Holiday Heat: Heartwarming and Bottomwarming Stories for the Festive Season

by April Hill

  Holiday Heat

  Heartwarming & Bottomwarming

  Stories for the Festive Season

  By

  April Hill

  ©2014 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  Hill, April

  Holiday Heat

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-659-5

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of contents:

  “A Labor Of Love, And Vice Versa”

  “Legends Of The Fall”

  “The Great Pumpkin Caper”

  “The Rise And Fall Of Spiderwoman”

  “Tradition”

  “She Won’t Be Home For Christmas”

  “All is Calm, All Is Bright”

  “The Sculpture Garden”

  “In One Year And Out The Other”

  About April Hill

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  “A Labor Of Love, And Vice Versa”

  Elkfoot wasn’t on the free map of Wyoming that Jenny had picked up at the last gas station, and if she hadn’t seen the sign for Milt’s Feed and Grain, she would have sped right by the turnoff into town. No surprise, there, of course. The dusty little “home town” she’d fled fifteen years earlier had never been what anyone would call a tourist attraction, or a hub of commerce and industry. People who lived in Elkfoot knew where to turn off the main highway, and most people who didn’t live there probably didn’t know the place even existed. Her last connection with the town where she’d been born and grew up had ended when her parents retired and moved to Florida. Since then, with the exception of some fairly painful memories, Elkfoot had been nothing but a name to her. Until three weeks ago, when the letter arrived. A letter that would change her life in a way she could never have expected.

  Jenny turned onto the gravel shoulder and stopped the car in a patch of weeds covered with pretty little blue flowers. Chicory, or cornflowers? She had always gotten them mixed up. Milt’s old metal sign was still hanging by a twisted wire on the rusted barbed wire fence the way it always had, but it was pockmarked with a few more bullet holes and buckshot dimples than she remembered. The junction hadn’t changed since the day she left—a wide spot in the road with a cattle grid and a scattering of broken beer bottles. With the Labor Day weekend approaching, though, someone had affixed a hand-painted notice and a diminutive flag to the fence, advertising the annual Labor Day parade and picnic. To the right, a worn strip of macadam left the main highway, bounced over the cattle grid, then wandered crookedly across the plain in a northerly direction before disappearing into a range of low, brown hills. Home.

  “Great news, kiddo,” she called back to the dozing teenager in the back seat. “We’ve made it in time for Elkfoot’s fabulous Labor Day parade.”

  “Gee whiz, Mommy, really? I’m beyond thrilled,” Katie replied grumpily. “Please tell me there’ll be sheep shearing, and greased pig wrestling. And I’ve been hankerin’ all day for a big ol’ plate of boiled bull testicles and chittlins.”

  Jenny sighed. It was going to be that kind of day. Still, with all the nasty cracks she’d made to her daughter about Elkfoot, she hadn’t expected Katie to be enthusiastic. Like mother, like daughter, as the adage went.

  When she last saw it, Elkfoot had boasted a dwindling population of 364, but it was apparently still out there—somewhere. According to the letter she’d received from Jackson Toliver, Attorney at Law, both the City Administrator and the County Tax Collector would like to know when they could expect remittance of the past due taxes on her “property.” The letter had come as a revelation to Jenny, since she had never owned property in Elkfoot, or anywhere else. On the list of all the places in the world and in the known universe where she might have purchased property (had she not been broke as a stone and in debt up to her eyeballs,) Elkfoot would have been dead last. She had stayed there (reluctantly) until the age of seventeen, and escaped as quickly as possible—by marrying Jimmie Roy Walters, handsome football hero, future rodeo star, and that year’s high school prom king.

  When Jenny’s friends expressed bewilderment about why she was “breaking up” with the terrific guy she’d been crazy about since third grade, she had explained patiently (and unconvincingly) that while Cal was a fine, loyal person, whom she would always think of as a friend, he was “kind of small town, and unsophisticated.” J.R. was different. (Jimmie Roy had chosen to go by his initials, in homage to J.R. Ewing, from the TV series, “Dallas.”) With J.R, she lied; it had been true love at first sight. And besides, he had promised to take her to Cheyenne, or maybe a big town like Phoenix, where he would soon be a champion rodeo rider.

  The union with J.R. lasted for one hundred and eighty-four days, most of which Jenny had spent looking for her new husband in various poolrooms, bars, and honky-tonk roadhouses. These venues, J.R. had explained, were unsophisticated, but still the best places to hear about upcoming rodeos, where he could bring down “some really big bucks.” On the one hundred and eighty-fifth day, she learned that Jimmie Roy had not always been entirely truthful about his whereabouts, or about the career path he was pursuing. Although he had not been spending his weekends bull-riding, he had still been “in the saddle,” as it were—atop a forty-seven-year-old woman named Rhonda, who operated a canine beauty salon. At this juncture, Jenny concluded that true love at first sight wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and purchased a do-it-yourself divorce kit.

  A week later, she discovered that she was pregnant. Calculating backward, she remembered that J.R. had actually spent most of that particular day at home, since all the bars were closed. They had—among other things—decorated a three-foot tall fake tree. Her gift to J.R. had been a pair of hand-tooled boots and matching belt that cost more than their rent. His seven-pound, nine-ounce gift to her was delivered nine months later—coincidentally on Labor Day. He joked that beautiful little Katherine Amanda Walters was a “twofer.”

  “I’ll bet you never thought you’d get a present from me for Christmas and for Labor Day, did you, babe?” he asked, with a wink. “A couple of weeks from now, when the doc says it’s okay to get back in the sack, maybe I’ll get you another one—for Memorial Day.”

  But by Memorial Day, Jimmie Roy had given up bull riding to become Rhonda’s full-time shampoo guy—not just for the canine clients, but for Rhonda, herself, whose hair was of a difficult color to describe, and required frequent attention. J.R. had finally found an occupation at which he excelled—work that was steadier, less likely to result in broken collarbones, and that came with fringe benefits.

  Katherine Amanda (Katie) was thirteen now. She was the apple of her mother’s eye, and in
Jenny’s opinion, the only worthwhile accomplishment of her own aimless, screwed–up life.

  * * * *

  “So, where is this stupid sinkhole of a town, anyway?” the Apple of Jenny’s Eye whined, poking her head between the front seats. Katie had spent most of the trip from their shabby little apartment in Las Vegas sprawled in the back seat, complaining non-stop, and surrounded by the crap they hadn’t been able to stuff into the trunk. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she wailed. “People really live out here? Like where, for instance? In freaking caves, or holes in the ground? Like trolls, or something?”

  “Actually, darling, I think trolls live under bridges,” Jenny replied wearily.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Katie said sourly. “What’s wrong with the air conditioner, now?”

  Jenny rested her forehead on the marginally cooler steering wheel. “Try thinking of the air conditioner as an old friend who’s passed away,” she groaned. “After a full life, and a long, painful death, our friend has gone to a better place.”

  Katie kicked the back of her mother’s seat. “It’s not funny.”

  Jenny sighed. “Not now, but someday, you’ll look back on this day, and laugh. Everyone says that, so it must be true, right?”

  “You’re a riot, Mom. You should try getting a gig on Comedy Central. Are there any Cokes left, or are we going to die of thirst before we actually sweat to death? I saw this movie where the guy stayed alive by drinking his own urine. Is that gross, or what? I’m warning you right now, I’m not going to do that, no matter what.”

  Jenny dipped her hand into the six inches of tepid, murky water in the Styrofoam cooler, and tried to remember why she had ever thought being a mother would be fun. “You’re in luck,” she said. “There’s one Dr. Pepper that hasn’t exploded, yet, and to prove what a selfless, devoted mother I am, I’m not even going to fight you for it.” She handed the dripping can across the top of the seat. “Be careful opening it. Maybe you should open the window, and hold it outside, while…”

  But Katie had already pulled the tab. The Dr. Pepper emitted a long, angry hiss, and began spewing warm brown liquid over the car’s overheated interior. Katie hurled the foaming can out the window, flung open the door, and scrambled out of the car—barefoot—onto the scalding pavement.

  “Shit!” she shrieked, hopping up and down in agony. “I don’t freaking believe this! We can’t be this freaking poor. We just can’t!”

  (Note: Katie didn’t actually use the words “freaking.” but her mother was too tired to remind her of the rules. The “F” word had always been Jenny’s personal favorite, but when Katie discovered this particularly satisfying expletive and began using it regularly and openly, Jenny had put her foot down, and insisted on the less offensive substitute—for both of them. )

  Now, as Katie’s tantrum continued, Jenny found herself remembering another hot afternoon at a local lake, when her own repeated use of the “F” word had ended with the first really hard spanking of her life. Not at the hand of an irate parent, but from the strong, firm hand of that terrific guy she’d eventually “dumped” for the erstwhile prom king.

  On the day of that highly memorable spanking, Cal (the terrific guy) had already commented several times about Jenny’s excessive profanity, and reminded her of the two times her swearing habit had gotten her suspended from school. From Jenny’s perspective, though, rules of that nature were “small town and unsophisticated” (one of Jenny’s favorite expressions in those days), archaic, and a major infringement of her Constitutional rights to free speech and expression. She was in the middle of lecturing Cal on how “quaint” and old-fashioned and everyone else in Elkfoot was, when he abruptly ended the discussion by dragging her across his knee, peeling the bottom half of her wet bathing suit down to her knees, and walloping her bared rear end so hard she had trouble catching her breath between howls.

  * * * *

  As she drove slowly through town, looking for the lawyer’s office, Jenny found herself pleasantly surprised. She had expected a virtual ghost town, with potholed streets and abandoned storefronts. But Elkfoot had obviously prospered in her fifteen-year absence. There were a number of additional businesses, and a brand new post office on the corner. Main Street had been completely paved, with a proper line down the middle, and the slanted parking slots on both sides of the street had been marked with white lines. There was even a traffic light at the intersection of Main and Chippewa.

  The county offices were on the second floor of Elkfoot’s gleaming new City Hall. Since the mere words “past due taxes” suggested a certain degree of unpleasantness, she had left Katie at the drug store across the street, poring over copies of People and an article called “Celebrity Faves Exposed”.

  Jenny’s first question to Mr. Toliver was why a great uncle she barely knew and avidly disliked would leave her a house.

  “He didn’t, as a matter of fact,” Toliver explained. “The county notified you because Mr. Morris died in testate, and without stipulated heirs. According to our records, you’re his only living relative.”

  “What you mean by that,” Jenny remarked, “is you went looking for someone dumb enough, or greedy enough to shell out the back taxes. Some sucker you could convince that that decrepit old house would turn out to be worth a bundle.” The suggestion was a bit hostile, and rudely phrased, but Jenny was hot, and covered in sticky Dr. Pepper residue. She’d just driven a thousand miles to a place she detested, in a sweltering car with a sullen teenager. She was in no mood to be trifled with.

  Mr. Toliver raised an eyebrow. “I assume that means you don’t wish to claim the inheritance from your late uncle,” he said.

  “What happens if I don’t claim it?”

  “In that case, the house will de razed, and city of Elkfoot will lose a beloved historical monument.”

  “Nice try, Mr. Toliver, but I remember that when I was a kid, the city fathers were always sending nasty letters to my uncle, complaining that his place was an eyesore. Which it was. When did it turn into a historical monument?”

  Mr. Toliver smiled. “More like a monumental eyesore. In any case, as my letter clearly explained, the four-acre parcel on which the house sits is only twelve blocks from here. The property could have significant developmental value, due to its proximity to the expanding downtown shopping area.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” she said sweetly. “I just drove through your downtown shopping area. You and I and our grandchildren will all be in our graves by the time a town like this expands twelve blocks. I came here to unload the property, not develop it.”

  He nodded. “That’s your decision, of course, but there’s still the matter of the back taxes, which will have to be brought current before you can sell the house.”

  “Why can’t I just pay the damned taxes when I sell it?” she demanded irritably. “Out of the proceeds?”

  Mr. Toliver smiled. “Ah, but that would require us to trust you, Mrs. Walters, and I’m afraid that county tax collectors aren’t very trusting souls. Liens can be difficult to enforce in cash transactions. What if you simply choose to abscond?” He sighed. “You might be shocked to learn how many cases there are like that.”

  She thought for a moment. “I could tear the house down and sell the four acres, right?”

  “You can’t legally demolish a house you don’t own,” Toliver explained patiently. “Not without first paying the past due taxes. Twelve years of back taxes, in this case.”

  “Okay, then,” Jenny countered. “Can I just donate this beloved historical monument of yours—to the city, county, state, whatever?”

  Mr. Toliver’s sly smile suggested that she’d walked into his final trap. “Not unless you can provide verifiable documentation proving that something of historical interest happened there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Sitting Bull and George Armstrong Custer having both slept there—preferably in the same bed and with carnal intentions—on the very night
before Little Big Horn. You know, it’s still quite a lovely old house,” he added, rather apologetically. “If you were to find a contractor, and put some money into it, you could…”

  “Do contractors in the state of Wyoming work for nothing, Mr. Toliver?” she grumbled. “Because nothing is a few bucks less than I have in my bank account, at the moment. My car has a bad oil leak and a dead air conditioner, my cell phone got turned off three days because I couldn’t pay the bill, and you’re telling me to hire a fucking contractor?”

  She left Toliver’s office depressed and feeling desperate. They could afford maybe four more nights in a motel—if they could locate one crummy enough—and maybe a week of food and gas. Her plan had been to sell the house in a hurry, for whatever she could get, and drive back to Las Vegas with a nice, fat check. But before she gave up and went home, she wanted a quick look at her unclaimed inheritance. Just in case.

  When she walked into the drugstore, Katie glanced up from what she was reading, and yawned. “Are we going to be rich beyond dreams of avarice, or not?”

  Jenny groaned. “Take a guess.” She gave her daughter a suspicious look. “Please, tell me you didn’t buy anything. We’ve got one hundred and ninety-seven bucks left on the Visa, and what’s in my wallet. After that, one of us will have to eat the other.”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “Chill, Mom. I didn’t buy anything. They were fresh out of crack cocaine and diamond nose rings. Jeez! Can we at least afford lunch? I took a little stroll around beautiful, downtown Elkbutt while you were at the lawyer’s. There’s a place down the block that looks like the Beverly Hillbillies run it.”

  “Edna’s Kountry Kitchen,” Jenny said with a sigh. “An Elkbutt tradition. Just don’t try peeking in the kitchen, and whatever you do, remember to wipe the silverware before you start eating.”