The widow said, “If they do, I’ve got a whole case of shells right next to my coffee and my thunder mug. You men can leave my property to me, now. Go on, get.”
There was no arguing with her. Austin carried Harcourt’s rifle and the silver case, then lit and hung a lantern while Harcourt assisted DeVille back into the barn.
Once inside, DeVille snapped, “Get your damned hands off me!” and shoved Harcourt away. He spun his hat on to the pile of saddlebags, followed it with his gloves, ripped his necktie loose, then sat down, hard, on the same bale as before, wrapping his arms around his chest. He’d seemed perfectly collected while bullets whizzed by, but after his outburst, Austin could see him shaking.
Austin said, “I think we could all do with a drink.”
“In my saddlebag,” Harcourt said.
Austin had not imagined spending the night sitting around the barn on hay bales, passing a flask from hand to hand with two men who had been, at suppertime, complete strangers. DeVille didn’t speak for a long time, only took two gulps of the smooth whiskey for Harcourt’s every one. The two men sat shoulder to shoulder and wore still, tight expressions that made them seem oddly alike. Austin took the flask from Harcourt’s hand and sipped, just enough for flavour and a touch of heat, and to try to ease an unexpected trembling.
At last, DeVille said, “That damned harpy is paying me double. You can tell her.”
Sympathy evaporating in a flash of steam, Austin snapped, “Don’t talk about her like that!”
DeVille snatched the flask, gulped, then upended it, looking disgusted when nothing dripped out. “She was awfully mean to me. You only like her because you think females have to stick together.”
Austin’s breathing stuttered. “What?”
“I’ve landed on more than a few women in my time,” DeVille said, still vainly shaking the flask. “Also, you smell better than a cowboy. Doesn’t the widow know?”
Austin glanced at Harcourt. He looked mildly curious. Austin took a deep breath and said, “The widow don’t hold with women wearing men’s clothes.”
DeVille shrugged. “Lot of people don’t hold with me being friends with Harcourt.”
“The reverse is also true,” Harcourt drawled. “What point are you making, Virgil?”
DeVille smiled, though Austin noted the smile wasn’t as brilliant as before the fight. He said, “If nobody knows about Miss Austin, here, I thought it might be a relief to her to let her hair down for an evening. So to speak.”
Before Austin could reply, Harcourt had thumped DeVille on the arm. “I told you, hands off the wrangler!”
“She’s not paying us,” DeVille pointed out. “What d’you think, Miss Austin? Care to be entertained by two fine and discriminating gentlemen?” DeVille appeared to be completely serious.
Harcourt said, “Now wait just a minute, I never said-”
DeVille held up a hand to stop his words, in a graceful gesture like an actor on stage. “We can’t leave you out-”
“This woman is not a-”
“Don’t say it. You have some cussed strange ideas about women-”
“I respect women!”
“So do I!”
“You respect them right into bed with you!”
“Jealous? That’s not my fault. I sure as hell invited you along enough times!”
The two men glared straight into each other’s eyes as they argued. DeVille wore a strange half-smile, which appeared to enrage Harcourt more every second. They were sitting so close they could, Austin thought dizzily, lean forwards and kiss each other with no effort at all. Such a thing had never occurred to her before. She hadn’t even known she wanted to see it, until now.
She sprang to her feet. “It’ll be both, or none!”
DeVille snorted and shoved at Harcourt’s shoulder, then grinned. “I was right. They always like you best.”
Harcourt glared at him, then stood and took off his hat. “Miss Austin, don’t let that silver-tongued rascal talk you into something you might regret. Please understand, we’ll keep your secret, there’s no need to worry about that.”
Rough as it was, he did have a lovely deep voice. She could’ve listened to him all night. Now she’d have the chance. “That’s mighty kind of you,” she said, looking him up and down. His shoulders were broad and strong; his torso narrowed down to a waist more slender than hers. His thighs looked hard beneath his worn denim pants, and when she looked at the bulge his cock made beneath the fabric, her mouth watered. “But it’s you who don’t understand. I was married once. Earning my living the way I do, though, I haven’t been able to think about the pleasures of the flesh in a long time, because for sure, somebody would talk; and nobody’s going to put a woman, a fallen woman, in charge of their remuda. You two don’t have anything to do with that, do you? And I might as well make up for lost time.” She looked at DeVille and smiled.
He said to Harcourt, “You can’t complain about this one’s intentions, can you?”
Austin took a step closer to the men and tipped her hat back on her head. “You ain’t scared, Captain Harcourt?”
He glanced at DeVille, then back at her. His fingers tightened on his hat brim. “You two might want to speak in private. Perhaps I should take my leave.”
“Don’t,” Austin said. “Please?”
DeVille reached out and slapped Harcourt’s leg. “Come on, Harcourt. For the lady.”
Austin stepped forwards quickly, tugged Harcourt’s hat from his hand, and pressed her lips to his, interrupting whatever he had been about to say in protest. Her hat fell off. His lips were far softer than she’d expected, and he tasted like whiskey with all the burn gone.
She dropped his hat in the straw and ran her gloved hand up his chest. That was nice and firm. She scrubbed her palm across a nipple, but she could barely feel it beneath his clothing. His fingers closed over her wrist and lifted it. “Are you sure about this?” he said. Flickers of lantern light reflected in his eyes and glistened off the new dampness on his lips.
“As sure as shooting,” Austin said. “Get over here, DeVille.”
“That’d be Virgil to you.”
“Then I’m Sarah. Sarah Jane Austin.” Her free hand, ignoring the pleasantries, shaped Harcourt’s narrow waist and rubbed next to the knife sheath at the small of his back.
Harcourt’s eyes closed for a moment, then he grinned down at her, a quick flash. “Virgil, this lady is compromising me.”
“I’ll protect you,” he said, solemnly.
Preparations took little time. Harcourt opened out the men’s bedrolls atop their canvas tarps, with enough straw beneath for cushioning, while DeVille skimmed off Austin’s coat, knelt, and unbuckled her chaps. His fingers danced along her hip bones, then slid down the outsides of her thighs and cupped her knees above her boots. He tipped his head back to look up at her and said, “It’s a nice change from petticoats and corsetry. Downright inspirational, in fact.”
Austin swallowed and said, “You’ve got considerable clothes yourself. Harcourt, you going to help me with this?”
“Give me his coat, and I’ll hang it up.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant. She stripped off her gloves and, before laying her hands on DeVille’s coat, cupped his face instead. Stubble rasped her palms; he turned his head to press a damp, whiskery kiss into her palm before she reached his mouth. He was more skilled and intent than she’d been prepared for, and when she finally tugged away from him and shoved his coat off, her vest was off, her shirt had been unbuttoned to the waist, and pulled mostly out of her pants. She didn’t linger over DeVille’s waistcoat buttons as she’d intended, fearing she’d find herself ravished and sated before she’d even extracted his watch from its pocket. That would hardly be fair to Captain Harcourt.
DeVille helped her with the shoulder holsters he wore, laying his guns carefully away on a big silk handkerchief. Austin then glanced at Harcourt, whose hands went to the buckle of his gun belt, letting it slither down his hips until she caught the worn leather and laid the weapons aside.