Viggo looked up from the account book for the stables with a fond smile. He had told Milagra on many occasions to call him by his first name, but she never felt comfortable. The best the housekeeper could manage was a compromise. She was in her sixties, a woman raised in Mexico with a traditional Catholic upbringing, and had a vast amount of respect for men in positions of power. Viggo didn't always like it, but he'd gotten used to Milagra treating him like a benevolent dictator.
"Have a seat," Viggo offered, knowing she wouldn't take it.
"I so sorry to bother you," Milagra said in her soft accent. "I know you so busy."
Viggo sighed. He made himself available once a week in this office precisely so that the other employees could come to him with complaints or suggestions.
"What's on your mind, Senora?" he asked gently.
Milagra's dark face crumpled under the stress. She had to speak, but it was near impossible for her to criticize a boss. She'd tried many times in the past two weeks to frame her problem in suitably inoffensive words, but could think of no good way to phrase it.
"Just tell me what the trouble is," Viggo said. "It can't be all that bad."
"Is Senor Bloom!" the housekeeper burst out.
"I thought it might be," Viggo said. "Go ahead and sit down and tell me all about it. No one but you and me will ever know what you say here."
"I trust you, Senor Viggo," she said, and launched into a list of sins. "Senor Bloom, he no get up until lunchtime and then he no want food. No coffee even. He want tea, always tea. And he want the girls to bring it into he bedroom. Always. He don't wear he clothes in he room. The girls giggling all the time over it, always." Milagra's expression clearly revealed her opinion of the sort of girls who giggled over naked men. "He don't like my food neither, Senor Viggo. He want salata always, only leaves and vegetables not cooked. He eat this way; he get sick."
Viggo held up a hand. "I'll talk to him, Senora. I don't know what good it'll do either of us, but I've put it off long enough."
"Gracias, gracias, Senor Viggo." Milagra heaved her bulk from the chair and went to the door. "I know Mr. Bloom, he the boss, but he driving us loco in the kitchen."
"I'll see what I can do," Viggo reassured her, "but remember he's an Englishman."
Milagra shook her graying head, and touched the rosary around her neck. "He gonna listen to you. Everybody listen to you, even the horses, they listen to you, Senor Viggo."
The housekeeper bustled away down the colonnade, her long colorful skirt dusting the terracotta tiles. Viggo watched her go without really seeing her, the whitewashed walls or the small fountain through the open door. He'd been avoiding this moment since he'd escorted Silver Sage's new owner onto the ranch. Closing the tedious ledger with a snap, Viggo rose and went to find Mr. Bloom. It was time to start his cowboy lessons.
Viggo's eyes widened as he took in the sight before him in the atrium. Orlando Bloom was stark naked among the potted plants, his glistening body contorted into a strange configuration. The spicy-musky-sweet smell of incense teased Viggo's nose and a boombox emitted weird, tinkly Eastern sounding music. The cowboy cleared his throat loudly.
Orlando's eyes opened and focused on Viggo. "Honcho!" he exclaimed cheerfully, springing up with a wide smile. "You're an awfully fucking busy man, mate. Every fucking time I wanted to see you, you were out on the range punching fucking cows or something. When are you going to teach me to be a cowboy? I want to ride, and rope, and spit tobacco and swear and . . ."
"Seems to me you got a head start on that last one," Viggo interrupted the spate of words.
"What? Oh, yeah," the boy laughed. "My language is just awful, I know, but fuck is such a versatile word, don't you think?"
"Never gave it much thought," Viggo replied. "Why don't you holster your tallywhacker and walk out to the stables with me? We'll pick you out a horse."
"Really? Brilliant! Give me five minutes."
Viggo eyed the loose cotton tie-dye pants Orlando was pulling on, doing his best not to stare at the young man's handsome cock and failing miserably. The cowboy had to admit after seeing him in the altogether that there was nothing soft about the Brit. The boy's muscles were lean but well toned, standing out in hard relief when flexed. Even the one Viggo was pretending no interest in was looking a little pumped up. Orlando glanced up and smiled when he saw the direction of the aloof man's gaze.
"He's a bit unruly," Orlando said. "Mind of his own, that one. I never know who, or what is going to make him stand up straight."
"I'm not here to talk about your penis," Viggo said.
"You're the one who mentioned my *tallywhacker*," Orlando reminded him.
"So I did. Now, I'm closing the subject. Come on, boss."
Without another word, Viggo strode off, boot heels clocking on the terrazzo. Orlando hurried after him, an impish gleam in his dark eyes.
After Orlando had changed into jeans and boots, Viggo walked his boss down the line of saddle horses, introducing the enthusiastic young man to each in turn. The thought that the brash boy and the liquid-eyed, long-limbed animals had much in common went through his mind before he shooed it away like a biting fly. It was not the sort of thought he wanted to have about the silly, spoiled brat who signed the paychecks.
The foreman was surprised by the way the horses took to the boy. Even Trey, the chestnut gelding that seemed to cordially resent all who went on two legs, stretched his neck to lip at Orlando's curls without trying to take a sly bite. Viggo was reluctantly impressed. It was probably just some smell about the Englishman that the headstrong cow ponies liked, but Viggo didn't scoff at it. Skill was valuable, but luck was priceless.
"Well, I've never ridden before, so how would I know? You're the cowboy."
Viggo took a deep breath. "We'll start with the tack," he said. "Follow me."
Half an hour later, Orlando knew the names of the various items of tack and how to put them on the horse. The horse in question was called Easter, and he'd never given anyone a bit of trouble in all his six years. The gelding stood patiently while the young Brit saddled and unsaddled him, put on his bridle and took it off again until Viggo was satisfied.
"Not bad," he said grudgingly. "Lead him outside and I show you how to mount."
"I think you'll find I've a head start on that as well," Orlando said with a grin.
Viggo didn't laugh. "Just take the horse over there and wait while I saddle Sirocco," he said in calm voice that nevertheless told the boy that he'd brook no more nonsense.
Orlando sighed. He'd thought that he and Honcho would be best pals by now. One of them should have saved the other's life by shooting a rattlesnake or something. At the least, they should have gotten into a fight and bonded over whiskey afterward. That's the sort of thing that always happened in the Westerns that Orlando loved so much. So far, being on a ranch was nothing like he had imagined.
"All right," Viggo said as they stopped in the stable yard. "Watch me."
Viggo put his left foot in the stirrup and swung agilely up into the saddle. He looked down at Orlando and nodded. The young man did exactly as the foreman had done and found himself sitting astride the horse. He slipped his right foot into the stirrup and looked over at Viggo with a beaming smile.
"Okay, so you're on the animal," Viggo said. "We're just going to walk around the paddock today until you get used to the reins."
It took even less time for the eager Englishman to learn to control his mount than it had taken to saddle the gelding. Viggo didn't want to be impressed by this prancing flake, but the boy was a natural. Shaking his head at what he considered a waste of talent, Viggo let his boss canter the horse around the paddock. Even more annoying than Orlando's physical gifts was his undeniable appeal.
Attraction to other men had plagued Viggo since he had become sexually active, pretty much since puberty. It was a problem he'd struggled with for so long that the denial was automatic for him now. Then this gorgeous, giddy creature came crashing into his life like a stampede. Viggo knew it wasn't fair to resent Orlando for something that the boy couldn't help, but he did anyway. The best he could do was to try and keep his irritation from bleeding through into his speech and manner. He didn't think he was doing a very good job of it, so far.
"That's good," the foreman called out in penance for his unworthy thoughts. "Tomorrow, I'll take you for a short ride."
Orlando's lips curved in a smile, but he bit back the words that sprang to his tongue. Honcho didn't seem to like being teased. It was a struggle for the young man to not say something along the lines of how much he'd enjoy a short ride from Viggo, but some vestigial self-preservation instinct stopped him. Orlando wasn't used to watching what he said. He generally blurted out whatever was on his mind, but he decided magnanimously to make the effort to consider Viggo's feelings. He felt he owed Honcho a certain amount of respect.
Therefore, though Orlando wanted to keep practicing, he obediently got down from the horse and led his mount back into the stable. Viggo followed, lost in thought, his eyes on the sway of slim hips and firm buttocks encased in tight denim. The foreman snapped out of his reverie when Sirocco stopped in front of his stall. Orlando had already begun to unsaddle Easter in a very competent manner. Viggo could see nothing to complain about and concentrated on taking care of his own horse.
After the tack was stowed, Orlando held out his hand to Viggo. After a brief moment of hesitation, the foreman shook his boss' hand.
"Thank you," the young man said. "I know you're a very busy man, and I appreciate you taking the time to teach me."
Viggo's jaw dropped. Polite respect was the last thing he had expected. In truth, he hadn't expected anything. Then another sensation penetrated his surprise. Orlando's fingers were cool and slim in his grasp and generated a warm tingle that was moving up Viggo's arm at a rapid rate. An answering pulse in Viggo's groin sent a quiver through his manhood.
Orlando's face registered his shock when the man snatched his hand back as though he'd touched a branding iron. He wondered what he'd done to offend Viggo, but wasn't given the chance to ask.
"The lesson's over for today," Viggo said brusquely, and turned without another word.
The cowboy strode away, walking somewhat . . . stiffly. As soon as he was out of the boy's sight, he adjusted his straining hard-on. Damn it to Hell! This was a fine state of affairs. He couldn't even touch the greenhorn's hand without getting aroused. Grumbling to himself, Viggo headed for the bunkhouse and a chilly shower.
Orlando watched the wiry figure stalk away from him. *Why didn't Honcho like him?* Orlando wondered. Everybody back home liked him. No, adored him would be more accurate. The young man turned and walked to the big house, deep in thought.
