Blowing Off Steam Read online

  Calliope didn’t know what “keelhaul” meant, but it seemed to do the trick, for Tobias vanished into his stateroom as though Rushy was about to fling some cow shit at him and slammed the door.

  Rushy turned toward them with a deep sigh, adjusting his cock with a pained grimace. “Field. Why did you give him a stateroom in the texas?”

  Field laughed fully, and it was a beautiful sight. “Like I had any choice? All right, get on with you. I’ll see you at sunrise.”

  Grinning with exhaustion, Rushy staggered off to his stateroom, and Field looked about to strike for his. As an afterthought, he turned to Calliope as she opened her door.

  “Hey. How did you get that opium out of my locked stateroom?”

  His look was so mild and attractive, and he was so disheveled and handsome, a surge of affection welled in her chest. Over her shoulder she said saucily, “Oh. You know us naughty schoolgirls. We have our methods of doing things.”

  Field moved toward her with outspread arms as though about to kiss her, but Calliope dove into her room, closing and locking the door behind her. She giggled to herself, but she was too tired to even bother frigging herself. Tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  “Is this the right place?” Field asked.

  “The sign says ‘Haight, Agent.’”

  The two men looked quizzically at the unassuming storefront and the sign that also advertised live chickens. A place where, apparently, bachelors could get their laundry done. Next door to the building was a livery stable roofed with dried tule fronds. Miners and emigrants seeking new mounts argued loudly over a pack of shivering mules and raw-boned horses, and swarms of flies erupted wherever the water cart sprinkled, turning horse shit into a smelly swamp.

  Field wondered, “This is the office of the big bug? I smell a rat.”

  “It won’t be the first time old Tobias has steered us wrong. But he claimed this Soquel Haight fellow is the biggest bug in Sacramento. That he has all the big dogs in the palm of his hand.”

  The door opened then, and Field was amused to see Sam Brannan step out. Field scanned Rushy’s face since it was always funny to see the panic-stricken expression whenever Brannan was nearby. This time was no exception, and Rushy nearly fell back against the window that was covered from the inside by butcher’s paper, his face white and aghast.

  “My boys!” Brannan cried heartily. “Captain Wakeman!” Without prompting, Brannan stuck out a mitt to shake Rushy’s limp hand.

  “Uh,” said Rushy.

  “The El Dorado, am I right? When are you fellows heading back to the big city? I do believe I need to check on things in San Francisco.”

  Never, Field wanted to say, but Rushy was already stuttering, “Tomorrow.”

  “Good! Excellent! Reserve a stateroom for me, will you? So you boys are here to meet with Mr. Haight?”

  Field stepped in. “Yes, we’re just here to see him about some chickens.”

  Brannan looked confused. It was clear that the Celestials in the long, narrow room Field could view over Brannan’s shoulder were merely steaming and ironing laundry. The mention of chickens seemed to rattle Brannan, for the normally confident and brash businessman now glanced everywhere other than the river men and muttered, “Chickens? Why, that’s just fine, then.” He tipped his hat. “Gentlemen.”

  Field yanked Rushy by the sleeve and they entered the hissing, steamy room. “What’s wrong with chickens, I wonder?”

  Rushy punched Field in the bicep. “Maybe Haight doesn’t really deal in chickens, did that ever occur to you, you dough-head?”

  But there was no time to ponder the odd encounter. From behind an inner door with a slit at eye level emerged a brutish buffalo of a man, an Irish bog-hopper, from the looks of him. With arms crossed over his massive chest, he looked down upon the river men, flared his nostrils, and nodded.

  Field felt an introduction was in order. “We’re Captains Trueworthy and Wakeman of the El Dorado, and we’ve got an appoint—”

  “Come,” intoned the bog-hopper, executing a curt about-face and marching back through the door.

  The buffalo slammed and locked the heavy oak door behind them, and Field was surprised to note how efficiently it shut off almost all noise from the laundry. They tromped up an inner staircase that was not grand by anyone’s standards, as they crunched chicken feed underfoot. They emerged into a long room that normally would have been the attic, the rafters overhead boasting cobwebs. The desk on the street side was before the only window, making an ominous shadow out of Soquel Haight, Agent.

  Haight came forward with a studied, rigid manner, holding out his hand as though it were made of glass. “Captains Wakeman and Trueworthy, I presume.” It was a statement, not a question, uttered in a quiet, resonant tone.

  Once Field’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that Mr. Haight had a pleasant but shifty face. Haight’s gaze never wavered from their faces, pressing his lips together as though it pained him. Giant fuzzy side-whiskers—a most unattractive fashion, Field thought—adorned both his cheeks, but the overall impression was of a placid, unassuming fellow.

  Haight gestured toward two wing chairs already placed before his desk. Field and Rushy sat, with sideways glances at each other.

  Haight started. “My trusted associate Tobias Fosburgh has told me we can do business together.”

  Field could tell what Rushy was thinking. Since when was Tobias a trusted associate? That was not a very good sign. Knowing it was just business lingo, Field leaned forward earnestly and said, “Yes, we’d very much like to do business together. In the venture of ofuyung, I’m presuming.”

  Haight cringed slightly at the mention of the opiate but couldn’t avoid the subject altogether. “Yes. There is a big market for that commodity up here and in the mining camps of the foothills. I simply need trustworthy men with a trustworthy vessel to bring it upriver for me.” He frowned slightly. “Tobias says you are trustworthy men. I’ve been hearing much about the boatmen who dealt with Kwok Lee in San Francisco.”

  Field and Rushy glanced at each other. Was their “dealing” with Kwok Lee a good thing or a bad thing? Field ventured a guess. “Yes. That was us, all right. We dealt with him fair and square.”

  Rushy ventured even further. “He got what he deserved.”

  Apparently this was the correct response, for Haight graced them with another wan smile. “Yes. Kwok Lee was rather a thorn in my side. With him gone, the competition is eliminated, to a large extent.”

  “Yes, yes,” Field agreed, getting carried away. “That was our goal.”

  This seemed to please Haight, for he touched his fingertips to a piece of paper on the desk and said, “I will have my associate meet you on your boat in San Francisco with the next shipment. It will be in the guise of some bodies.”

  Again, the river men shared glances. “Bodies?” Field inquired. “Like, chicken bodies? Because at first we thought the commodity would be stuffed inside—”

  “No. Human bodies. Nobody will touch Celestial corpses that are shipped to their relatives for burial.”

  Rushy stood and pointed at the desk. “Now hold your horses, Mr. Haight! I already have enough bodies in my china hold on the boat—I don’t want to give my passengers the creeps to see a bunch of stiffs down there!”

  “Yes,” Field agreed heatedly. “What would, for example, Mr. Samuel Brannan say when he had to pass by a row of cold meat laid out on the deck?”

  That was the first time Field saw Haight’s direct stare go cold and unfeeling. “He will say nothing. The bodies will be shrouded and bound, as is their custom.”

  Field shook his head. “No. There must be dozens of other things you could use. I’ve heard of people emptying out walnuts and sealing the shells back again.”

  Rushy agreed fervently. “Or cutting off the horns of cows, hollowing and stuffing them, then screwing them back on.” He paused. “Only, one fellow got into trouble when a horn fell off a cow right in front of a customs agent
.”

  Field continued, “Or guitars. Plenty of hollow space in the body of a guitar.”

  “Someone might steal the guitars,” Haight said thinly. “No one will steal a riceman body.”

  “Well,” said Rushy, still standing with hands on hips. “How do we know you’re trustworthy? As far as we’re concerned, we don’t know you from any other Tom, Dick, or Jorge.”

  The bog-hopper headed for them, but at a slight motion of Haight’s hand, he stopped cold. Haight gave them that smile that was even more ghoulish than his frown of disapproval. “I understand your concerns. It might assuage your fears to know that I am a member of Brannan’s Vigilance Committee and a majority stockholder in his company. You have no fear of him molesting your corpses. Please sit, Mr. Wakeman.”

  Rushy sat, and Haight continued in his monotone. “I am also in the process of forming Huntington Hopkins and Company to run all the hardware and iron business here in Sacramento.” He turned icily to Field and said pointedly, “Perhaps you are familiar with one of the founders, Mr. Mark Hopkins, Junior.”

  Field was struck clean to the heart. His brain felt as though it was bleeding, and he knew he wore an expression like a deer about to be stampeded by a herd of cows. How did Haight know he was acquainted with Mr. Hopkins? Yet he looked calmly, directly at him when he said that! To smooth over the awkward moment, Field said, “We weren’t questioning your business acumen, Mr. Haight.”

  But Haight continued, “I am also in the process of forming the California Steam Navigation Company and have just been elected president.”

  “The Combination!” Rushy exclaimed, mortified. “But that monopoly of river tycoons will put all of us smaller owners out of business!”

  “Not if I have my say. Gentlemen, you must admit. The old riverboating days are over. Enough with this nonsense of people shooting at each other from rival ships, prices fluctuating. Boats exploding due to ill-advised racing practices.”

  “We like racing,” Rushy pointed out.

  “Well, there will be none of that from here on in. The El Dorado will still be the fastest on the river and the only boat with her own mechanic. Now, if you would be so kind. I have a meeting with Captain Sutter.”

  Soquel Haight was evidently not leaving with them. Rushy turned for one last attempt at negotiating. “If we do this for you, Mr. Haight”—Haight nodded primly, hands folded on his nearly empty desk—“will you get Sam Brannan off my back for good?”

  Another curt nod. “I will return the favor you already did for me.”

  Back down in the street, the stunned partners walked a couple blocks in silence. Only then did Field say, “Did he just say what I imagined he said? ‘Returning the favor’? Rushy, we killed Kwok Lee. Or so Haight thinks. You didn’t intend for him to murder Sam Brannan, did you?”

  Rushy threw his head back and laughed fully. It was always a glorious sight to watch the brawny, sensual pilot laugh like that, with such relaxation and grace. Rushy clutched Field’s shoulder as though to keep from falling down. “I don’t know, Field! Though I’d be plumb satisfied if I read his obituary tomorrow.”

  Field had to laugh, too. It was all so absurd. “Maybe I should ask him about getting Mark Hopkins off my back, too.”

  Rushy guffawed as they navigated the crowded street. “I guess we’re in the corpse business now.”

  “I guess so.” Field sighed. “Haight should provide us with a giant icebox. Else those stiffs are going to start smelling in this Indian summer weather.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Field! Field, my possum!”

  The way Calliope pulled him into her stateroom was a caution!

  All Field did was politely knock on her door, but the whirlwind of a wildcat yanked him into the compartment so rapidly his feet nearly left the floor. She slammed the door by pressing him against it then layering her body to his like a tortilla. Field had to take great handfuls of her generous ass in his hands to maintain his balance. His cock was instantly up like a hammer, especially when he realized she was clad in not much other than a pink silk dressing gown so loosely bound at the waist he could easily see that her bobbling breasts were thrust upward by only the striped corset.

  That door had seen a lot of action in the past couple of days.

  “My puss,” Field gasped before Calliope glued her mouth to his.

  This kiss was much more lurid and amorous than the one in the alley had been, when Calliope had been excited by the danger of making off with the opium bowls. Her pouty strawberry mouth slathered against his lips, and she snorted hot breaths against the side of his face like a mare in heat. Her little tongue peeked out, licking his stubbled chin, and she lifted one foot to bring it round the back of his calf and hitch her toes into the top of his boot. This way, her pussy mound under her flimsy drawers was pressed, practically suctioned, onto his thigh. The head of his cock squished eagerly against the stricture of his gun belt, and he knew if she proceeded to hump him, he would shoot just as Rushy had the night before.

  Field had noted, though his hand had been laden with Rushy’s admirable tool, that the little minx was made so hot she humped Rushy’s splendid ass. He had imagined a former hooker wouldn’t be so impassioned about things of a sexual nature, having only engaged in those things as part of a repellant job. But it was evident she was genuinely enflamed when she gripped Rushy’s wrists at the small of his back, encouraged Field to kiss him, and humped his ass.

  Now, she chewed on Field’s lower lip and muttered, “Oh Lord, Captain Trueworthy. How I want to ride you.”

  Nearly insane with lust, Field gathered her ass to his crotch and humped her—low, lewd, and salacious, so that the entire underside of his prick ground against her pubic bone. He had not fucked a woman who hadn’t expected payment since his wife, but he had the stimulating feeling he’d be doing so any moment now.

  Only. Except. Should they not talk first? If Calliope was to be their chef for the near future, he couldn’t just mount her like a common whore. And he didn’t want to do anything that would even vaguely remind her of her former career. If Field intended to court her properly, he must at least give her an explanation for why he was behaving like such an outlaw.

  “Calliope,” he gasped, banging the crown of his head against the door when he detached from the kiss. He panted too heavily to speak, though, and tiny clear bubbles swam before his eyes.

  She assisted him, although she panted just as heavily. “Yes,” she gasped in agreement. Her fingers fumbled at his cravat in frustration. “Did you get that contract you wanted, the ofuyung?”

  “Yes, yes,” he muttered stupidly.

  He was hugely disappointed when she unhooked her foot from his boot and set her toes on the floor. Her sweet, sherry-scented breath came in little puffs against his throat. She whipped the necktie from his throat and onto the carpet. “Will it give you enough gold to send back East? To your sister?”

  Field grabbed her by the wrists, to stay her exploring hands. Her eyes were moist and entreating, and her lower lip trembled. “Yes, I think it will be enough for now. But Calliope—”

  “Call me Callie,” she said warmly.

  He had to smile at that. “Callie,” he said experimentally. Then he remembered his serious mission. “Callie. I must confess to you, because I’ve become completely sweet on you. The money isn’t really for my sister Cynthia. It’s for my son. Benjamin.”

  Calliope stilled. Even her ass under his palms ceased its frenzied gyrations. “Son?” she uttered.

  “Yes,” Field admitted, sorry that all the lust had immediately been sucked from the room. But it was necessary to give her all the facts in this connection. “I was married in Troy, New York, but my wife died in childbirth. The child Benjamin developed consumption, and I was unable to care for him alone, particularly if I needed to get work done—I worked as an engineering professor—so my sister took him in. But now he’s worsened and needs to be put into an asylum. Cynthia can no longer care for him, and I
’m afraid it might be contagious. I don’t want her to sicken as well.”

  “Oh!” Calliope held Field at arm’s length and regarded him with her crystalline blue eyes. “I see. That’s completely understandable, Field. I’ve seen many consumptives. It’s quite a harrowing disease. Does he cough blood incessantly? Fever? Have tubercles in his abdomen?”

  Field closed his eyes patiently. He didn’t like to think about it. It was in God’s hands. He didn’t like things he had no control over. “Yes, yes, but that’s not what I wanted to discuss, Calliope—Callie. I wanted to let you know about Benjamin so you’d understand why it sometimes seems that I’m taking large risks, such as the current risk with those corpses.”

  “Corpses?” Callie mouthed.

  Field barreled ahead, all in a rush now. “I came to California like everyone else hoping to strike it rich in gold, and I was nearly at the end of my rope when I met Rushy. Rushy has been a godsend for me, and now you’ve been sent to me—”

  “So I can cook for your passengers.”

  “No!” It was Rushy’s turn to shake her by the shoulders. “That’s not it at all, Callie!” When her head wobbled loosely on her neck, he realized he was becoming overzealous with emotion, so instead he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m extremely sweet on you. You’ve been sent to remind me that my heart isn’t dead, that it’s possible to once again feel strong yet tender emotions for a woman. When Maurice gave me the message tonight you wanted to see me, it was all I could think about until I could get away from those damned muckety-mucks in the dining room.” Damn. He should have brought her a gift. Words were free—gifts cost money.

  But her reaction was Field’s gift. She became all soft around the edges, fairly batted her lashes at him, and purred, “Why, Captain Trueworthy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were falling for me.”

  While Field had a feeling she was only play-acting a role she had played many hundreds of times with customers, having been conditioned to do so, he once again took her jaw in his palms and kissed her. This time it was gentle rather than frenzied, and he tasted the strawberries she had eaten—a china bowl of them sat on her washstand. When he moved his hand beneath the shoulder of her dressing gown, he felt the powder she’d sprinkled there, satiny like the material of the robe.