Page 22 of A Good Prospect

Chapter Nine

The two men didn’t speak after the boxing match. Salvador raced about getting prepared for their journey to Hornitos and Bear Valley, and for once Ophir was relieved that Doña Carmen imagined he was a stable hand. He shod horses with a glowering Roberto for a couple of days until Doña Carmen breezily suggested he find her son Salvador and enquire which mount he wanted to take to Hornitos.

As Sal wasn’t in his chambers in the main house, Ophir sullenly set out to meander about the property. The same mortifying thought insisted on bursting into his consciousness: What on earth had possessed him to kiss Salvador? Sal was his jefe, his superior, employer, overseer—Good Lord! Now that word was entering his brain! Ophir smacked himself on the face to erase that word completely, preferring to dwell on the kiss instead.

Well, ever since viewing Salvador frigging his long, delicious cock at the swimming hole—and before then, really, if one went back to the day Salvador had saved him from certain death—those images had refused to evaporate. That hard, statuesque body—the result of years of riding, roping, wrangling, breaking wild horses, racing— Ophir was simply in awe of him. For despite his fame as a pugilist, Ophir was more of a mental, intellectual nature. He had never shot and killed a man, for example, and had never engaged in fisticuffs that were not wagered on by spectators. Respecting a man like Salvador, it was perhaps natural to want to be physically close to him. Maybe hoping some of that combative masculinity would rub off on him.

And try as he might, Ophir could not muster one shred of disgust when reminiscing about the kiss. It had been utter heaven to at last taste that perfect, angelic mouth, and when Sal surprisingly responded in kind, his prick burgeoning and growing stiff beneath his, Ophir had not hesitated to rub his own fat erection against him. After all, the moment they had met, Salvador’s fingers had already been exploring his prick. Out of curiosity, probably, for Ophir had learned most men were interested in discovering more about his giant cock.

But two men kissing? It just was not done in the society where he grew up. At least not between citizens of his little slave village in North Carolina. White men were different, talking out of both sides of their mouth and getting away with everything.

Ophir cringed when he found Sal in an unexpected place—practicing at archery in a field behind the outbuilding where Ophir and Tamasin lived. Good Lord. Now he would actually have to interact with the man he had so blatantly kissed.

He stood quietly watching Sal at target practice, and became overwhelmed with the beauty of his upright stance. His back was so strong and straight one could use it as a level to build a house’s foundation. His curvaceous ass, cupped by the leather calzoneras, actually made Ophir’s mouth water. There was not the vaguest hint of a tremor in his arm when he used three fingers to pull back the highly elastic bowstring—it took a lot of strength for that, Ophir knew. Fluffy passing cumulus clouds cast ever-changing shadows on Salvador’s form as he stared intently with narrowed eyes at his target of bottles. He got off four arrows in this manner, each one striking down a bottle, and when he lowered his bow, he noticed Ophir.

Sal walked down the field with a brilliant smile. “Cupid, old amigo. Help me retrieve these arrows.”

Ophir tried to behave nonchalantly, too. “Hey. I thought you promised to never call me that again.”

“Did I?” The sideways, teasing look Salvador shot him actually pained Ophir’s heart, it was so completely guileless and provocative. “No, I decided to call you Ophir instead, but I never said I wouldn’t say ‘Cupid’ aloud.” Bending, he swept a long arm to pluck an arrow from the grass.

“Your mother wants to know which horse you’re bringing to Bear Valley.”

Salvador quickly found three arrows, while Ophir found one. Ophir was hopeful the entire kiss episode would be ignored, but now Sal swaggered over with a serious face as he dropped the arrows into the quiver slung over his shoulder. “About the boxing match.” Standing the bow upright, he leaned on the tip with folded hands. Ophir looked nervously at a stand of oaks. “I don’t want to fight you for Tamasin.”

Well. This approach was unexpected. Ophir could deal with this. “Oh. You have no interest in her?”

Those sincere, crystalline blue eyes were impossible to doubt. Salvador Palomares may have wasted his youth as a drunken worm, but he had probably never told a lie. “I’m not saying that. She’s beautiful, Ophir. That skin like milk, that bright red hair that blinds you…She’s absolutely magnífico.” He got a faraway look in his fathomless eyes, and gazed at a spot distant over Ophir’s shoulder. “Su belleza me da ganas de llorar.” Something about how her beauty made him weep. “I’m saying she’s not ready, she’s not prepared, she’s not capable of handling even one man pursuing her, much less us two fighting over her. She’s damaged, Ophir. Look what she’s been through. She needs time to recover. Not some hombre manhandling her.”

Ophir found himself nodding assiduously. “Yes. Yes. I couldn’t agree more. Did you know, she told me most of the girls in her school were made pregnant by priests?”

Salvador shook his head in pity, and waved an arm to indicate Ophir should follow him back across the field. “Sometimes it’s shameful to admit you are a Catholic.”

Ophir was so relieved the kiss hadn’t been mentioned, he was babbling on now. “And they forced the girls to do laundry eighteen hours a day. I suspect they were beaten for the tiniest infraction.”

“Is that why she’s always doing laundry?”

“She must think it’s her one worthwhile contribution.”

“Well. I think we can do the best for her by being her friends. Or like brothers, entiendes?”

“I couldn’t agree more. I don’t know what made me suggest we fight for her. Maybe to add more drama and violence to our bout. You were fighting like such a limp brawler, I had to stimulate you to greater heights.”

Salvador smiled with a secret knowledge of something. He glanced at Ophir from under his long lashes. “You already stimulate me to greater heights.”

Ophir’s heart nearly stopped. What did that mean? Did he mean the kiss? Or had he been excited when Ophir had kneaded their erections together, well-nigh miming an act of copulation? He probably didn’t want to know what Salvador meant, but if he didn’t find out more, it would give him more sleepless nights. His mouth opened and closed for several moments until at last he blurted, “You mean the boxing, right? That would be pleasant if we could practice more. Maybe have some bouts against some Hornitos fellows, or at the rodeo here.”

Sal’s expression was serene, looking straight ahead with a sly smile. “Yes, we can practice more,” was all he said. “And you and I. If we can only be friends to Tamasin right now, perhaps we can be more to each other. ¿Estás de acuerdo?” Don’t you agree?

Ophir frowned in frustration. He jammed the arrow he held into Sal’s quiver with unnecessary force. He had no idea what Salvador meant, but he desperately wanted to change the subject. “More to each other? Like brothers?” Quickly he added, “Listen, Salvador. Let me come with you to Hornitos and confront that Tyke McCarthy jackass. You’ll need the beef behind you, especially if he’s got his henchmen around—and if they’re not corned this time, they might actually be formidable.”

Salvador nodded briskly, as if also eager to change the subject. “Sí, I appreciate the company. Knut wants to come to talk sense into The League—”

Ophir chuckled, “Knut talking sense? That’s a good joke, but fine, the more the merrier. He’s due back tomorrow, right?”

They were paused where the path forked—one leading to the outbuilding where Ophir lived, the other to the hacienda. “Yes,” said Sal. “He wants to help choose the site for the office building, since he’ll be spending most of his time there.”

Ophir ambled toward his apartments. “Maybe you could help me. I need to send a letter to North Carolina. I need to send money, actually—gold.”