Menage. Molly Ann Wishlade
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“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.
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