and the new pride and assurance in his face made him handsomer than ever, if such a thing was possible. “But I don’t want you going to Sutter’s Fort with the prisoners. I need you here to keep military order, something I know nothing of. These are not gunners or artillerymen but simple bear hunters and farmers. I’ll send Semple to Frémont, and a few other levelheaded men to watch over the prisoners. These men are far from fit to—Hey, now!”

Over by the sideboard where the men were freely sampling and ingesting everything Vallejo had on offer, Beaulieu had lifted a silver candlestick on high and was inspecting the bottom for a maker’s mark. This seemed to encourage Sears in tearing a very lovely oil painting of a California landscape from the wall and tucking it under his arm.

“Get the loot!” yelled Scott, heading for an oriental vase.

Reynaldo was hot on Milo’s heels. It seemed to take Milo only four long-legged strides to cross the parlor floor, and like greased lightning the barrel of Milo’s revolver was to Beaulieu’s temple. Beaulieu froze, wide-eyed, still holding the candlestick above his head. No one around him seemed to notice, and now a cherry farmer named Terrell snatched a jade horse from the sideboard and headed for the foyer, encouraging others to “get the loot!”

“
Avast,
” Milo bellowed with such authority that most everyone in the parlor immediately fell silent, open-mouthed. “
Put that damned candlestick down, you corn-fed yokel.”

Beaulieu did so. As slow as molasses, he lowered his hand and replaced the candlestick on the sideboard. As Terrell was whistling through the foyer like the glint in a pirate’s eye, Milo squeezed off a ball at his shoulder. It hit the corner of the adobe wall, lodging probably two inches inside the clay—Reynaldo had seen many balls go astray like this into adobe walls but knew Milo had missed on purpose.

Even Terrell froze now, eyes straight ahead as though mentally calculating how many balls Milo had left in his revolver.

“
Everyone choose!
”
Milo roared, his voice shaking the solid wood beams. “Choose today what you will be! Are we robbers, or are we conquerors?”

Even the vanquished Californios were silent with awe.

Finally it was Origin who squeaked, “Conquerors?”

And it was Semple who yelled, “Damned right!” Leaping forward, he wrenched the landscape painting from Sears and replaced it on its nail.

Milo lowered his pistol, but his voice resonated with rage. It was actually a fearsome sight in the magnetic, untamed man. Milo may not have been a military man, but he certainly was no stranger to using force. He spoke with a tight jaw. “I will kill the first man who commits robbery and casts a blot upon this expedition. As long as I’m alive, this will not turn into a looting expedition.”

Vallejo whispered, “Thank you, Capitán Stefanski.”

Milo’s arctic eyes flashed. “Grigsby, place Beaulieu, Scott, Terrell, and Sears in the barracks under guard. Doctor Semple, take the prisoners to Sutter’s Fort. Take Stuttering Zeke and Bidwell to guard them.” He looked at the Californio prisoners. Reynaldo saw his look soften, almost the same way it softened when looking at Tallulah. “I know you’re prepared to give a brotherly embrace to the sons of the California Republic. If all goes as we hope, you shall be welcomed back in your own homes within a month.”

Reynaldo had never seen such triumph and grace in a man’s eyes as now when he gazed upon Milo. Not even in May in Oregon when Frémont had saved Kit Carson’s life by trampling that Klamath warrior with his horse. No, not even the arrogant Frémont could trump Milosz Stefanski for a face of triumph. But when he spun on his heel and stalked out the front door unaccompanied, Reynaldo only had eyes for the superbly rounded ass, and he was the first to follow his captain.

Tallulah had been waiting nervously since daybreak, clinging to the doorjamb of the Blue Wing Inn.

There had been much bustle in the plaza in the past couple of hours. Men darting about, men shouting, men falling down drunk. At least two rebels were prone in the middle of the dusty street. A scholastic Irish bachelor named McCarthy was so roostered he couldn’t drag himself up onto the horse’s drinking trough. He gave up, collapsing with his open mouth pressed to the dust.

Tallulah knew it had been a futile effort to withhold liquor from the men. That was why the Blue Wing Inn wasn’t terribly full last night, even though the men were planning a monumental rebellion. She wasn’t serving liquor, so the ones who wanted to go on a binge had holed up in the barracks with the kegs. That was all right. It was cozy in the bodega watching her two men—like hell! She was already thinking of them as “her two men”!—hunched over their rickety table by the light of the whale oil lamp. Milo scratched out his manifesto while Reynaldo, the military man, consulted with Zeke Merritt, Cowie, Todd, and Lieutenant Gillespie, who would later ride to Sutter’s Fort to give Frémont intelligence of the uprising.

Since there was no liquor to serve, Tallulah kept busy shuttling between the inn and Vallejo’s ovens to get the men tortillas and frijoles. It was cozy and comforting watching Milo’s broad shoulders moving under his buckskin shirt as he scribbled and blotted out ink. Several times she caught Milo looking sideways at her, his lovely hawk’s nose in profile, the lamplight flickering on his exquisite face. She always cast him a knowing, lewd smile when she caught him doing this, and she could swear a flicker of a smile flitted across his lips, too. She knew she had gotten under his skin. And this was a foreign, strange feeling for him.