Montana occasionally required Manuel to act as his valet, but not always. Still, Manuel took particular care with Olivero that night. Montana was in a dark mood, even after the good sex in the car, and Manuel very much wanted to take his mind off of whatever had caused this moodiness. He coddled his master even more than usual. Each button was undone with meticulous care, each inch of uncovered skin stroked and kissed. When he was nude, Manuel urged him into the bed and gave him a slow, sensuous massage, ending by gently fellating him.

After spilling his seed for the second time that night, Olivero pulled Manuel up into his arms and fell asleep, holding his smaller lover in his sleep as a child might hold a favorite toy. Relieved and contented, Manuel rested against his broad chest.

It was the American who had brought about this edginess, he knew. He had come to recognize the type of man who could do this to his Olivero, the kind who drew out his passion in sometimes savage ways. It was a clearly defined type: physically they were Anglos with brown hair and light eyes, tall, lean, and handsome. But though there were a few exceptions in appearance, they were always much more similar in character. They were all from 'old families', socially prominent, well-bred, exclusively educated. They were flirtatious, confident, generally pleased with themselves, and a bit condescending to the rest of the world. Daniel Ballard seemed to fit this image perfectly.

Manuel drifted off to sleep wondering what it was in Olivero's past that had brought him to be so fixated on this one, almost iconic, type.

"Olivero, change your shirt."

Olivero stopped chewing his piece of bread (that and coffee were all they ever had for breakfast), and glanced down at the coarse, dun colored shirt that constitued approximately a fifth of his entire wardrobe. "Why?" It was clean, not that it mattered. They were going into the fields as usual today. It would be streaked with dirt and fragrant with sweat before they got home.

Margarite Montana frowned at her son. "The boss will be by with his new missus today."

Olivero shrugged, broad shoulders straining the shirt that was at least a size too small. He had outgrown it months ago, but his father had made it clear that he would have to provide his own clothing now that he was sixteen. Since his father also demanded a portion of his pitiful wages to cover room and board, that didn't leave much for new clothes. "So? The other shirt is just the same."

His father, pouring a third cup of coffee (Damn, the man drank so much that he should get a commission from the plantation owner for his support) snapped, "Don't argue with your mama, boy, and don't be stupid." Olivero felt himself beginning to flush. His father used that word, 'stupid', far too freely. "She means your good shirt, and you know it."

Now Olivero paused in his meager meal, putting down the crust. His good shirt? His one good, untorn, carefully reserved cotton shirt? The one that he wore to church on Sundays, and to the festivals? Wear THAT to sweat and grub in the fields? "No."

Luis Montana, Olivero's father, had married a woman who had more Anglo blood in her than most of the women in the area, but was himself unmistakably Mestizo, and mostly Indian, at that. His strapping son had inherited his size from some distant ancestor on his mother's side, and his hair and eyes from his father. His skin was a smooth olive that fell somewhere between his mother's paleness and his father's copper. When Luis flushed in anger, like now, his complexion was liverish. "Boy, you dare defy me?"

Olivero studied his father coldly. He had taken his share of beatings in the past. Finally he had come to the conclusion that there was no point in fighting the older man when there was no chance that he could win, and he had practiced sullen obedience. Luis had accepted it without question. It never occured to him that the boy was just biding his time till he was a physical match for his father. In the last couple of years, despite his heavy daily labors, Luis had gotten a little soft. He drank too much and ate more of the starch-heavy foods his wife fixed than he needed. Olivero, on the other hand...

Olivero had been growing. His father had forced him into the fields to work when he was twelve. There wasn't much money left after Luis took what he considered his due (always reminding the scowling boy that he could easily take all of it, as many parents did), and he made the contribution to the church that his mother insisted on. What was left, Olivero did not spend on candy, like most children his age. He didn't even spend it on the movies (all of them years old) that found their way to the single cinema a shopkeeper had set up in an abandoned storeroom. He spent his money on protein: meat, which he cooked himself on a fire out on the edge of the fields, away from the house. If he had brought it home, it would have found its way into his father's belly, he knew.

So Manuel had protein on a regular basis, and with the exercise he gained from his daily labors, his body had used it well. He had shot up in the last few years. He was almost six feet tall now, and would be even taller, he knew. No longer skinny, he was filling out. His long legs and stout arms were hard muscled from carrying loads and swinging a machete. While his father had been blindly complacent in his rule of his small family, Olivero had grown into a young man, a young man who would not tolerate the petty tyranny of the man who had sired him much longer.

Olivero finally answered what his father had meant as more of a threat than a question. "Yes."

Luis was so surprised that he let his cup tip, spilling coffee on the bare planks that served as the floor in the one room shack they all shared. "You dare..."

Olivero stood up quickly, so quickly that the rickety wooden chair spilled over backward, barely missing his mother, who squeaked in alarm. "Yes, I dare. The shirt would be ruined, you know this. Why should I wear it? To impress the owner's new bed warmer?" Luis' skin tone was approaching purple. Olivero wondered absently if he could anger his father into having a stroke. He could always hope. "Will she look at us and think 'Oh, what nice clean peons. They must live well, look at how nice their work clothes are'?" He spat on the floor, drawing a distressed cry from his mother. How a woman could be house-proud while living in such a hovel never ceased to amaze him.

Luis took a step toward the boy, hand raised to slap. But Olivero did not step back, as he had in the past. He stood his ground, dark eyes fixed firmly on his father's face. So Luis curled his hand into a fist instead, and waited for his child to back down with proper fear and respect. Instead Olivero took his own step toward his father, and Luis suddenly became aware of how big his son had grown. It occured to Luis that if Olivero had been some stranger he had met, he would have been very cautious to remain inoffensive. Because his son did not only look strong, he looked dangerous.

Luis dropped his hand, muttering, "Fine! You're a man now, eh? You can take care of yourself, then. Get out." He waited for the boy to apologize and beg for another chance.

Instead Olivero went over to the corner of the shack where he stored his meager belongings and began to stuff the few items into a canvas sack. He could hear his mother whispering frantically to his father, and the older man's grunting responses. Mama wanted Luis to make some effort to keep him here, but Luis' pride was hurt. Pride. Like that dog has anything to be proud of.

Finally he heard his mother muttered something about a paycheck, and his father made a small sound of dismay. His back turned, Olivero smiled coldly. Yes, you forgot about that, didn't you? You won't have what I bring in any more. He started to stuff the thin blankets that made up his only bed into the bag.

"Leave those," his father said gruffly. Olivero glanced back at him, then cinched the drawstring tight and knotted it. "Did you hear me?" His father raised his voice. "I said leave those! You didn't pay for them..."

Olivero turned and was back across the room in a few swift strides. He was so quick and came so close that his father moved back till he hit the wall. His son moved in still closer, till his flat belly pressed against the rounded one of the older man. "I didn't pay for them? No? I think I did. You've been taking two-thirds of anything I earned for the last four years, and don't give me that shit about how I owe it to you for all the money and care you put into raising me. We both know you gave as little of both as you could, and that only so I would grow up to bring in more money by my sweat. I could have gone on in school, I'm smart enough. A little work, and I could have had a scholarship, or I could have earned my tuition. But no, you wanted me in the fields, earning. Well, Padre, you can learn things in the world as well as in the classroom. I've learned. I've learned that I don't need you."

His father's mouth worked silently. Finally he said hoarsely, "Get out, ungrateful dog! Never come here again." He yelped as Olivero suddenly grabbed his throat in one hand and his shirt in the other, lifting him up on tiptoe. The grip on his throat wasn't quite enough to close off his wind, but Luis could sense the strength behind it, quivering and barely leashed in his son's big, tense body. He very wisely did not speak or struggle.

Olivero's voice was soft and chilly. "If I am a dog, Padre, what does that make you? You sired me." He gave the smaller man a quick shake, then dropped him. Picking up his dufflebag he dropped an absent kiss on his sobbing mother's forehead. "Don't worry about me, Mama. I'll do fine." Although he knew it was futile, he instructed, "Don't let the bastard work you any harder to make up for losing my pay."

Olivero left the rough, tiny building that had been the only home he had ever known without a backward glance. He wasn't really leaving behind anything he was going to miss. It still wasn't quite daylight, though there was a misty, grey light that made it just possible to make out where he was going. He walked quickly. His destination was several miles down the road, but his long legs made quick work of the distance.

He arrived at a small cluster of shacks almost identical to the one he had left, and knocked at the door of one of them. A grubby towel hanging over one glassless window lifted, and a suspicious face peered out. The face disappeared, and a moment later the door was opened by a young man a few years older than Olivero.

Bartolo eyed his friend, taking in the canvas bag, and grunted. "So. You finally did it, eh?" Olivero nodded. "Did you kill him?"

Olivero shrugged. "It didn't seem worth the effort."

Bartolo thought about this for a minute, then nodded and stepped aside, letting Olivero in. Olivero dumped his bag in a corner and sat down at a table that was just as rickety as the one in the home he had just left. Bartolo pushed a half loaf of dark bread toward him and Olivero broke off a chunk. As he began to eat, his friend said, "So, you staying?"

"How much?"

Bartolo named a figure significantly lower than what his father had demanded. "And you buy food every other week."

"Okay." Olivero pointed at a rough partition that screened off a small section of the room, cocking his head questioningly.

Bartolo grinned. "I knew you would be here, sooner or later." He shrugged. "Or some other who got sick of living at home. That," he said proudly, "Is the bedroom."

Olivero got up and went to look. The entrance was only an open space, no door, frame, or curtain. But inside there was a mattress on the floor. An actual, store bought mattress, even if it was old, stained, and bleeding stuffing. Most of the workers in this area made do with sacks stuffed with grass and leaves. Such a mattress, even a second or third hand one, was a luxury.

He looked back at Bartolo, who grinned. "Whichever one of us brings a girl home can have a little privacy."

Olivero grunted. He didn't really need the privacy. His mother had not allowed his father to send him outside when they made love, fearing that one of the great cats who still occasionally roamed the area, snatching pets and unwary children, would carry him off. Also the young girls, and some of the not so young ones, had been showing him a good bit of attention the last two years. He was well acquainted with sex. The idea of having someone else watch him while he did it did not bother him. The idea of watching others while they enjoyed themselves was desirable.

He looked at Bartolo and said, "What if I want to bring home a man?"

Bartolo had a cup of coffee halfway to his lips, and he paused, mouth hanging open as he regarded his friend. This was a surprise. True, Olivero had never confided much in him, but he knew for a fact that more than one girl had gone with the big man into the fields and returned with a dreamy smile, walking stiffly. It had never occurred to him that Olivero might be interested in both sexes. He considered his friend's bulk, remembered a few fights he had witnessed, and gave a mental shrug. It wasn't wise to express disapproval of someone like Montana. "Bring a sheep if you like, as long as it's housebroken."

A few minutes later the two young men walked out to the road and down to the spot where the plantation trucks would pick up the workers for transportation to their various jobs. Several dozen men of all ages, from younger than Olivero to grizzled old men, squatted or stood, talking softly and smoking as they waited. All of the men, he noted, were wearing clothes that would have been considered casual in among the middle class. Here they were the best each had. Even Bartolo was wearing a rather hideous pink shirt. The still stiff collar contrasted grotesquely with the grime that was engrained on his neck.

Olivero had asked him about it, and he had said sheepishly that he heard that the boss would be looking for a one or two workers to tend the grounds around his house. It would pay better than being a common laborer, and the work, though hard, would still be much easier than that in the field.

His father was among the group. Luis glared at his son. When Olivero did not drop his eyes, his father looked away and began talking loudly to a confused friend about the ingratitude of children. Soon three battered pickup trucks came rattling up the road and stopped.

The supervisor, very proud in his clean white shirt began making assignments: so many to clear more land, so many to plant seedlings, so many to cultivate and tend the budding plants. The coffee cherries, small and green, had appeared about four months ago and were swelling toward ripeness. Already some of them were beginning to show a faint reddish tinge. In another few weeks it would be time for the first picking, then all the men would be needed to harvest.

Olivero was assigned to help with the seedlings. The greenhouses were close to the owner's house, within easy sight of it. Olivero looked at it as he climbed out of the back of the truck with the other men. He'd seen it a few times before, slipping quietly through the trees to observe it from their shelter. It was, perhaps, not a mansion, but it would have been considered large even in a more developed area. He'd talked to one of the girls who cleaned it. There were more than twenty rooms, and FIVE bathrooms. Imagine that. Olivero had never relieved himself inside a building unless it was in a pot, the contents to be emptied outside at the first possible moment. The concept was fascinating.

I will have a house like that someday, he thought. There was no real envy in this musing. Why should he envy someone something when he would have the same or better later on?

In the greenhouse the gardener, Diaz, gathered the men around him and showed them how to transfer the delicate seedlings from their growing beds into the canvas sacks that would be used to transport them. "You wet the sack first--the roots must be kept moist for the trip. Then you loosen the soil carefully, gently. At least this far, all around the plant, and this deep. Then you pull slowly, carefully, wiggling. If there is resistance, you stop and loosen some more..."

It was made very clear that if any of the plants were damaged, the cost of replacing them would be docked from the careless one's salary. Several of the men looked reluctant about beginning the task once they heard this, but there really wasn't any choice. You did what you were assigned, or there was no pay. And jobs weren't all that easy to come by--well, legitimate jobs.

The other men worked slower than they needed to, trying to preserve their good clothes. Olivero, not having that worry, simply went about the task at hand. He scooped damp earth into burlap sacks, loosened plants, settled the seedlings carefully into the transport bundle, and tied them up gently, but securely. He was accomplishing a good third more than any of the others. The old gardener watched him work, nodding in approval.

They worked steadily till it was almost lunch time. The truck had already made several trips out to the newly cleared and cultivated fields, delivering the seedlings to the men who would plant them. As he loaded the last of the bundles into the back of the truck, Diaz came to Olivero. "You. You are Montana's boy?"

Olivero wiped a bit of mud off on his shirt, shaking his head. "Yes, I am Olivero de la Montana, but I am not Luis Montana's boy. I am my own man."

The gardener studied him for a moment, then nodded in understanding. "You work well at this, Montana. You are not afraid to get your hands dirty, but you have a light touch with the plants. Would you be interested in working here?"

Olivero did not hesitate. "Yes." Out of the fields? Hell, yes. And my old man will choke when he hears.

"Good. It is not certain, you understand. The owner has final approval, and I hear that his new woman rules him. But they will listen to my suggestion, I think. Come with me on this last trip. They are out touring the plantation, and we should run into them."

So Olivero went with Diaz and they drove out to the field that had been designated for the new planting. When they arrived, they saw that they had timed the delivery well. There were only a few seedlings left beside the field, waiting to be nestled into the earth. The reason that they were still unplanted was apparent.

A large, expensive car was pulled to the side of the road, engine idling, and the workers had gathered near it. A man and woman were standing by the car, speaking with the supervisor. Olivero recognized the man immediately as the plantation's owner: a florid man in his late fifties.

He was one of the old money Colombian families. His ancestors had come over from Europe generations ago and founded their dynasties. But according to the rumors, he had married an American. He had apparently done what so many of his peers had done: gone looking outside this social circle for a wife. It was a good idea, Olivero thought. The local upper crust had become a bit incestuous in the last few decades.

The truck stopped behind the group of workers. Diaz went to stand at the back, watching the three oblivious people near the car. Olivero, not too terribly interested, lowered the tailgate and began to unload the bundled seedlings. He only paused and looked around when he heard a soft whirring sound that he couldn't identify.

The rear window of the car was sliding down slowly. When it was fully down, the sound stopped, and Olivero realized that it had been the sound of the window being lowered electrically. He had heard of such things, but never seen them. A voice floated out of the shadowed interior of the car. "Mom." Olivero smiled to himself. It was the voice of a bored child. So, the owner had acquired a family at the same time he acquired a wife. The voice came again, more impatient. "Mom!"

The woman went to the car. "What is it, Duncan?"

"I'm bored and I'm hungry. When are we going home?"

"Soon. Why don't you get out? You haven't really been able to see a thing from in there."

"I don't want to. It's hot."

She frowned, and there was a touch of steel in her voice. "This is your home now, and you can at least take an interest in it. Get out of the car and try to act like a reasonably well-bred young man instead of a brat."

"Fine!" The door of the car opened. Olivero watched in surprise as a tall slender figure extracted itself from the back seat, then slammed the door. "Happy?"

"Duncan, you are being insufferable." The woman returned to the two men, making polite noises.

Duncan, obviously her son, slouched against the car, scowling. He looked as if he owned the world, and was very displeased with the way it was being run. Olivero continued working, but he couldn't help glancing at the young man now and then. He was older than Olivero had expected from the petulant tone, at least fifteen, perhaps more. He was almost as tall as Olivero, but his body was reed slender where Olivero was broad and sturdy. His hair was dark brown, but the sun would catch bright glints in it as he turned his head.

The boy scanned the crowd of workers, his expression mildly disdainful. His gaze passed over Olivero, and Olivero suddenly wished that it had lingered a little longer. But, after all, it was hardly likely that a smooth, moneyed boy like that would find anything of interest in a rough laborer on his new father's plantation. He continued with his work.

Soon he had to climb up into the bed of the truck to get to the plants that were at the back. He spent several moments arranging them so that they would be easier to transport, and was startled when a soft voice behind him said, "Hey."

He turned, a seedling cradled in each arm, to find the boy standing at the tailgate, looking up at him. "Si?"

The boy frowned. "Do you speak English?" "Yes, I speak English."

The boy studied the burlap wrapped bundles. "What are you doin'?"

"I am unloading the seedlings. They must be planted quickly, before the roots have a chance to dry out."

The boy frowned, then looked at the crowd of men. "Then why aren't they helpin' you? Why are you doin' it by yourself?"

Olivero shrugged, walking to the back of the truck. He nodded toward the trio. "That is your mother, yes? The padrone's new esposa?" The boy looked confused. "His wife?"

The boy made a sour face. "Yeah. He's my new step."

Now Olivero was puzzled. "Step?"

Duncan smiled, and Olivero was suddenly enchanted. It lit up the boy's face. He had been attractive when he was pouting, but the smile made him look positively radiant. "Guess you don't know English as well as you could, and I don't know Spanish as well as I might." The voice was fascinating, too. He had an accent which made his speech slow and drawling. "Step, as in stepfather. My Mom's second husband."

"Step. The men, they are paying their respects to him, and to her."

"But you're still workin'. Does that mean that you don't respect them?"

Olivero considered the young man carefully. Somehow he did not think that Duncan would be terribly upset if Olivero DIDN'T respect his parents. "Someone must work, or the seedlings will suffer."

The smile became impish. "Oh, now THAT'S an answer that isn't an answer, but it really answers the question quite well. Perhaps you don't quite have a grasp on the finer points of slang, but you know how to use the language."

Olivero stepped off the tailgate, landing lithely less than a foot from the boy. Duncan drew in a sharp breath, but didn't move. He was a an inch or two shorter than Olivero, and had to look up at him. Gold Olivero thought. He has gold eyes, like the jaguar. In this land of dark hair and dark eyes, Olivero had never seen hazel eyes before. Everything about Duncan seemed exotic and rich. Olivero looked down into those golden eyes and said quietly, "Not everything is learned in the schoolroom."

The boy gazed up at him, eyes wide. He ran his tongue nervously over a bottom lip that looked full, plush. He would look like he was pouting, even in the best of moods. Olivero followed the passage of the moist pink tip, then looked back into the boy's eyes, not bothering to conceal the heat in his gaze.

He was tempted to drop the seedlings, grab Duncan, and drag him up against his body, soiling that white skin with the mud that stained his own clothes and letting him feel the hard, hot bulge that was growing at his crotch. He thought about kissing him, biting that sulky lower lip, sucking a patch as dark as wine on the skin of his throat. He thought of bending him over the lowered tailgate, lowering his neatly pressed trousers, and fucking him there in the open air, under the glaring sun.

The boy swallowed. His voice husky, he said, "My... my name is Duncan Broussard."

Olivero inclined his head slightly. "Olivero de la Montana."

Duncan smiled again, with a touch of shyness. "Your name sounds like a Spanish Grandee's."

"No, senor. I am a simple peon."

One dark eyebrow raised. "Somehow I hardly think that you are simple, Olivero."

"Duncan!"

Annoyance flashed in his expression as he looked back at his mother. "What?"

"Duncan, what are you doing?"

Talking to that dirty peasant. Olivero mentally supplied the part of the sentence that was left unsaid.

"You wanted me to take an interest in my new home, didn't you? Well, that's what I'm doin'."

"That's good, but I don't want you wandering off like that."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mother!" He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head in irritation. "It isn't like I'm some two-year-old, now is it?"

"You don't know this area, Duncan." Her eyes drifted to the large young man standing so near her son, and her eyes narrowed. "You don't know what sort of dangers are lurking. Now come over here."

Duncan looked at Olivero and rolled his eyes expressively. Then he jerked his head invitingly toward the car and started back. Without hesitation Olivero deposited the seedlings and followed him.

The new bride did not look pleased when she saw the worker following her son, but she didn't say anything. Diaz, the gardener, had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and now spoke diffidently to the owner. "Senor, if I might? You asked me to choose helpers to care for the greenhouses and the grounds around your home."

"Yes, that's right," he agreed. He beamed at his wife. "I haven't bothered much with the lawns and garden before, but I want to keep it pretty for my beautiful lady. Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Si, senor." Diaz beckoned to Olivero, who came to stand beside him. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Olivero. I have watched him. He listens to instructions, and works hard."

The woman was eyeing him with distaste. "He's very rough looking."

"Well, what do you expect, Mother?" snapped Duncan. "He works. Do you think he's going to have a manicure? Do you expect him to be wearing a formal shirt and a cummerbund while he's planting trees?" He spoke directly to his stepfather for the first time that day. "You ought to hire him, John. I've been watching him. You might have noticed that he's the ONLY person who's really been working. He wasn't just standing around admiring the view--he was getting things done."

John looked at his stepson with not a little surprise. Then he looked at the young man in question. He was rough, yes, but that was to be expected. He was, after all, a mestizo, and a common laborer. But he was big, and strong, and there was a gleam of sharp intelligence in his eyes that was rare in the locals.

He nodded. "That's two recommendations. I suppose that's enough. Well, Olivero, do you want to come work at the house?"

Olivero's eyes shifted to Duncan, standing just behind his mother. He gazed once again into the gilded depths of his eyes and said quietly, "Yes, senor. I want that very much."