Working the Lode (4 page)

Mr. Bowmaker was just restoring his head scarf when Zelnora found herself grabbing a fistful of his leather shirtfront and yanking him toward her. “Listen to me, Mr. Bowmaker. My husband, Quartus Stringfellow—remember that name—will come to you at the mill and give you a message. He will tell you when and where to meet me. You…
would
like to meet again, wouldn’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, she took several long strides to the boxes of ammunition he had requested and pointed stridently at them. “Here. Take whatever you want and head down the hill. I’ll wait several more minutes.”

Mr. Bowmaker seemed dazed. “Miss Sparks. I’ve got an erection fit to break a plate. Maybe it’s best that you go first, and I’ll wait.”

The last thing in the world she wanted was to leave his alluring presence, but it was only a matter of time before Brannagh became suspicious, and if Mr. Bowmaker was this passionate, he would want to meet with her again.

She grabbed some of the sardine tins that had rolled onto the floor and, for good measure, filled her cup with lemonade. She dared not kiss him again for that would lead to untoward frenzy, so she merely cast him a longing glance. How handsome he was, yet vulnerable in his lust. Still breathing heavily, those long arms hanging at his sides now meant something so different from two hours ago. She felt she was an entirely new person. He had made her feel that way.

Tearing herself away, she stepped out of the door.

She wanted to tell him she loved him, but that was ridiculous!

Chapter Four

January, 1848

Coloma

The icy water numbed Cormack from the waist down. The currents of melted snow turned his nipples into painful points and shriveled his cock, but he was determined to bathe. After two weeks of working on the mill in the stinging, driving sheets of rain, he needed something refreshing. He rapidly slathered the soap—made by Gennie Wimmer, the only woman in Coloma—into his armpits and between his buttocks, letting the rushing of the waterfall wash the dirt away. Then quickly, he knelt on the rocky bottom of the river to soap his hair, the roaring of piercingly burning water surging over his head for only the briefest moment, and then he was out, scrambling onto the bank.

He’d taken this opportunity to bathe, as the sun had peeked out for an hour or so. Marshall had opened the mill’s floodgates to full capacity to scour the tailrace, allowing it to run all night, so there was no work to do now. Panting, he leaned back on his elbows on his buffalo robe, warmed by the sun. He’d spent ten years bathing in the melted snows of the Yellowstone, Green, and Columbia rivers, so he rapidly recovered from his ordeal, like a lizard sunning itself on a rock. Yet he could still only hold his milky face to the sun for so long, even after a decade of peregrinations—damn his Scottish heritage. Lying flat on his back, he slapped his felt hat over his face and thought, as usual, of Miss Zelnora Sparks from Sutter’s Fort.

That brief spree with her in the pantry shed had put him into a horn-tossing mood ever since. Not only did he feel queersome about having nearly fucked her among a stack of sardine tins, his blood on fire, but her parting statement that her “husband” would bring him a message made his brain dance before his eyes. Trying not to think about the husband, Cormack instead thought of her lush breasts, jiggly globes of womanhood being offered to his mouth, for his own gustatory delight. With these thoughts—and kissing her sweet raspberry mouth was probably the most sensual thing of all—his prick began to stiffen, and out of habit his hand went to it, just the palm stroking the underside as it lay pulsating against his belly. He fondled his balls, one bent leg with knee in the air, hips angled toward the sun, imagining for the thousandth time in vivid detail her bare velvety shoulders, the cinnamon smell of her braids, how lubricious her pussy when he humped his erection into her, the fishy sex smell of her drifting up into his face.

Now two hands, one cupping his balls, the other wrapped around what he knew to be his enormously proud cock, and Cormack could feel himself smile as he slowly began to frig himself. Ho, boy, what would it be like to have the bountiful Miss Sparks’ hand around his prick? Since his wife’s death, he had spread his bed with many a woman, of course, and he could speak the lingo of most of them and treated them with consideration, but it had been twelve years since he’d tussled with an American woman, and he’d become like one possessed.

The beaver were all trapped out. There was nothing left for Cormack in the mountains, and he couldn’t see going back to his former occupation. That was a lifetime ago. He was getting old and wanted a woman’s face about his lodge for the remainder of his days. This realization had him shaking in his moccasins, but there it was.

Voices made him pause and remove the hat from his face. Three of his fellow mill workers squatted on a rocky ledge above him with hands dangling between their knees, just watching him and muttering, expressionless. Cormack replaced the hat and returned to massaging his own balls. Ah, well. Folks were half-froze for entertainment around there, men frigged themselves constantly, and Cormack could do worse than send them into a jealous frenzy at the sight of his meaty tool. Maybe they would no longer make him light all the damned gunpowder charges while they cowered behind rocks. If this is how they wanted to gratify their dry, it was fine with him.

As he stroked himself faster, the idea the men were watching excited Cormack. Their own pricks must be stiffer than plates by now. He felt like a muscular buck displaying his immense cock to the men’s view. And what a view they must be having! He let his mouth go slack, and he rocked his hips as he pumped into his own fist. Were his fellow workers getting so randy they were clutching their own cocks? Cormack’s free hand moved to massage his pubic bone as he humped the air with abandon in the direction of the men. He felt wild and lewd, proud to exhibit his virility, and thus his superiority. The men above fell silent, and he was on the verge of shooting his seed into his face when a shower of little rocks came from directly above his head, some landing on his buffalo robe and annoying him to no end.

Without releasing his cock, he removed his hat once more and squinted up the riverbed.

“Cormack!” Erskine bellowed, clad in a long capote as though he expected more rain. “I’ve got a heap of fat meat ready! This beaver feels like chawing!”

Sighing with regret—and the regretful men above retreated— Cormack let go of his cock and dressed in his buckskins, recently laundered by Gennie Wimmer. Hurrah for Gennie Wimmer, even if she was the evilest, most putrefied, no-account woman who had ever lived.

He joined Erskine in front of the log shanty they had built, rather than share the quarters built for the other workers, where the foulest smells and sounds were the order of the day. Erskine was well enough with the flint and steel and was the gourmet of the mountains, so Cormack left most cooking up to him. They sat upon their square, flat rocks with rifles across their laps and heartily fell to a pan of deer meat.

After their usual silence of about ten minutes, Erskine licked his fingers, wiped his knife on the grass, and said, “So I’ve been wondering, old hoss. Exactly what you were doing with Miss Sparks in that shed.”

Cormack, not done with his last bite of fat meat, stopped chewing and looked up quizzically at his
compañero
, as though he had no idea what he referred to.

Rolling his eyes, Erskine pressed on. “You know what I mean. Down at the fort. You and Brannagh’s ‘helpmate’ were hard at it. I know the smell, and I know the flushed look that comes from being hard at it.”

Finally swallowing, Cormack grinned widely down at his knife. “‘Flushed look’? I have that look all the time. It’s my Scottish ancestors.”

Erskine looked to the sky for assistance. “Damn you and your Scottish—listen here, Cormack, I don’t want any problems with Brannagh. He’s got the only damned worthwhile store within a thousand miles of here. Where else will we get coffee, pickles, sugar, tongues…bottles of porter?”

Cormack also wiped his knife on the grass and returned it to its sheath. He looked Erskine in the eye. “All right. Yes. We were hard at it. I happen to think she’s some pumpkins and…” He shrugged. “You know, I’ve often said I want a woman to share a lodge with. I’m doggone if I ain’t.”

Erskine nodded knowingly. “There’s the gal, and there’s the mountains.”

“Right. Who’s there to remember my old body otherwise?”

Then Erskine frowned. “Yes, but she belongs to Brannagh, you out-and-out dough-head! Do you think he’s going to take kindly to you taking what belongs to him?”

“You yourself were keeping your eyes skinned for that redhead. I’m sure she also belongs to him.”

Erskine seemed to capitulate then, looking with disgust into the pines. “Yes, well…Just promise me you don’t intend on seeing her again. Captain Sutter could get angry too, think about that. Then all stores are completely cut off to us. We could even be discharged from this mill.”

Thinking of Miss Sparks’ husband, the one who was supposed to come with a message, actually gave Cormack pause. It did appear there were now two spouses he would have to rub out to win her hand. Still, he found his mouth saying, “I can’t promise that,
compañero
. Miss Sparks is the pinnacle of feminine superiority. The whip-poor-will has sung it. Speaking of stores…” Half-rising from his rock, Cormack viewed an extremely slow cart wobbling up to the mill, a cart pulled by a thickset, stumpy mule. The arrival of a cart from the fort was always cause for a calamitous throwing down of tools, drink, and even food, and Cormack and Erskine jogged off down the hill.

But as the only thing the cart contained was another human, most of the other mill workers soon lost interest. The chap was extremely queersome, to say the least. Although not any older than Cormack himself, he had lost almost all of his hair, so that his head resembled a granite dome, and his thick-lensed spectacles were strapped on to his head with a leather thong. He struggled to get out of the cart quite giddily—he seemed extremely pleased to be arriving in such a conveyance. Cormack could see that, in form, he looked like a perfect pear. He wore a coarse checked shirt, and a pair of homespun pantaloons were tucked into boots that reached his knees. Cormack assisted by taking his arm, as the fellow giggled in a high-pitched manner unsuited for a man. Cormack looked quizzically at Erskine, who shrugged.

“Oh, why, thank you so much!” trilled the fellow. “I’ve come so far today. It’s been such a long journey.” Both feet having touched earth, he looked about himself with excitement. “Is this the mill?”

Cormack admitted, “Yep. And who might you be?”

Putting a haughty hand to his chest, the chap stuck his nose in the air and declared, “I am Quartus Stringfellow, husband of Zelnora Sparks, here to see the esteemed Mr. Cormack Bowmaker, mountain man extraordinaire.” Losing the airs, Quartus giggled and slapped Cormack on the shoulder. “I’m here with a message from a girl. Zelnora.”

Cormack’s heart nearly stopped. This was Miss Sparks’ husband? And he was willingly coming to give Cormack a message about an assignation with his wife? Or perhaps the message was something else, something more along the lines of “I am here to lift your hair for touching my wife.” Somehow, Cormack didn’t get that impression from this dainty fellow.

“I’m Bowmaker, and this is my partner, Erskine. Why don’t you come up to our camp and set awhile?”

“Why, certainly! Just let me get my cartography tools from the cart here…I thought while I was up here, why not do some surveying? I’ll bet there has never been a map made of this area.”

“But there have been. Many maps,” Erskine mentioned.

They started up the hill.

“Oh, this is such an adventure! To go where no white man has trod before! So you are Mr. Bowmaker, my, my. Do you really make bows? I made my own drum once.” Quartus looked him up and down, assessing. “Yes…I can see why she was so taken by you. You look like you have muscles on top of muscles.” He looked about with gleaming eyes. “Thus my errand to this hearty place in the out-of-doors! And this is such a manly pursuit! The fresh air, the sawmill, the sky, the, ah, the rocks…”

Behind Quartus’ back, Erskine whispered loudly, “Her
husband
?”

Cormack curtly nodded. “I’ll explain later. Maybe.”

Getting a devilish idea, Cormack fetched three horns and a bottle of whiskey from the shanty. Handing Quartus a horn as the fellow sat on a tree stump, he explained, “To gratify your dry.”