Menage

by Molly Ann Wishlade

  And a slow, tingling warmth to her cunny. Seeing him thus made her want to lift her skirts and reach beneath her bloomers. To touch herself in ways that she should be ashamed to imagine. But she did not feel shame. Instead she felt strangely frivolous and excited. Almost as if there was something in life to look forward to. She would look forward to seeing him naked from the waist up again if she knew that it were possible.

  And what about naked from the waist down?

  She sighed. She bit her lip. She realised that her wayward hand had pulled her skirts right up to her knees and she dropped them suddenly.

  This was foolish. Irrational. Thrilling.

  When she had first met Jack, he had been smart enough. Not gorgeous. Not a man that would have stood out in a crowd. But enough to make her imagine kissing him and being held by him. It was acceptable to her at first and she had not been repulsed by his advances once he had asked for her hand in marriage. She had refused to lay with him fully until they were officially wed, despite his repeated requests. But once she had become Mrs Holbein, she had given herself to him as a good wife should. It was a woman’s role to surrender all to her husband.

  Or so she had believed. Back then. Five years previous.

  But now?

  She was sure that she would never surrender so willingly again. For within weeks of marriage, Jack had changed entirely. Or had he changed? She sometimes wondered. Mayhap, it had just been her seeing him as the man she initially wanted him to be, and not as he really was.

  His kisses had become sloppier, often tainted with whisky. His caresses had gotten rougher. And his hands had done more than grab and paw at her. Fairly soon, they’d turned around and started hitting her too. She’d been reluctant to accept that it was happening at first. In shock. In denial. It was too frightening to contemplate what kind of life lay ahead for her if she were to keep to her marriage vows and stay with him.

  But stay she did.

  The beatings were occasional. Then weekly. Then too often to count. But worse than the beatings…far, far worse, for it made her vulnerable and terrified of doing something wrong to disturb the equilibrium…were the times when he displayed unwonted tenderness. When Jack was tender, she lived in mortal fear. For he would pet her like a lamb. Bring her small gifts like a flower posy or some ribbons for her hair. He would lift her and cradle her against his chest as if they were newlyweds and take her to bed.

  Those times…she shivered. They were worst of all. Because she spent every second of them waiting for him to explode.

  Which he always did. And then, as if to compensate for his tenderness, he would be even meaner and more brutal than before.

  Time had changed Jack’s appearance. Inwardly, she suspected that he had always possessed the cruel temper and sadistic streak but outside, where once he had appeared to be a happy young man, he showed signs of what lay within. Like a gnarled branch of a tree, his face and body changed. Where once he was slim and toned, he became bloated and twisted. His face bore a permanent frown and his eyes showed a darkness that turned her stomach.

  Jack had become what Grace most feared but she had wondered if it was her fault. After all, Jack had changed after getting married to her. So it would make sense to believe that it was because of her. Perhaps she was a bad wife and she did deserve all that he did to her. Were all marriages the same? Or did other women please their spouses?

  So she had stayed. For what choice did she really have? Where would she have gone and who would she have run to? She had no folks, no refuge, no money. Who would have taken in a woman whose husband despised her?

  And Jack would have gone after her. Found her. He’d told her as much. She belonged to him. No matter what.

  So Jack’s sudden illness and passing had been a blessing. Though she knew that she could burn in hell for thinking it, if the pastor spoke the truth, she was glad that Jack was dead.

  So glad. The freedom made her dizzy. Elated. Guilt-ridden.

  And now…to gain the company of two such handsome cowboys, when she was finally free of the shadow that had blighted her life for an eternity, had left her head swimming. She was confused at the way her body was reacting. Confused by the warmth that had begun to seep through her long-cold flesh. Confused by the tingling of her silken folds and the sweet hard bud that lay between them.

  Was there a possibility that life could be sweet?

  She undid the scarf that covered her head and pulled it away, then she let down her white-blonde hair and combed her fingers through its length. She never wore her hair down. Even at night she raked a comb through it then plaited it and stuck a nightcap over it. Hiding it away had been an act of rebellion for her. Jack had praised her hair when they were courting. She had not wanted him to see it any more so she had covered it, attempted to disguise the obvious symbol of her femininity.

  But suddenly she wanted it to hang free. To tumble over her shoulders where she could feel it, smell it, see it catching the light. Jack was not here to enjoy it any more. It was hers once more.

  What on earth did this all mean?

  ****

  Grace fluttered around the small table, placing plates and cups at equal distances from each other.

  Laying it for three.

  Her chest tightened. She had once dreamt of laying a table for three or four: her husband, her children and herself. But that dream had long since been shattered. She straightened the forks. Removed the coffee pot from the fire and placed it in the centre.

  She was jittery as a girl attending her first barn dance. Ridiculous at her age! Here she was, not two years from thirty with one husband already buried. And she was nervous about having her two farm hands in for dinner.

  Her farm hands. The possessive term made her lips turn up at the corners. It was silly. They weren’t hers and she didn’t even know if she could trust them. Yet.

  No. Not ever.

  Men could not be trusted. But it would be nice to have company. Eating alone was no fun night after night. If you could call it eating.

  There was a gentle knock at the door.

  They were here!

  “Come in.” Grace stood behind the table and pressed her shaking hands into her apron.

  Matt entered first, as she had known he would. He was freshly shaven and his hair was still damp. He had brushed it back from his square forehead and she noted how it curled around his ears and touched his collar at the sides. His blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. She reached out and gripped the back of the nearest chair hard until her knuckles turned white.

  “Well, something smells mighty good, Mrs Holbein.” He filled the room with his presence and Grace was once again aware of how big this man was. Not just physically. There was something else about him. Confidence. Awareness. Strength. Jack had filled a room too. But this was different. She did not feel afraid of Matt.

  Behind him, Blake appeared. His hair was also damp and though he was as tall and broad as Matt, his aura was gentler. Calmer. Soothing.

  Between them, they could be everything a woman wanted, Grace realised. One fair, one dark. Both finely built and strong as bulls. One in command and powerful, like the alpha of a wolf-pack. The other mellower, milder…but every bit as desirable. It would be hard to choose one over the other – if a woman were lucky enough to be wanted by them.

  “Can I help you with anything, ma’am?” Blake asked as he approached her.

  Help her? With the food? Grace realised that she was gaping like an idiot and rapidly closed her mouth.

  “No. Thank you. Please sit.”

  She gestured at the chairs at either end of the table. Then she turned to the fire. She had to focus on the food or it would spoil. Focus on the real things here, not the cowboys who were making her small home feel even smaller.

  “Might I say, Mrs Holbein, that you’re mighty pretty with your hair down like that?” Matt ran his eyes over her head and down her tresses to her waist. Did he pause for a moment too long where it fell over the small mou
nds of her bosoms?

  She inclined her head at the compliment. But inside she was filled with pride. He liked her hair. He said it was pretty. That she was pretty! It had been such a long time since anyone had said anything nice to her at all. It warmed her right through. She was glad of his praise. It helped to wash away the images of Jack grabbing handfuls of her hair as he pushed her face towards his groin and forced her to take him in her mouth. She gagged at the thought. How she had loathed doing that.

  She lifted the pot from the fire and brought it towards their plates.

  “Here you are, fellers.”

  She served up generous portions for them then a modest one for herself. She had to try to eat something, even though her stomach was like a big, knotted rope and her heart still raced like she’d been chasing a chicken around the yard.

  She sat in the space between them. She had thought to have more room that way but their muscular bodies took up their chairs and their arms filled the ends of the table where they rested. She kept her own elbows in as she began to pick at her meal.

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  “What is it?” Blake queried, a small frown creating a line between his brows. She gazed into his eyes and had to fight the urge to caress his strong handsome jaw.

  “Coffee.”

  She filled their cups.

  “You think of everything, Mrs Holbein.” Matt grinned as he filled his mouth with chicken and vegetable stew. “This is real good.”

  She inclined her head as she accepted the praise. Another compliment.

  This was so different.

  It unsteadied her but elated her. By now, she’d be terrified that Jack would find fault with the meal but instead, the satisfied noises coming from Matt and Blake were making her feel a gentle swelling of pride. She had done something right. Perhaps she was not such a bad cook, such a failure after all.

  “So where did you guys come from?” she asked, glancing from one to the other. The contrast between Matt’s blue eyes and Blake’s whisky-brown ones was striking. Yet both sets of eyes were intense, bright and interested.

  “Well…we been moving around for a while,” Matt explained, gesturing behind him with his fork as if to point to the town. “We did some work out in Rapid City. Mostly helping out with some building. Odd jobs and that. And we been to the new railroad town of Edgemont…”

  “And Lead,” Blake added. “As well as spending the best part of last year on the cattle trail.”

  “So you move around a lot.” Grace lifted another forkful of chicken. She put it into her mouth and chewed. It did taste good. They were right.

  “Sure do,” Blake replied. “Itchy feet.”

  “Itchy feet?” Grace wrinkled her nose. Didn’t sound good and she hoped it wasn’t catching.

  Matt laughed. “He means that we can’t keep our feet still, Mrs Holbein.”

  Grace blushed. What an idiot they must think she was. Perhaps Jack had been right.

  “Hey!” Blake moved his hand a fraction on the small table so that it brushed the back of hers. She gasped. His skin was warm. Smooth. Wonderful next to hers. Natural. A fire ignited in her body and she squeezed her thighs together.

  Wanton. Irrational. Crazy.

  Blake moved his hand gently. Grace’s breasts tightened as she pictured his hand moving over her body, caressing her naked flesh. “It’s okay, Mrs Holbein. No need to be embarrassed. Folks use different phrases all ova the place.”

  She nodded. Pulled her hands into her lap and dug her nails into her palms beneath the table. Why was she so affected by him? By them both?

  “Oh yeah…” Matt took a swig of coffee. “You should have seen some of the folks that work on the trails.” He waggled his eyebrows and Grace laughed in spite of herself.

  “Tell me. Please?”

  She wanted to hear about the outside world. About where they had been and the things they had seen. To share in their world for just an evening. To escape her own life. Her loneliness.

  For more than an hour, the cowboys regaled Grace with tales of their travels. They made her laugh with their impressions of folks they’d met and with their anecdotes about cowboy life. They bounced off one another, finishing the other one’s sentences and filling the pauses. It was almost as if they were a happily married couple the way that they gazed across the table, the understanding in their eyes and the affection that Grace could sense between them.

  As she sat there, Matt to her right and Blake to her left, she felt a part of something. They were trying to make her smile, to lift her spirits. And it was working. She was lifted by their joint enthusiasm and their kindness.

  When they finally fell silent, she looked down. Her plate was empty.

  “Oh…”

  “What is it?” Matt queried, his face full of concern.

  “I…I’ve finished.”

  “I don’t understand.” Blake brushed her hand again and she had to bite her cheek. How could such a soft caress fill her with such desire?

  “I’ve eaten all of my dinner.” She smiled. She had finished a meal. And enjoyed it. For the first time in a very long time. “You see, I don’t usually have much appetite but your stories…they made me forget.” She peered up at them shyly. Would they think she was a fool?

  Blake moved his hand and took hold of hers. He stroked her palm with his fingers. Softly. Feather-light. Her heart swelled at his tenderness and she fought the strangling threat of tears within her throat. She wished he would just pull her onto his lap and hold her against his hard chest. Rock her gently and soothe her until her heart ceased fluttering and the knot in her shoulders loosened.

  “Well, that’s good, Mrs Holbein. That’s mighty good.”

  She should pull her hand away. This was not appropriate. But his touch was so good.

  Matt opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Was he fighting his own emotions?

  “And please, fellers,” Grace said softly. Her body was relaxing with Blake’s gentle stroking. It was so pleasant that she could place her head right down on her plate and drift off to sleep. But she needed to finish. “Please call me Grace. Mrs Holbein…it’s so formal.”

  They both smiled. At the back of her mind, her fears still danced. Taunting her. Reminding her that men were brutes. They could not be trusted. They would be her undoing. But for now, she erected a fence between them and her evening.

  She was far too relaxed and strangely happy to allow the negativity to spoil the here and now.

  Tomorrow, in the small hours of dawn, even later on tonight, something would bring her back to her dismal reality. So why not savour this temporary escape?

  Chapter Four

  Grace stirred. The dawn light filtered through the small windows of the cabin and cast grey-tinted beams across the wooden floor. Dust particles danced in the faint glow as if enjoying an early morning jig.

  The room was cold. She shivered beneath the woollen blanket and snuggled deeper into the horsehair sofa. With its wooden frame and threadbare cushions, it wasn’t the most comfortable of beds but it served a purpose. It was preferable to trying to settle in the bed she’d shared with Jack. That bulk of odd ends of wood dominated the only bedroom. It was a constant reminder of what had happened there. Of what he’d put her through. There was nothing on earth that would make her ever want to sleep in that bed again. She shivered.

  She had best get up and stoke the fire. She hoped that it hadn’t gone out entirely. Usually, the embers would still be smouldering enough to create fresh flames with added timber.

  A smile settled on her lips as she recalled the previous evening. It had been so pleasant. Matt and Blake had been such gentlemen, making her laugh and sharing their stories. They had even insisted on helping her to clean up after dinner. Jack had never done that. It was a woman’s work, he’d said. But the two cowboys, who had only just arrived, felt grateful enough to help her. She was surprised, she couldn’t deny it. She could get used to having them around.<
br />
  If this wasn’t just a ruse to get something from her. Her heart began to thud and she absent-mindedly chewed at a nail. No. They couldn’t be bad. Could they?

  They could and she would be wise to pull herself together and stop acting as weak as an acorn calf with her fawning around. She had a farm and a home to run. Money to manage. Matt and Blake were just here to help. They were workers who moved around and even if they stayed on through the winter – her heart gave an involuntary leap – then at some point they would go. It was what they did. They had told her the stories.

  She would likely become a figure in one of their anecdotes that they would use to regale another widow along the way. The grizzly bear who fell for their collective charms. What a tale that would make!

  She pulled her moth-eaten nightcap from her hair and fingered her long plait. Wearing her hair down last night, she’d been free as a young girl again. It was funny how such a simple thing could make you feel differently. Though her wardrobe was limited to a few old dresses and one for Sunday best, she could imagine what it must be like for the rich to have fancy clothes. Something new or different could change your whole demeanour and even your perception of yourself.

  She sat up and stared down at her old nightdress. Once white, it was now grey with age and threadbare with wear. The ribbons at the neck had long since been torn and though it reached to her ankles, she still shivered as the cold draught blew through the door in the winter.

  Winter. What a long and awful experience that was going to be. Unless they stayed. Perhaps she could persuade them. But why on earth would they want to remain at the farm with her? Doubt gnawed at her belly like a jagged-toothed rat.

  She rose and tended to the fire, putting water to boil for coffee. A sound from outside startled her. There was a sharp rap at the door.

  She crossed the room silently and stood with a hand upon the latch.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs Holbein? Grace? You up?”

  “Matt?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Um. Just a second.” She glanced around the room hurriedly. What should she do? It would take too long to dress. Should she send him away? She really wanted to see him.