Читать книгу Menage - Molly Ann Wishlade - Страница 9

Chapter One

“Hello there! Mrs Holbein?”

Grace peered up from the chicken coop at the approaching cowboys. They dismounted from their horses then walked towards the perimeter fence.

She was knee-high in straw and feathers as she gathered that day’s eggs, depositing them in a basket hooked over her left arm. She wasn’t expecting company and she didn’t recognise the two men. Her survival instinct kicked in, increasing her heart rate, and she quickly reached down and checked her right boot. The cold steel blade sat in its place, encased in the leather sheath, reassuring her with its sharp edge and fierce point.

“Hello?” She raised her voice to intimate that it was a question not a greeting. She straightened her back and wiped the perspiration from her upper lip with the back of her free hand.

The cowboys reached the fence. This close, she could see how big they were. Tall, broad-shouldered men. Large and masculine. They made her acutely aware of how petite and feminine she was.

How utterly defenceless.

She eyed them, her senses on high alert. Being a woman alone at an isolated homestead a few miles outside of Deadwood meant that she was constantly wary. Letting her guard down, even just a fraction, could have been fatal whether dealing with man or beast.

“Mrs Holbein?”

Grace met the blond man’s blue eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. They were as intense as the sky on a clear summer’s day. Beautiful, bright blue framed by thick black lashes. He rested his large, tanned hands on the fence. She found her gaze drawn to his long, slim fingers with their short nails and the tiny white-blond hairs on his muscular forearms which shone in the afternoon sun. This was a man who worked hard for a living. Outdoors. Probably with horses and cattle.

“Are you Mrs Holbein?” He repeated the question.

“That’s me. Whadda you want?” She pulled herself up to her full height. She could see that if she stood next to either man she would not reach his shoulders. As the cowboy searched her face, she let the basket swing in front of her body. An obstacle between them, to hide her figure from view. Protection. A barrier.

“We’re looking for work, ma’am,” the cowboy explained. He pushed his Stetson further back on his head and wiped his brow with a folded neckerchief.

“And what makes you come out here looking for it?” Grace scowled. She nudged an inquisitive chicken away from her skirts with her foot.

“We asked in Deadwood, ma’am. They said you was likely to need some help around your farm. In light of your…” He removed his hat. “Your recent loss.”

So they knew about Jack. That also meant that they knew she was alone and that she had no man to protect her. She took a steadying breath.

Keep calm. Show no fear.

“What’s your names?” She stalled. She had no intention of giving them more information about her circumstances than she needed to. She didn’t have the time for pleasantries. There was no time to waste in the day. No time at all. She was exhausted, run ragged trying to take care of the farm all alone. They had never had any hired help and life had been tough but Jack had insisted that they could do it all themselves. But now that he’d gone, she realised exactly how much he had done.

Around the farm and to her.

She shivered. Her corset grazed the spot below her left shoulder blade that never fully healed and she gritted her teeth together. Damned sensitive female flesh. She was filled with resentment for her own frailty.

“I’m Matt Huntley and this here’s Blake Donohue.” Matt gestured to his companion.

“Howdy, Mrs Holbein.” Blake doffed his hat. Grace swallowed hard. His hair was black and shiny as a raven’s wings and his eyes like pools of whisky. His face was tanned from being outdoors and he had a few days’ growth of stubble. But he was handsome as the devil himself. She shook her head.

A pleasing face did not equal a good heart. As she’d learnt. For the past five years.

“So you got any work needs doin’, Mrs Holbein?” Matt asked, offering a crooked grin that made her heart flip in spite of her anxiety.

She did need help, it was true. She’d been into town recently and asked about labourers but it seemed that everyone was hooked up at the mines or elsewhere. No one was interested in helping Grace Holbein out. And she suspected that she knew why. It all came down to Jack and his sour-faced obstinacy. During their marriage, he’d turned his back on everyone who’d asked him for help and upset everyone within the locality. When she’d buried him, she’d paid handsomely for his casket and the cart to carry it. Apart from the pastor, she’d been the only one who’d stood at his graveside.

As lonely after his death as she had been during their marriage. Ironic really, as marriage was meant to bind two people together. She had learnt the hard way that this wasn’t true.

So Grace had been left alone. Struggling. Without a man. Without anyone.

“What experience you got?” She met their eyes in turn. They looked like they worked hard, both were fit and muscular as bulls. She needed help with the heavy work before the winter set in. South Dakota winters were hard and she wasn’t happy about the idea of spending this one alone. Although she wasn’t going to miss that domineering rat of a husband either.

“We’ve done most types of work, Mrs Holbein. We can help with the animals, the crops, repairs on the outbuildings and any maintenance. All we ask for is room and board and the regular going wage.”

Grace chewed her lip. It would be risky taking on two strangers with no references from the folks in town. They could be conmen or thieves just passing through, intent on robbing anyone who crossed their path. But what was the alternative? She’d faced the cold shoulders of the folks in Deadwood and didn’t have the time to go begging in Custer City, so she’d better take this opportunity whilst it was presented.

Grace was in a bad box.

“I can’t afford the going rate.” She tested the waters. The heavy weave of the basket had begun to dig into the flesh of her arm. She was suddenly aware of the aromas that she was usually oblivious to. Chicken faeces. The stale sweat of her old cotton dress. The smoke coming from the cabin chimney.

She was suddenly aware of what a mess she must appear. But surely that was a good thing…to discourage any interest in her as a woman. She shuddered.

The men exchanged a glance so fast that she almost missed it. Matt shrugged. “No matter. Place to sleep and some victuals are what we need most. Money’s a bonus. We’ll take what you can spare.”

Grace nodded. His acceptance made her even more suspicious but she’d give it a go and see what happened. If she was lucky, they’d be hard workers with a genuine interest in earning an honest wage. If not, she was certain that things couldn’t get any worse for her. And she always had her blade ready for action. Just in case.

“Well, you can go leave your bags in the barn out back. There’s room for your horses there too. Then you can start by mucking out the pigs.” She cocked an eyebrow. Waited. If they weren’t genuine she doubted that they’d waste time getting covered in pig shit. But she’d enjoy watching if they did!

Matt smiled. “No problem, ma’am. Come on, Blake, let’s do as the lady commanded.” He hoisted his bedroll onto his back and let himself through the gate, leading his mare behind him. Blake followed, casting a shy glance at Grace as he passed her. A smile wavered on his lips for a moment, as if he were unsure how to behave around her. It was sweet, respectful, adolescent almost. As if he wasn’t used to being around womenfolk. Her cheeks flooded with heat and she took a step back, almost tripping over a chicken.

“Darnit!” She turned and shooed the bird away. “Stupid hen.”

But though she aimed the words at the bird that flapped its wings and clucked as it moved out of harm’s away, she was thinking about herself. Foolish woman for reacting to a man. She was the widow Holbein. The wife left behind by one of the meanest and most aggressive men to set foot in the Black Hills.

Grace knew how harsh a man could be. She had escaped once by outliving the son of a bitch and she had no intention of getting herself involved again.

Men were trouble. No doubt about it. She had the physical and mental scars to prove it.

****

Matt and Blake dumped their bedrolls and belongings into a corner of the barn. It was cool, dark and comforting. The aroma of hay and animals was what they were used to and Matt now associated it with being home. As much of a home as they could have right now anyways.

“So whadda you think?” Matt turned to his companion.

Blake frowned. “Well, that sure ain’t the woman they spoke of in town.”

Matt grinned. “You know, I think that ol’ dog Al Swearengen mighta had his sights set on the widow Holbein. What was it he said about her?”

“A grumpy old grizzly bear of a woman.” Blake laughed. “With a behind as big as two barrels and a cunny as wide as the Deadwood gulch!”

“That’s right!” Matt slapped his thigh. “But she ain’t old.”

“An’ she ain’t fat neither,” Blake added. “In fact, if anything she’s a bit on the skinny side.”

Matt nodded. The widow was thin and fragile. Though she’d attempted to convey that she was harsh and cold, there was something in her eyes that told him more. The way that she held herself worried him. He wasn’t sure what it was but something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was grief that sat like a heavy shroud upon her frail frame but the wariness in her grey eyes spoke of something other than grief. It was etched there, deeply, like a brand upon a cow’s hide. She was scarred by something and it left him wondering what it was.

“Yeah I got a feeling that Swearengen was trying to bamboozle us with his description of the lady. I’d say she ain’t more than twenty-eight or nine and she’s quite fair on the eye. If you like that kinda thing.” Matt winked at Blake and received a smile in response. He loved that smile. The way it lit up Blake’s whole face and created those dimples either side of his generous mouth, even through his stubble.

Blake moved towards him. “And do you like that sort of thing, Matt?” He slid his arms around Matt’s waist and enveloped him in a hug. Blake’s familiar masculine scent washed over him and he breathed deeply, savouring the way it lifted his heart and hardened his cock.

“You know how I feel about it, Blake,” he murmured into Blake’s shoulder, his concentration on the conversation slipping away as his lover’s body moulded into his. Head to head. Chest to chest. Stomach to stomach. Groin to groin. Their breathing as one, in time, in tune.

He lifted his head. “Much as I’d like to take you roughly over that there hay bale,” he gestured towards the back of the barn, “I think we’d better go prove ourselves by mucking out some hogs.”

Blake nodded. “Shame. Later then?”

“Later.” Matt agreed. Excitement swirled in his stomach at the thought. Even after years of making love to Blake, he never tired of it. He still burned with desire for the other man as much as he had the first time they’d met. And when Rebecca had joined them, they had been complete.

For a while.

Sure, their lovemaking and the balance in their relationship had changed after they’d lost Rebecca. But that was to be expected. The unwelcome pain tugged at his heart and he sensed the black storm cloud of grief at his edges. He mentally pushed it away. No time for that now.

They needed a place to stay for a while and some money in their pockets. Then they could move on. Keep on going. As they always did. The only way he knew of dealing with the pain was to just keep on moving. Keep on running.

But if the widow Holbein needed them to hang around until the spring, then that would suit them just fine. Winter was on its way and it would be hard with no place to stay. The autumn had been mild but he doubted that winter would be. In addition, although he really didn’t want to admit it to himself, he felt kinda sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy for a little thing like her out here all alone trying to run a farm. From the way Swearengen had explained it, she didn’t have any help around the place at all. And no one in Deadwood wanted to give her the time of day. Clearly, her husband had made a lot of enemies and she was taking the brunt of the blame, even following his death. Poor woman.

He shrugged as they walked from the cool shadows of the barn and into the late afternoon light. He shouldn’t be thinking this out too deeply. She was a widow who needed farm hands. Blake and he needed work. That was all there was to it.

But as they crossed the yard, he realised that he was excited about finding out what colour hair she had under that grimy headscarf and if it set off her pretty grey eyes.

****

Grace trembled all over. She stood with her back to the door of her small cabin, her fingers digging into the wooden panels. She’d gone out to the barn to offer the men some blankets and to hand them a pewter water pitcher and basin but she’d stopped outside at the sound of laughter.

Unable to resist, she waited to hear what they were amused about. It had been so long since she’d heard another human being laugh that she’d pressed her face against the barn door and peered through the cracks like an eager child. Then she’d heard her own name mentioned.

First, they’d said that Al Swearengen had her in his sights. The thought made her shudder. Then, even worse, they had repeated his description of her and it had set them both laughing even harder. A grumpy old grizzly bear of a woman…With a behind as big as two barrels and a cunny as wide as the Deadwood gulch.

How awful! So that was what folks in Deadwood thought of her. Her cheeks burned and her eyes filled with angry tears. No wonder she couldn’t get anyone out here to help. Who would want to work for a grizzly bear?

And as for the description of her behind…She pulled her fingers from the door and placed them over her rump. She squeezed through her skirts. Her bottom wasn’t big. Wasn’t big at all. In fact, it was virtually non-existent. Years of being married to Jack had seen to that. Lord knew, some fat would’ve cushioned the blows but she just couldn’t find her appetite. She’d lost it not long after her wedding, when she’d realised her mistake. And then…there had been the child thing.

The old pain rose in her throat with its strangulating hold. She gulped down air, trying to fight the dizziness that it brought. No children. Not in a marriage like that. When her already irregular courses had become almost non-existent, she’d been glad. No monthly bleed meant no children, if she’d been correctly informed. However hard Jack had tried to get one on her. No child deserved to be fathered by such a violent and cruel man and she would have no part in its conception.

So she’d continued. In her own living hell. Lonely. Childless. Without hope.

Folks in Deadwood had thought Jack to be harsh but they didn’t have to live with him day by day. To cook his meals then watch as he wolfed them down or threw them at the wall if she’d done something wrong. They didn’t have to cower in the corner as he rained punches at her head or whipped her with his belt. No. Jack was a heartless man and Grace had lost her own heart during her time as his wife.

She had shut herself down and retreated to the far corners of her mind, only emerging when Jack had gone into town and she believed it was safe to peer out for a few hours. At times like that, she would steal down to the creek to bathe, lying in the ice cold shallows with her hair floating all around her and the smooth stones beneath her skin. The clear water soothed the tender flesh of her back and when she emerged she always considered herself cleansed. Almost renewed.

She also liked to play with the feral kittens in a patch of afternoon sunlight. The cats that hung around the farm were useful because they helped to keep the vermin numbers down. A steady stream of kittens meant that there was always a new litter for Grace to nurse and play with. She loved holding the innocent little things up to her cheeks and breathing in their soft, animal scent. It was a small pleasure and one that she never let Jack see her indulging in. She knew that if he ever found out about her fondness for the cats, he would no doubt string a few of them up just to witness her distress.

So she kept these things to herself. Her little survival secrets. For her and only her.

To hear that she was now the source of amusement for the two cowboys she had taken in as labour, as well as to the folks in town, would not hurt her. She wiped her eyes with her threadbare apron. They too were just men. And men were weak. They just couldn’t help themselves.

She had run off after she’d heard them laugh at Al’s words, not wanting to hear more. But they were just words and words did not hurt as much as blows. Just as well to ignore the reason for their laughter. They were farm hands. She was the boss around here and she had to act like it. Keep her distance. Not be yearning for human company or human contact. She’d allowed herself to want those things before and look where it had gotten her. Bruised and battered and almost broken.

Never again.

She took a deep breath and tucked her hair beneath her scarf. Time to see if they were serious about working. The hog pen needed a real good muck-out and no man dallying with ideas of swindling would stick around to get covered in pig poop.

She opened the door and stepped out into the afternoon. Laugh at her would they? This time, the laugh would be on them.