Menage. Molly Ann Wishlade
Jack. That also meant that they knew she was alone and that she had no man to protect her. She took a steadying breath.
Keep calm. Show no fear.
“What’s your names?” She stalled. She had no intention of giving them more information about her circumstances than she needed to. She didn’t have the time for pleasantries. There was no time to waste in the day. No time at all. She was exhausted, run ragged trying to take care of the farm all alone. They had never had any hired help and life had been tough but Jack had insisted that they could do it all themselves. But now that he’d gone, she realised exactly how much he had done.
Around the farm and to her.
She shivered. Her corset grazed the spot below her left shoulder blade that never fully healed and she gritted her teeth together. Damned sensitive female flesh. She was filled with resentment for her own frailty.
“I’m Matt Huntley and this here’s Blake Donohue.” Matt gestured to his companion.
“Howdy, Mrs Holbein.” Blake doffed his hat. Grace swallowed hard. His hair was black and shiny as a raven’s wings and his eyes like pools of whisky. His face was tanned from being outdoors and he had a few days’ growth of stubble. But he was handsome as the devil himself. She shook her head.
A pleasing face did not equal a good heart. As she’d learnt. For the past five years.
“So you got any work needs doin’, Mrs Holbein?” Matt asked, offering a crooked grin that made her heart flip in spite of her anxiety.
She did need help, it was true. She’d been into town recently and asked about labourers but it seemed that everyone was hooked up at the mines or elsewhere. No one was interested in helping Grace Holbein out. And she suspected that she knew why. It all came down to Jack and his sour-faced obstinacy. During their marriage, he’d turned his back on everyone who’d asked him for help and upset everyone within the locality. When she’d buried him, she’d paid handsomely for his casket and the cart to carry it. Apart from the pastor, she’d been the only one who’d stood at his graveside.
As lonely after his death as she had been during their marriage. Ironic really, as marriage was meant to bind two people together. She had learnt the hard way that this wasn’t true.
So Grace had been left alone. Struggling. Without a man. Without anyone.
“What experience you got?” She met their eyes in turn. They looked like they worked hard, both were fit and muscular as bulls. She needed help with the heavy work before the winter set in. South Dakota winters were hard and she wasn’t happy about the idea of spending this one alone. Although she wasn’t going to miss that domineering rat of a husband either.
“We’ve done most types of work, Mrs Holbein. We can help with the animals, the crops, repairs on the outbuildings and any maintenance. All we ask for is room and board and the regular going wage.”
Grace chewed her lip. It would be risky taking on two strangers with no references from the folks in town. They could be conmen or thieves just passing through, intent on robbing anyone who crossed their path. But what was the alternative? She’d faced the cold shoulders of the folks in Deadwood and didn’t have the time to go begging in Custer City, so she’d better take this opportunity whilst it was presented.
Grace was in a bad box.
“I can’t afford the going rate.” She tested the waters. The heavy weave of the basket had begun to dig into the flesh of her arm. She was suddenly aware of the aromas that she was usually oblivious to. Chicken faeces. The stale sweat of her old cotton dress. The smoke coming from the cabin chimney.
She was suddenly aware of what a mess she must appear. But surely that was a good thing…to discourage any interest in her as a woman. She shuddered.
The men exchanged a glance so fast that she almost missed it. Matt shrugged. “No matter. Place to sleep and some victuals are what we need most. Money’s a bonus. We’ll take what you can spare.”
Grace nodded. His acceptance made her even more suspicious but she’d give it a go and see what happened. If she was lucky, they’d be hard workers with a genuine interest in earning an honest wage. If not, she was certain that things couldn’t get any worse for her. And she always had her blade ready for action. Just in case.
“Well, you can go leave your bags in the barn out back. There’s room for your horses there too. Then you can start by mucking out the pigs.” She cocked an eyebrow. Waited. If they weren’t genuine she doubted that they’d waste time getting covered in pig shit. But she’d enjoy watching if they did!
Matt smiled. “No problem, ma’am. Come on, Blake, let’s do as the lady commanded.” He hoisted his bedroll onto his back and let himself through the gate, leading his mare behind him. Blake followed, casting a shy glance at Grace as he passed her. A smile wavered on his lips for a moment, as if he were unsure how to behave around her. It was sweet, respectful, adolescent almost. As if he wasn’t used to being around womenfolk. Her cheeks flooded with heat and she took a step back, almost tripping over a chicken.
“Darnit!” She turned and shooed the bird away. “Stupid hen.”
But though she aimed the words at the bird that flapped its wings and clucked as it moved out of harm’s away, she was thinking about herself. Foolish woman for reacting to a man. She was the widow Holbein. The wife left behind by one of the meanest and most aggressive men to set foot in the Black Hills.
Grace knew how harsh a man could be. She had escaped once by outliving the son of a bitch and she had no intention of getting herself involved again.
Men were trouble. No doubt about it. She had the physical and mental scars to prove it.
****
Matt and Blake dumped their bedrolls and belongings into a corner of the barn. It was cool, dark and comforting. The aroma of hay and animals was what they were used to and Matt now associated it with being home. As much of a home as they could have right now anyways.
“So whadda you think?” Matt turned to his companion.
Blake frowned. “Well, that sure ain’t the woman they spoke of in town.”
Matt grinned. “You know, I think that ol’ dog Al Swearengen mighta had his sights set on the widow Holbein. What was it he said about her?”
“A grumpy old grizzly bear of a woman.” Blake laughed. “With a behind as big as two barrels and a cunny as wide as the Deadwood gulch!”
“That’s right!” Matt slapped his thigh. “But she ain’t old.”
“An’ she ain’t fat neither,” Blake added. “In fact, if anything she’s a bit on the skinny side.”
Matt nodded. The widow was thin and fragile. Though she’d attempted to convey that she was harsh and cold, there was something in her eyes that told him more. The way that she held herself worried him. He wasn’t sure what it was but something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was grief that sat like a heavy shroud upon her frail frame but the wariness in her grey eyes spoke of something other than grief. It was etched there, deeply, like a brand upon a cow’s hide. She was scarred by something and it left him wondering what it was.
“Yeah I got a feeling that Swearengen was trying to bamboozle us with his description of the lady. I’d say she ain’t more than twenty-eight or nine and she’s quite fair on the eye. If you like that kinda thing.” Matt winked at Blake and received a smile in response. He loved that smile. The way it lit up Blake’s whole face and created those dimples either side of his generous mouth, even through his stubble.
Blake moved towards him. “And do you like that sort of thing, Matt?” He slid his arms around Matt’s waist and enveloped him in a hug. Blake’s familiar masculine scent washed over him and he breathed deeply, savouring the way it lifted his heart and hardened his cock.
“You know how I feel about it, Blake,” he murmured into Blake’s shoulder,