He placed his Winchester on the writing table as he admired the view all around and said, “Raiders would have a time creeping in through the mustard with anyone watching from up here. For I’ll be switched if I can’t see lots of bare ground that would be behind the weeds to anyone sitting on the veranda downstairs!”
She said that was why her late husband’s grandfather had built it that way to begin with. Then a small gal with a big olla of bathwater came up through the corner trap. So Longarm hauled the tub out, and she’d no sooner emptied her few gallons into it when yet another servant, this one a young boy, popped into view with even more warm water.
Folks back in Denver who’d started putting in newfangled indoor plumbing were already starting to forget how easy it was to get along without pipes when you could afford hot-and cold-running servants. They made it easier to bathe whenever or wherever you wanted, as well.
As the kids relayed his bathwater up from the kitchen, Consuela said she’d fetch him those shirts she’d mentioned. Her servants had already brought him plenty of Castile-style Spanish soap and a brace of Turkish towels.
By the time they had the copper tub half-filled, Longarm was sure nobody was creeping about out there in broad-ass daylight. So when he found himself alone, he stripped bare-ass to get right in the tub and wash away all that sticky sangria punch. It felt so good it gave him a hard-on. But he didn’t think it showed above the soap suds when the lady of the house popped back up through the trap without letting him know she was coming.
She said she was sorry if she’d disturbed him, although she seemed more interested than embarrassed by the sight of his bare chest and wide shoulders. She held up one of the shirts she’d fetched and said she hoped it would suit him. He figured it was big enough. But it was a shade of dusky rose he’d have picked out for a lady’s dress. The other shirt was spinach green, a more reasonable color for a man, but cut from silk satin, which looked even more sissy than the rosy poplin. He told her they both looked swell, since either was an improvement on soiled or wine-stained work shirts and he didn’t want to insult her by implying her Carlos had been a foppish dresser. He knew she was fixing to brag on handing the duds down to a famous lawman who’d admired them. He also knew he was admired in some Mexican circles, and disliked in others, because he couldn’t stand El Presidente Dias and his brutal rurales.
When he said he liked both shirts, she scooped up his stained one to run it down to the kitchen. He finished washing, rose to his feet in the tub, and began to rinse his naked body off with an extra pot of clean water. So Consuela caught him standing there, bare-ass with a hard-on, when she popped back up to ask something else. She stared goggled-eyed for as long as it took her to blush beet red under her tan, and then dropped out of sight again as he began to blush a bit himself.
The next time she wanted to come up through the trap she knocked on a stair tread and called out to him. He said he was decent, and she looked in and found him seated on a stool near a window with just a towel wrapped around the parts that mattered. He said, “You were right about cross ventilation and how warm this valley can get by noon. I figured it was all right for me to keep watch informally, seeing you’ve already learned all my secrets in any case.”
She flustered that he was a naughty boy as she came all the way up with a tray of fresh tostadas and rum punch, made this time with just the lemon, sugar, and yerba buena, a sort of dry-country mint Spanish-speaking folks fancied more than some.
She set the refreshments on the wide windowsill, and closed the trapdoor as she allowed it did seem about time for La Siesta. Longarm didn’t ask why she’d chosen to flop down on the bedstead instead of down below in her more private quarters. He was no fool, and even if he had been, she was sending mighty warm smoke signals with those smoldering sloe eyes. So he poured them two tumblers of punch and sat down on the blankets beside her, saying, “I doubt anyone’s out for another fuss under the noonday sun.”
Then he tasted his drink and declared, “You sure were generous with the white rum this time, Miss Consuela.”
She demurely replied, “I thought it would save having to go back down for more. Are you aware that towel is giving away your secrets again?”
It didn’t seem to bother her. But he glanced down to see that, just as he’d thought, he was covered tolerably well. He said, “I suspect that’s just a big wrinkle in this Turkish toweling, ma’am.”
She made a thoughtful grab for it as she murmured, “So you say.”
He laughed and said he knew how to play bego-bego as well as any Na-dene gal as he grabbed her by one big soft cantaloupe and they both flopped back across the bedding. She laughed back and said she wasn’t any fool Apache as she made a more skillful grab for him and gasped, “Madre de Dios, you are a big man, aren’t you!”
He kissed her and ran his free hand down her considerable curves to see what she had down yonder. Anyone who said all Indian gals were much the same had likely never felt up all that many Indian gals—or white gals for that matter. Longarm was used to finding every gal’s crotch far different from every other, bless each and every one of them. But even as he commenced to strum her old banjo with skilled wet fingers, he felt obliged to warn her, “I did say I’d be riding on this side of forever, didn’t I, querida?”
She began to move her bigger hips in a way far different from the smaller and younger Kinipai as she moaned, “Faster. Did you think I would have been in this much of a hurry if I had thought you were liable to stay longer? A woman has needs, but a woman trying for to maintain her dignity with her servants must give some thought to whom she wishes for to chingar, eh?”
So he kissed her again and got rid of the toweling, shoved her thin skirting up around her soft brown waist and rolled his hips between her big brown welcoming thighs to conjugate naughty Spanish verbs in her. Consuela gasped in surprised delight, and laughed like hell as he thrust in and out of her muttering, “Chingar, chingo, chinge, chingamos, and what else?”
She commenced to peel the rest of her white cotton off over her head as she sobbed, “La vida es breve. Vamanos pa’l carajo y vamos a joder toda la fregeda tarde!”
He said that sounded fair. He figured he was stuck there for at least the whole damned afternoon, and there were far more tedious ways to pass the time than strong drink and hot fornication. So once he had her spread out under him as naked as an enthusiastic jay, he hooked his elbows under her plump knees to position her even better.
She stared up at him in mingled fear and adoration and said she’d never taken it at that angle so deep before. But when he asked if she wanted him to back off, she dug her nails into his bare bouncing buttocks and hissed, “Lo que necesito! Pero me marvillo que todavia estoy vivo!”
So he agreed he needed it just as bad, and found it just as amazing that they seemed to be living through it when he shot his wad and kept on pounding as he felt her warm wet innards responding in kind. So by the time he’d brought her to climax he was hot as hell again, and things went on that way for a delightfully long time before they had to stop for a breather.
They enjoyed more rum punch and tobacco while they were at it. He stood tall to light up and check the sunlit horizon all around as Consuela refilled their tumblers, wondering aloud if she’d brought enough liquid refreshments for a wilder siesta than she’d planned. She didn’t deny it when Longarm accused her of planning something when she’d slipped into that easy-to-slip-out-of outfit. She held out his tumbler to him, and demurely confessed she’d been curious to learn if half the things they said about El Brazo Largo could be true. When he sat down beside her to share the cheroot as well, she giggled and said she’d been expecting less.