Love Under Two Wranglers [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Ménage Everlasting)

by Cara Covington

It was almost a universal fact that folks married, and then as years passed—for some—they grew apart. Communication broke down, and the partners would grow further and further away from each other until they were little more than two people with the same last name sharing a house.

  Duncan had seen a lot of married people who were deeply unhappy to the point that ending the marriage appeared to be the only option for them. That kind of discontent spread a kind of miasma over a home, a gathering, or even a community.

  Such a pall was nowhere to be found here in Lusty. That lack, combined with the way some of the people in Lusty chose to live and love without any kind of deterrents at all, had already convinced Duncan and Alan that they’d managed to accomplish something they’d been trying to do for the last ten years.

  When they’d moved to Lusty, they’d finally come home.

  Neither of them had any particular desire to own land, or a business. They were content to work and earn a wage. They’d been paid a small fortune years before for a three-year gig, helping an insurance investigator close a big case. They’d invested that money with a view to their retirements and had continued to live off their earnings.

  All they wanted was to find a woman, make a home—a family—and live in peace in a good, caring community.

  If they were lucky, that had begun just a couple of hours ago as they’d visited the Lusty Library.

  Duncan put his attention back on the book, and found himself captivated by the story that Caressa MacFarland wove. Over the next hour he shook his head, laughed, and felt the tension mount as the situation for the heroes and their lady love turned serious, as their happy ending seemed to be in doubt.

  By the time his cell phone alarm pinged, he had only a few pages left to go.

  “Whew.” Alan set the book he’d been reading down and looked over at Duncan. “I think I’m going to run and have a cold shower. Aside from being a damn good story, this book is hot.”

  “Tomorrow, we should switch,” Duncan said. “Then we can talk to Holly about the stories, and what she finds the most compelling aspect of them.”

  “I’m willing to bet it’s not the sex, though that has to be a part of it.”

  “I think you’re right. In this story, the woman is the center of the men’s affections and their attention. More than anything else, she matters to them.”

  “It’s what we’ve noticed about the relationships here in Lusty.” Alan got up and headed into the house. “We should probably haul ass. We don’t want to be late for our first date.”

  Duncan followed him inside. He’d set the book on his bedside table and finish it before going to sleep tonight.

  Right now, he’d much rather concentrate on the next few hours, and taking the first steps in getting to know Miss Holly Rose Bethune.

  Chapter 3

  Mary Ellen Potsy prayed as she’d never prayed before. The last seven years had been sheer hell, but the torture of them wasn’t over quite yet. She had only one slim thread of hope. It was thinking of that hope that had kept her sane, especially the last five of those seven years.

  Most everyone she’d known had turned their backs on her after news of her arrest had hit the papers. There was a song on the radio awhile back about finding out who your friends were when bad things happened to you. Truer words had never been sung.

  Mary Ellen had been shocked, and then angered to discover that after all was said and done, she had no real friends at all.

  She reined in her horse and let her gaze take in the familiar terrain of her childhood. She’d grown up in this part of rural Kentucky, a poor, have-nothing kid, second oldest of ten crammed into a too-small farmhouse. Looking out across this particular bit of home, the memories flooded in. She knew what it felt like to walk the creek bank after a rain, the mud oozing up between her toes because her one pair of shoes were to be worn only to church and to school.

  A shudder wracked her. She’d come home as soon as she’d been released from prison, and had been—well, if not welcomed, at least allowed back. With strings, of course. Her daddy was near on to ninety, but he still stirred fear in her heart. She’d done the penance he’d imposed, the washing and the scrubbing and the fetching and the carrying.

  It was a very telling thing that none of her siblings still lived on the farm, and only a couple of them ever visited the old bastard.

  It had been a month since she’d come home, and this was the first bit of freedom he’d allowed her—this Saturday afternoon ride out on old Trudy.

  She was a woman fully grown, middle aged, and every minute of the time she’d spent since her release from prison had been a bitter and difficult revisiting of her childhood. Now she was only minutes away from finding out if the contrite act she’d been living for the past thirty days had been worth it, or not.

  She dismounted, and looped Trudy’s reins over a low branch. Working quickly, Mary Ellen untied the spade from the back of the saddle. She’d told her daddy she was going to hunt up some herbs. He’d been content with that, and told her not to come home empty handed.

  It wasn’t herbs she sought, but what she’d been smart enough to hide, just before her arrest, seven years before.

  Her gaze wandered down to her hands that were wrapped around the wooden handle of the digging tool. Revulsion washed through her at the sight of them. They didn’t even look like her own hands anymore. Roughened by work and a lack of pampering, with nails that were short, blunt, and with age ridges on top, her hands were a far cry from the way they used to look before prison, before everything had been taken away from her. It didn’t take much to just close her eyes and be back there at her favorite spa, being pampered.

  Before her world had collapsed, Mary Ellen breathed luxury. Nails and hair done every week, facials, fully body scrubs—she’d lived a life way beyond the dreams of the poor hick child she’d been, growing up. She’d married Willard Potsy, a much older, very rich man who owned a string of racehorses. He’d spoiled her and taught her, seeming to take delight in transforming her from a rough-edged plain Jane into the sophisticated, bejeweled trophy wife he’d craved.

  After his thankfully early and unexpected death, Mary Ellen had inherited everything and had worked hard to make the Potsy Stables the most celebrated, the most trophy-winning stables in the entire state of Kentucky.

  And then thanks to those two underhanded, back-stabbing do-gooder wranglers ratting her out to the authorities, it had all gone from syrup to shit.

  Thank God Oscar warned me. She’d had about a six-day heads-up—and it had been enough. Though at the time she didn’t believe she was going to be sent to prison, her property confiscated. She only thought she was going to be fined, and fined heavily. So she’d done something to give herself a break. She’d grown up poor, and never, ever wanted to be poor again. That was her greatest fear, and yes, her greatest weakness. She hadn’t imagined the authorities would seize every single thing she owned, but she’d thought they might put some sort of lockdown on her bank accounts.

  So she’d used that week’s warning to go to a few of the different banks where she had her numerous accounts, and she’d withdrawn cash—a lot of cash. She’d been particular, and because she was well known for her extravagances—and because most of the bankers she’d met with to do business were men—she’d mostly accomplished her goal under the radar of the IRS.

  And she’d crossed her fingers, betting on bureaucratic slowness. She’d hoped that by the time the government had been informed of her actions, she’d have completed her plan.

  That part had gone flawlessly. During her trial, the prosecution had tried to use that last-minute cash withdrawal to further its case. But since there was no paper trail to follow, and they had no evidence to show where the money had gone, that point had been moot.

  Time to see if I was smart, or stupid. Mary Ellen knew the exact place she’d hidden her stash. It took little time now to reach that spot and start digging.

  Seven years had seen the earth settle
and it wasn’t easy digging down as deep as she needed to go. She was sweating, fear roiling in her belly, when after a half hour, her spade hit something that wasn’t rock or dirt.

  Excited now, she worked faster, until she’d dug out the large backpack enough that she could pull it from the ground.

  At first she thought she’d just stuff the contents of this bag into the large microwave in her kitchen and then store it out in her daddy’s barn. The oven was large enough for that purpose, but she’d been worried someone would find it or her daddy would sell the damn thing just to spite her.

  So she’d done the only other thing her panicked brain could think of. She’d put the tightly wrapped bundles of cash into two large vacuum storage bags, and sealed them airtight. She’d then wrapped those bags in heavy brown paper, and put them into a waterproof backpack.

  Fingers shaking, Mary Ellen opened the backpack, and then the paper. Green and white showed through the hole she’d torn. She kept working until all the outer layer of paper had been removed, leaving her the plastic encased, and still airtight bundles.

  “Oh, thank you, God!”

  Her crazy plan had worked! She hadn’t lost everything. She still had this. These ten thousand one hundred dollar bills were more than just the sum total they made. They were the means to secure what she wanted most in all the world.

  A million dollars was more than enough to buy herself revenge on those two assholes who’d testified in court against her, sending her to prison and ruining her life.

  “I hope Alan Wilson and Duncan Moore have been having a good life these last seven years. Because they ain’t never seen the kind of shit storm that I’m going to call down on them now.”

  And Mary Ellen knew just who she could get to help her do that little thing.

  * * * *

  Her first ever date—lunch at Lusty Appetites with Alan and Duncan—was proving to be better than she ever could have expected.

  She’d worried a little at first if they’d have enough in common to facilitate conversation. To say she was delighted to discover that both men really were avid readers, and enjoyed discussing books, would be an understatement.

  “I can’t think of a single instance when the movie was better than the book.” Holly used her fork as a pointer to underscore her opinion.

  “What about the 1968 version of Romeo and Juliet?” Alan asked her. “I don’t mind admitting that when I first read the play in high school, I had trouble understanding it. But after we’d read the thing, our teacher showed us that movie. That film made the play come alive for me.”

  Holly tilted her head as she considered his point. “Yes, that’s an exception, as is the version of The Taming of the Shrew with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.”

  “Some of the classics have been produced by filmmakers to smooth over the style differences,” Duncan said. “In our modern times, we don’t speak the same or even think the same as they did, a hundred or more years past. But I have to agree with you when it comes to more modern works.”

  Alan nodded. “Duncan and I were both really disappointed when we rented the move Raise the Titanic.”

  “Oh, I loved Clive Cussler’s book, too! But some of my favorite scenes simply weren’t in the movie.” Holly speared another french fry with her fork. “I get it, you know? I understand that even length-wise, a book has to be edited down to make a couple of hundred pages of shooting script. They are different mediums, and I appreciate that.”

  “That’s likely the whole thing right there, don’t you think?” Duncan asked. “Maybe it comes down to a preference for books over movies.”

  “Maybe it does.” Holly couldn’t remember the last time she’d so enjoyed a conversation. She looked down at her plate, shocked to see that her lunch was nearly all gone. The men had talked her into having burger and fries instead of the Cobb salad she more usually ordered, and darn if it hadn’t tasted really good.

  Maybe it was the company that made the food taste so delicious. Holly wouldn’t discount that factor in the least.

  Ginny Kendall came over, tea pitcher in hand, and refilled their glasses. “Does anyone want something sweet to finish off lunch with?”

  Holly happened to meet Duncan’s gaze just then. It was an exceptionally warm late spring day, but suddenly she felt hot enough, it could have been August.

  “Not now,” Alan said.

  The passion she could see in his eyes matched his friend’s. Her cheeks turned pink, because his words coupled with the expression on both men’s faces made her think that they were not thinking of food at the moment.

  Ginny’s sparkling gaze met hers, and Holly realized the woman had no trouble interpreting the men’s meaning at all.

  “You just take your time, then. If you change your minds and want something we have on the menu, you just let me know.”

  As soon as Ginny headed back toward the kitchen, Holly’s hands went up to her cheeks. “You’re going to think I am a complete idiot, the way I keep blushing.”

  “No.” Alan took her left hand in his, and brought it to his lips. He kissed it sweetly, and then Duncan did the same with her right hand.

  The men then traded a look. “We don’t think anything of the kind, Holly. But we do both understand you’re not real experienced. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I’m not experienced at all.” One thing about reading a lot of romance books—some not as well written as others—was that she had a pretty good idea about some things, and those things had more or less been reinforced in life, generally speaking.

  Sometimes, people lied. Or they put on airs, or acted one way when they really were another. And then down the road they wondered why their relationships didn’t work out.

  Holly had long ago decided that if she ever found herself about to begin a relationship, she wouldn’t lie about anything.

  “Thank you for waiting for us,” Duncan said.

  “I can’t believe we’re so lucky to have found you.” Alan rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.

  “You make it sound as if I’ve done something special, when really—I guess you could say I’m just a late bloomer.”

  “That is special, sweetheart.” Duncan nodded. “It means you didn’t feel compelled to do what everyone else was doing just to be the same as them. That speaks to your character.”

  “But I just wasn’t even really interested in—well, in romance—until I saw the two of you.”

  Alan grinned. “Not true. You were interested, or else you wouldn’t have read the books you read. You just never found the right men to explore your physical side, until us.”

  She couldn’t really deny his charge, even if she felt as if she should, just on principle.

  “What do your folks think about you living in a town called Lusty?” Duncan asked.

  “There are enough odd named towns all over the South that the name ‘Lusty’ barely registered. Mind you, they were a bit worried about me moving away from home. This is the first time I’ve ever done so.”

  “So they didn’t give you grief about leaving Georgia?” Alan sat back, his expression one of genuine interest.

  It never even occurred to Holly to edit her answers to any of their questions. She was going to be completely open and honest with these two men and hope they would be the same with her.

  “Not the way I think you mean, but they were—and still are—worried about me.” Then she sighed. “I know that it’s mostly on account of the Unfortunate Incident.”

  Alan and Duncan looked at each other again. Alan met her gaze. “Is this something you want to tell us about here, where you might be overheard? Or would you rather go someplace else more private?”

  “There’s a pretty stream that runs along some of the ranch where we work,” Duncan said. “We could walk there—or ride, if you know how.”

  Holly grinned. It had been years since she’d gone horseback riding. “I’d love to ride! Your employers won’t mind?”

  �
��They made it clear to us early on that we’re to consider their house our home,” Alan said. “Aside from the horses the Benedicts keep for riding, we have a few of our own.” He still had hold of her hand, and stroked his thumb over the back of it again. Such a simple touch had her emotions and her hormones all stirred up.

  “Then let’s go for a ride.” Holly closed her eyes the moment the words left her lips. Inexperienced she may be but stupid she was not. The double entendre may have been unplanned, but perhaps it wasn’t unwarranted.

  After years of never knowing arousal or need, Holly Bethune was all for exploring these exciting new feelings.

  “Now, Miss Holly, this is just our first date. We’ll just take the horses out, for now.” Duncan winked to let her know he was teasing her. Then he lowered his voice. “Taking you for a ride is something we’ll get to—by and by.”

  “Promise?”

  “Hell, yes,” Alan answered her, and then grinned.

  Holly giggled, shocked to hear the lighthearted and flirty sound come from her. I wonder what else I’ve never done before I might do before the day is out.

  She gave them a smile. It was time for her to spread her wings, to take that road not traveled, and discover just where it would lead her.

  Chapter 4

  Alan had checked with Carrie Benedict before they left Lusty Appetites, asking her permission to let Holly use her horse. Buttercup was a gentle filly, used to carrying a woman, one who wasn’t yet an expert rider. Since neither he nor Duncan knew the level of Holly’s skill in the saddle—and damn his subconscious for throwing up that particular double entendre—they thought Carrie’s horse would be the best choice for her.

  Of course Carrie had agreed, and then given him a wink and wished them luck. Alan figured that by nightfall, everyone in Lusty would know that he and Duncan were courting the town’s new librarian.

  He didn’t care about that for himself, and he knew Duncan shared his belief that neither of them was really good enough for Miss Holly Bethune. He just hoped that no one teased her, or made her feel uncomfortable in any way because of it.