The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Sinclair was dying to bring up the infamous Morgan again, but he feared a reaction like last time, so he said, “Well, I want you to know I’m in it for the long haul. I have no self-doubts. I’ll be there to pick up the pieces if you burn her. But I have every intention in the world of pursuing her to the ends of the earth. I’m in love with her.”

  “Very noble of you,” Harper said lightly. It was that sort of flippancy that masked serious turmoil, though, Sinclair could tell. A cloud soon shaded Harper’s eyes. “Have you told her about…about the love part?” He was clearly highly uncomfortable with the word.

  “Of course not. I don’t want to scare her away. She’s just coming out of a long marriage. Even though she was estranged from the jerk for years, I know from Drake that he beat her, forced her into sexual acts, slammed her into a lit electric oven once. Didn’t you notice those ropey scars on her left arm?”

  Harper frowned something fierce. “Yeah,” he said heatedly. “I thought maybe an accident from all of her mountain climbing or sky diving or whatever. I’ve got plenty of scars, too.”

  “Nope. Drake told me about that particular one, but there were a dozen other incidents. He burned her hair over a candle, threw a heavy pot at her, oh and stuck a lit cigarette into the side of her neck.”

  “I saw that too.” Harper’s eyes practically shot flames of rage, he was that easy to read. “Thought it was maybe some African inoculation or other.”

  “No. So what I’m saying is, we have to tread lightly. She’s fascinated with studying us and our games, but she might think we’re a couple of Don Juans or gigolos just out for her money if we come on too strong. That’s my thinking, anyway. You can do what you want, obviously. I have no control over that.” He made a movement as if to return to the room, wanting to see Harper’s reaction.

  “You know,” Harper said warningly, and Sinclair obediently froze and looked at him. “I haven’t been enjoying the club scene as much as I used to. I think I…I think I was using it like a drug to cover my pain at losing Morgan. I’m never going to get over that, don’t get me wrong. She was the love of my life. But lately I’ve been thinking that maybe…” He looked at the horizon with narrowed eyes, maybe fighting back tears.

  “Maybe,” Sinclair encouraged him.

  Harper exhaled heavily. “Maybe I’m over that life, needing that nonstop activity, tying men up, flogging them, performing cock and ball torture on them—”

  Sinclair was quick to cut in. “Don’t be so hasty. You don’t need to go all in right away.”

  Harper looked amused. “What do you mean?”

  “What’s wrong with a little cock and ball torture? I mean, stay away from The Racquet Club, fine, I’m all for that. No sense in bringing diseases back to us.”

  Harper raised one eyebrow. “We use rubbers over there.”

  “I’m just saying. Maybe you’re just over the life that involves a constant parade of strangers. There’s nothing wrong with tying people up.” The truth was, Sinclair had been highly stimulated by his S&M experiences with Harper. The club, of course, where he’d been manipulated without a single word. He’d been so aroused by the anonymous sex he’d shot in his pants. Then being lured to the tack room and cuffed to the saddle rack. Jacking Sinclair then sucking him. Harper hadn’t asked his permission, but he’d gone ahead just the same. Wasn’t that S&M? Or was it B&D? How did Harper know Sinclair liked it? Sinclair knew he could have struggled harder, and he had never once told Harper to stop.

  “Yeah, I think you’re on to something.” Harper had a difficult time looking anyone in the eyes when talking about real feelings. “You’re right—nothing wrong with a little bondage and discipline. Except when performed on me. Don’t you fucking try that trick with the handcuffs again, partner.” He could sure fix Sinclair with his icy stare when pissed about something, though.

  “It just came over me,” Sinclair said, happy his B&D wasn’t being taken away from him. “I got carried away.”

  “Anyway, you hit the nail on the head. The anonymous sex has got to go. There’s no thrill in it anymore.” A devilish glint came into Harper’s eyes then, softening his face. “I’m glad that I know your and Violet’s names. You’re not anonymous.”

  Sinclair wasn’t overly comfortable with sappy moments, either. “I’m almost as clueless as you. I haven’t even had a fiancée. Guess I’ve been living a fairly superficial life too. Let’s get back to the room. Violet’s ice has probably melted by now.”

  * * * *

  “Well, well! Miss Stinson. Imagine running into you again.”

  Don Wexler looked as though he wasn’t used to smiling. Violet didn’t know why she tolerated the greasy Fed, who really did look like he wore some secret service ear buds. She couldn’t figure out his end game, what he wanted, where he lived.

  But Violet was polite, and had a recent interest in studying human behavior, so she stopped and held her full ice bucket to her stomach. “Mr. Wexler.”

  “Please. Call me Don. Are you dining here?”

  “No. Well, maybe later, yes. We have a room. Are you staying here?”

  “Yes!” He did have a room key in his hand—the Searchlight still used old fashioned keys—and he looked at it, then to the door they stood near. “The David Niven Room, this is it.”

  Violet frowned. “I believe that room is occupied by some hashish-smoking youths. Are you sure it says David Niven?”

  Don looked closer at the keychain. “Oh, wrong again. Looks like it says the Sonny Bono Room. Must be upstairs. Who are you here with?”

  “Oh, the same guy I was with at the rodeo. He’s going to be my date to the Modern Committee benefit.”

  “That Sinclair Nieman fellow? Well, he’s a lucky guy, Violet. Are you getting serious with him?”

  Violet frowned. Why was Don Wexler so interested in her romantic life? “I don’t know yet. It depends on a lot of things. Are you getting ready for the gala?”

  “And that cowboy? Is he the same one you were watching ride bareback at the rodeo?”

  “Why, yes, he is, as a matter of fact. Harper Davies. Apparently he’s well-known around the rodeo circuit, gaining a lot of points or whatever it is participants do. Tell me something, Don. When I first met you in the lobby, then Rose Stinson came in to fetch me, you became uncomfortable and had to leave. Why don’t you like Rose?”

  “Rose Stinson? Who is that? Your sister. Ha ha.” Yes, Wexler was as phony as pro wrestling, and he even said “ha ha” aloud.

  “Oh, never mind, I suppose it’s just a coincidence. Where did you say you live, Don?”

  “Live? Well, obviously not anywhere nearby, or I wouldn’t have this room. No sirree. I live in Los Angeles. There are dozens of prime examples of midcentury architecture there.”

  Violet opened her mouth to ask another question, but the door of the David Niven Room opened and one of the hashish-smoking rebels emerged. He walked on by listlessly with his frizzy hair, organic hemp shirt, and socks with sandals, but it was the cloud of hemp that drove Violet away from the room. She turned and headed back to the Shag Room.

  Waving a palm in front of her face, she told Don, “I appreciate the right of others to enjoy their hashish in private, but I must say, the contact high really affects me. I’m one of those people who have the opposite reaction to it. I become very disoriented and groggy, and I can barely stand up.”

  Don brushed it off. “Yes, teens will be teens. Look, there’s the pétanque court the clerk told me about. It’s got a lovely view of the San Jacinto Mountains. Come.”

  Violet saw no reason not to go enjoy the view from the vast lawn. She had played pétanque many times in France, and the court was being used, people clacking their metal boule balls against each other as they bowled.

  Don asked, “And how has your afternoon been going in the Shag Room?”

  Had she told him she was staying in the Shag Room? Maybe the clerk told him. “Oh, just excellent, Don. Sinclair actually found this old thimble h
is father left in the room what? Thirty years ago? And what do you normally do for a living when you’re not attending midcentury benefits?”

  “Oh, you mean in LA? Ah, I’m just a dull old mortgage broker. That’s me all right. Dull as dishwater. That’s how I got into this whole midcentury thing, studying the architecture around LA.”

  That did make more sense to Violet, and calmed her concerns about the odd secret agent man. It also explained why he’d be staying at a retro motel like the Searchlight. “Have you been to the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood to see a movie? I saw Lawrence of Arabia there in the old three-screen format.” The Dome was one of only three movie theaters left in the world that retained the old Cinerama process.

  “Cinerama?” Don looked blank. “Oh, movies are great, aren’t they? Say, would you like to take a tour tomorrow of the House of Tomorrow?”

  The House of Tomorrow was Elvis and Priscilla Presley’s honeymoon retreat, and Violet hadn’t visited it yet. “Yes! It’s got a batwing roof and the floor plan is four concentric circles, right?”

  Don brightened up. “That’s the one! Let’s go tomorrow. It’ll give us something to discuss at the Bee Line benefit, too.”

  That was true. Violet had been very lax in touring her midcentury modern architecture since returning to Last Chance. She had started learning CowBucks, the software for tracking cattle, in Drake’s office. She had always managed her and Bryan’s finances, and she was discovering she was a natural doing the same for Drake’s cows. That had occupied the time she hadn’t spent daydreaming about Harper or Sinclair. “Sounds good, Don. Should I meet you there? Don’t we need to get tour tickets?”

  She had never seen Don this excited. “I already have them! I’ve got tickets for the one o’clock show, and—oh, dear.”

  “Hey, creep! Yeah, you! Stop right there.”

  Violet twirled around to see Harper storming down the lawn’s slope in a beeline for her. She held out her hands. “Harper! They’re playing a game! You can’t just walk through the pétanque—”

  “Hey, dude!” yelled a pétanque player when the cowboy-hatted man in chaps strode right through the middle of his game, kicking a couple of boule balls that scattered like marbles. “What’s the big idea?”

  Harper didn’t even seem to notice the ball court as he strode furiously over to the couple. Violet was confused. What was he so irate about?

  He was yelling, “You! Mister Rent-a-Cop! Don’t move a fucking muscle.”

  Automatically, Violet moved to put her body between Harper and Don. “Harper! What’s wrong? I was just chatting with Mr. Wexler about some items related to the bowling alley benefit.” She had to put her hand on Harper’s chest, because he was trying to reach around her and poke Don in the chest. Don, understandably, was backing off slowly toward the San Jacinto Mountains.

  Harper shouted, “Listen, you creepy Brylcreem lover! Keep your greasy hands off my girlfriend. I don’t care if you’re researching a bowling alley or the submarine races, just stay away from Violet.”

  “Harper!” Violet barked. “Don poses no threat. We were just going to the Elvis—Don! You don’t have to leave! I’m sorry Harper is overreacting!”

  Don was already fleeing up the rise toward the Cavern on the Green. Violet was angry that Harper had scared him off. She might not be thoroughly at ease with the slick bodyguard—or was it mortgage broker?—but she’d be damned if she’d let a man run him off. That worked in the animal kingdom, but weren’t humans supposed to be above all of that?

  “It’s all right, Violet!” called Don. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  Violet waved at his quickly departing figure. “Don! I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  Don flailed his arms in seeming confusion. “No problem!” he called cheerily, and vanished around the corner.

  Violet turned her wrath on Harper. “What the fuck was that all about?”

  Sinclair was now calmly coming down the lawn, but he made a wide berth around the ball court.

  “You trust people too much, Violet.” Harper gripped her by the upper arms and shook her. “That asinine son of a bitch gives me the willies. He’s as creepy as a cat with hands.”

  Sinclair was waving dismissively. “Sorry about that, Violet. Harper here just got all hot under the collar when he saw you talking to that sleazy greaseball.”

  Violet knew she was rebelling. She hadn’t liked to be told what to do when she was a teenager and she still had that rebellious streak. “What’s all this talk—greaseball, Rent-a-Cop, Brylcreem? Really? He’s just an innocent bystander who happens to love the same architecture I do.”

  “Violet,” Sinclair said patiently. “You’re only on that committee because your mother was, may she rest in peace. Is it really that important you hang out with that guy? He looks like he should be talking into a cufflink mic.”

  Harper added, “He’s as greasy as a drive shaft!”

  Violet held out her hands. “Okay, calm down.” She was secretly flattered at the attention, and especially the fact that Harper had termed her his “girlfriend” while needlessly defending her. “We weren’t doing anything. We were just planning to see Elvis’s honeymoon hideaway tomorrow.”

  Harper ripped off his Stetson and slapped his thigh with it. “You’re naïve, Violet. You’re too innocent to be out in society. You don’t realize that men are predatory wolves and that guy is just a gigolo after your divorce settlement!”

  Violet had heard that rag before from her brother. Watch out for users who only want you for your money. Lady-killers are going to schmooze you and shower you with attention, and the second you marry them they’re gone, or worse. “I’m not worried, Harper. I’m hardly marrying the guy. After all, you just called me your girlfriend. I think I’ll stick with you.”

  This finally got Harper to turn aside, exhaling with frustration. “Yeah, well I don’t want you going to Elvis’s house with the guy, either.”

  “What do you think, Sinclair?” Violet questioned the other man she hoped was also her “boyfriend.” “Does Don Wexler get under your skin that badly?”

  Sinclair put his arms around her and drew her close. “Not that badly. But yeah, I don’t like the idea of Elvis’s honeymoon cottage or whatever. Let me take you there.”

  Violet relented. She didn’t need to hang out with the alleged mortgage broker that badly. She knew that women should relent some of the time in order to please their men. “All right. You and I can go see Elvis. I don’t need to hang out with Don Wexler.”

  Immediately they were pleased, their faces wreathed in smiles. Violet was beginning to see how this all worked between men and women.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Well, I got my Master of Science degree from Rice ten years ago,” said Harper, looking at his whiskey glass, “but I only really utilized it for about five years after that.”

  Harper figured if he wanted to become more intimate with the other two, he needed to start opening up. Letting them in on areas of his life they might be interested in. He was taking baby steps, but it was a start. The most any vaquero in the Shining Lands outfit knew about him was that he’d started out in rodeo in bulldogging—steer wrestling. And he’d begun two years ago at Shining Lands as a greenhorn hand bucking hay and riding the rankest broncs, after a six-month bender after Morgan’s death. One day he’d been languishing by his condo’s pool when a neighbor came up and asked if he ever wanted to get off his ass. For the first time in months, Harper had said sure. They had flown to California the next day.

  “Where did you work?” asked Violet. She was more radiant today than ever. They caught the final brilliant rays of the setting sun while stretched out in lounge chairs by Shining Lands’ swimming pool. The irregular lake-shaped pool gleamed like the surface of the moon, the water’s ripples reflecting on the underside of Violet’s chin. Tonight she had unwrapped the jean skirt she had worn when out riding with Harper, revealing the high cut of a black one-piece swimsuit. Harper knew she
thought she had “thunder thighs,” so to let the men see her disrobed like this was a sign of her trust.

  “I worked in Brownsville and then at an air force base in Alaska.” It felt strange talking about his former life. “For Boeing. Designing shuttle launches and other aircraft structures.”

  He hadn’t remembered how impressive it sounded until Violet looked at him from over the top of her enormous, bug-like sunglasses. “You’re kidding me. So you’re a rocket scientist?”

  Sinclair said, “Why should he be kidding? You don’t think a cowboy can design space shuttles? We already know he’s a man of many talents.” Sinclair had gone golfing with some old friends earlier. According to the rules of golf, he’d been wearing a lemon yellow polyester shirt, but luckily he’d taken that off, claiming his skin couldn’t breathe.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that.” Violet clarified it for them. “I just mean, that just sounds like such a more lucrative career than herding cattle.”

  Sinclair said, “Maybe that’s why he never tells anyone, Violet. He doesn’t want that reaction.”

  “It’s all right,” said Harper. “I never tell anyone because I just don’t tell anyone anything about myself, period. Safer that way.”

  Violet pressed on. “Then why did you stop engineering?”

  Harper gave her a break. He knew she had a lack of social skills, especially romantic ones, that made her a better fit for relating to animals. “My fiancée died. Carved up like a turkey by some psycho who lured naïve women to his truck by pretending to have a broken arm.”

  Even with the amber glow of the sun bathing her face, Harper could tell Violet blanched with mortification. “Oh, shut the front door. I’ve blown it again, haven’t I? I seriously didn’t mean to pry, Harper. Forgive me. Here, let me refresh your drink.”

  Since he really didn’t want to talk about it, Harper handed Violet his empty rocks glass. He didn’t want her to feel bad, though. “It’s all right, darlin’. When I first interviewed with Joaquin here at Shining Lands he wanted to know too why I didn’t want to engineer rockets anymore. It’s a natural question. I guess not many guys go from rocket engineer to vaquero. I had some ranching background as a kid growing up in Texas, anyway.”