Labor Day in Lusty, Texas [The Lusty, Texas Collection] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting)

by Cara Covington

  They were connected, all these people. She closed her eyes for just a moment. They weren’t just people. They were her grandmother’s family. They were her family.

  Abigail had a lot of questions, regardless that the box had also contained a journal, as well as a neatly kept stack of letters, tied together with a red ribbon.

  Had her mother known, all these years, that they had family, south of Abilene? Abigail had racked her brain, but she was certain she’d never heard mention of any family at all, ever.

  She set the photo down and picked up the journal once more. Opening the book, she scanned the words that had been penned within. This time, she didn’t wonder who’d written the words. She recognized her grandmother’s writing.

  She hadn’t read the letters yet—she was saving them for last. The journal had proved enlightening and yet left more to be desired.

  Abigail had learned enough, so far, to understand that Maude, at the age of twenty-one, and feeling very self-righteous, had left her home and her family to seek her own way in the world. At least she hadn’t done so clandestinely—she hadn’t up and run away from home in the middle of the night. No, she’d detailed the family conference that had taken place. Knowing her grandmother had never been one to mince words, Maude Elizabeth Parker-Jones had proclaimed she was ashamed of the lifestyle her family lived—that many of the people in Lusty lived. At first Abigail thought she’d meant people living in lust, but no, it seemed Lusty was the name of what? A commune? A town? She shook her head. Apparently, having more than one father was the norm in this Lusty, but it was a norm that left Maude feeling as if she didn’t truly belong in the family she’d been born into.

  Maude had written that, even in the face of her confession, her family treated her kindly. They’d accepted her need to leave and had even given her money—a significant sum for the times—to keep her until she could establish herself.

  Abigail turned to the page that had resonated with her and read the words again.

  Mother told me that if I wanted a fair chance to make whatever life I chose, I would need to play a part. The world outside Lusty would not be kind to a young unmarried woman traveling alone. She gave me a gold band that had belonged to her own mother, brought with her across country when she’d left Virginia and traveled to Texas. Once I left town, I was to be Maude Elizabeth Parker, a young widow.

  At the time, I suspected some trick to frighten me into staying, despite the fact that Mother never lied to me. But I discovered her words had been prophetic. I never, in truth, found that fair chance, but perhaps my road was smoothed by that small falsehood. And for a while, the sadness of my decision weighed on me, giving emotional credence to the fact that I had indeed suffered a great loss.

  What would have happened if Abigail had been brave enough to speak to her grandmother about her own feelings of not fitting in with this family? Would Maude Parker have understood? Sympathized?

  Abigail truly had no idea.

  The shadows of late afternoon had fallen. She took a few moments to turn on the kitchen light. Then she quickly made herself a sandwich, poured a fresh glass of tea, and returned to the table.

  She wanted to read a bit more of the journal and maybe even a few of those letters. Abigail couldn’t explain the draw she felt. Having today come face to face with some of her family’s secrets, she felt she needed to know them all—or at least as many of them as might be found within these pieces of written history.

  * * * *

  The one thing Michael Benedict had never needed to worry about was this—the total acceptance of his family. Sitting around the dinner table in the big house, with both Grandmother Mattie and Grandmother Chelsea in attendance, as well as his four grandfathers, his brothers Caleb and Jonathan and their Bernice, Carson and his parents—this was exactly what he’d needed.

  He knew it’s what Carson had needed, as well.

  “I never gave it a great deal of thought, but I suppose if you were to own a business, it would have had to be a book store. Congratulations, darling.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Michael beamed. “I know there were at least a few raised eyebrows in the family when I announced that I wanted to teach college level. But the business-oriented part of my background hasn’t been completely drowned out in academia.”

  “When do you plan to open for business?” Gerald Benedict, one of his fathers, asked.

  His grandfather Dalton Jessop focused on him, and he knew that once he got going he’d need to sit down with him and discuss a business plan. Dalton Jessop was big on having a solid business plan.

  “It’s not going to be an immediate thing. I had a good rapport with the late owner, a bibliophile named Cleveland Arbuckle. He left only a cousin, off in Oregon or Washington. I also happened to know the man’s lawyer because his wife is on staff at the college. It was he who contacted me and wondered if I’d be interested in buying the place—otherwise the building would go to auction and likely not only close permanently, but the books might well have ended up in a dumpster.” Michael couldn’t hold back the shiver that thought caused. “Before I reopen the store I need to conduct an inventory of the books, as well as have someone go over the building. I don’t want any unexpected electrical or plumbing problems to surprise me.”

  “Sensible,” Dalton said. “You need to hire someone to spearhead that project. If you leave it just for yourself, in your spare time, it will never get done.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve come to that conclusion.”

  Dalton seemed appeased at that. Then he turned his attention to Carson. “I hear you had an interesting meeting on Friday.”

  His brother didn’t so much as scowl, but Michael knew, inside, he was fuming. Not because Dalton raised the matter of that unpleasant confrontation, either. It was the inference that that toad, Henry Kaufmann, had called their grandfather.

  “Yes, sir.” Carson sat forward and looked his predecessor in the eye. “I regretted having to let Kaufmann go.”

  “You had no choice. Should have fired the man months ago. I told you that—and I told him that, when he called me.”

  Carson nodded. “I was aware he called you—the security guard Stella put on him reported to her as much—but I didn’t know your response, verbatim. Although I didn’t doubt you’d support my decision, sir.” Then he smiled and looked to Mother. “Stella is proving to be invaluable. Thank you, Mother, for suggesting her.”

  “She’s a sensible woman, and a good one.” High praise from Kate Benedict.

  “She is, indeed.”

  After supper, he and Carson got their gear together, including a basket of sandwiches that grandmother Mattie pressed on them, saddled their horses, and headed out for their overnight under the stars.

  No matter how old he got, or how immersed in the world of academia he became, Michael hoped he never became too removed from his roots not to do this—to seek solace from the land.

  They rode side by side, two brothers who, on the surface, didn’t appear to have a great deal in common, one with the other. Michael had always had a protector and champion in his older brother, two years his senior.

  “This is what I needed,” Carson said. “There’s a connection here. Straight back to Joshua and Caleb and Sarah.”

  “There is. I wonder if it’s because, especially in this part of the ranch, so many of us were conceived?”

  Carson laughed. “I never looked at it quite that way. You figure our fathers and grandfathers were conceived on the banks of this stream?”

  They’d reached their destination, the same place where the men came each year for their weekend under the stars. It had been a wonderful time for bonding, and Michael had begun to suspect the visceral connection at some point just after he’d lost his virginity.

  “The place is called Lusty, I’ll remind you.” Michael grinned.

  “So it is. Mikey, thank you for this.”

  It pleased him to hear that childhood nickname from his brother once more. “I needed
it, too. I think I’ll always need this. So, the corporate shoes are getting tight, are they?”

  “It’s all the flaming bullshit.” Carson, like him, got busy unloading his horse. They hobbled their mounts close by so they could eat and drink and do whatever it was two geldings did when left to their own devices.

  They didn’t bring a tent—never did. It was a bedroll, a couple blankets, and a fire. They worked quietly to get that fire going now, using the bits of wood stashed by some low bushes, wood that would need to be replenished soon.

  The scent of coffee rose up, strong and appetizing. Michael knew his brother would agree with him that coffee brewed in a tin pot over an open fire was the best damn coffee in the world.

  “I get corporate politics. That’s not really a problem. If a man—or woman, for that matter—doesn’t have any ambition to climb the ladder, I’m not sure I want them working for me. So that’s all well and good. It’s the stupid games, the petty grievances, and, in the case of Kaufmann, the irrational clinging to a world that no longer truly exists. It all just completely pisses me off.”

  “Believe it or not, there are similar behaviors in the academic world. I just received tenure, as you know. That was a damn struggle and a half, let me tell you. The current chair of the English Department is a stodgy fellow who believes the department is his personal fiefdom. I’ve attended two “cocktail parties” at his home, and rather than optional social events, those are command performances. There are rules and traditions, and all sorts of bullshit there, too, things that have nothing to do with teaching young people how to appreciate the nuances of life through learning the nuances of literature.”

  “Does life imitate art, or does art imitate life?” Carson’s voice had taken on a mocking tone.

  Michael laughed. There were times when they teased each other about the rarified air they each were purported to be breathing, lately. The cousins called them the oil tycoon and the professor, and against that lot—many of them lawyers—the two of them formed a united front. “I don’t know if there’s a clear-cut answer on that one, but I’m opting for the latter in my newest thesis.”

  “How’s that book coming?”

  “Slowly. I have part of my premise set out. I’m just waiting for inspiration.”

  “Inspiration.” Carson got up, carefully removed the coffee pot from the rocks they used as a base, and poured steaming java into their mugs. He set the pot down close to the fire to keep it warm, passed Michael a cup, and took his seat again across from him. “I’ve been thinking about inspiration, which is one of the reasons I needed to be here.”

  “You’re thinking of all the times the grandfathers told us about how they wooed and won our grandmothers? And how our dads and uncles found their mates?” It was a topic the older men in Lusty never tired of sharing—not just the actual facts, so that a young man wishing to have a ménage marriage grew up understanding the logistics, both physical and emotional, of such an endeavor. No, those men liked to lecture on the importance of finding the right woman, of all she could be for them, provided, of course, they treated her right.

  “Yeah. And at dinner tonight—well, let’s just say it hit home for me how well the old men managed with their Bernice.”

  Michel grinned. “They did, didn’t they? I think she is exactly the right woman for them. You wondering when our turn will come?”

  “Well, we certainly don’t want to end up like the bachelor uncles, now do we?”

  Carson’s reference to their Uncles William and Peter was a valid point. Both men were content in their lives, no question about it. But they were also men with no one—no spouses, no children—to see to them as they aged.

  Fortunately, in Lusty, no one was left behind. Michael knew, in years to come, those gentlemen would be cared for, and loved by him and his brothers and sister, and not find themselves alone.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that,” Michael said. He saluted his brother with his coffee cup. “You and I are still young. In fact, we’re just coming into our own. I figure in another two or three years, we’ll meet her.”

  “I’ll share your confidence, until I can find my own.”

  Michael drank deeply from his cup. That was the blessing of their relationship, his and Carson’s. Yes, they were different—superficially. But at the bottom of it all they were Benedicts, and not only Benedicts but two who fully intended to share a wife.

  They were a unit, and just that gave them all the strength and hope they needed to go forward.

  Chapter Three

  Something must have gone wrong. Neil Farnsworth couldn’t think of any other explanation. He’d expected his regular payment from the States at the end of February. When it hadn’t arrived on schedule, he thought something might be up, but he wasn’t particularly worried about it. They’d always come, more on time than not, ever since they’d switched their endeavors from here to the States. Then March came and went, and still, he had been willing to wait.

  But now May had arrived, and not only had there been no check in the mail but no letter detailing the next goal, information he would need in order to book his flight back to the States for the second week of June. He could go last minute, almost anywhere. Being a travel agent wasn’t without its privileges. But he didn’t like the uncertainty of that approach.

  Neil hesitated to call his partner on the phone. The one thing about a letter in the mail was there were so many of those filling the planes between the United States and Great Britain that no one paid letters much mind at all. Plus, he was a travel agent, one known to take a couple of weeks every June to explore places of interest in the U.S. that he would then—theoretically—promote to his customers. His being an ex-pat American made him a travel agent people here trusted when their destination was the U. S. He also got letters from the States every week, as he handled some customers coming to Britain who wanted to use him for the same reason in reverse—he was American living in the unknown realm of England.

  But a phone call? Potentially, phone calls weren’t private. Especially trans-Atlantic calls, and while they occurred more often in these enlightened modern times, they were still not an everyday occurrence—except in the case of big businesses. Farnsworth Travel was definitely not big business. He did all right, well enough that, when he finally took his retirement in a few years, there’d be no question as to how he’d be able to afford to live as well as he knew he was going to.

  They’d planned this second career of theirs very, very well.

  He and his business partner had chosen the area where they wanted to eventually settle. They’d pooled their funds and purchased a villa on the Isle of Capri, one that was currently being rented to tourists. There was no reason not to make money with the place until the time was right for them.

  It had been the perfect scheme, and they’d been committing the perfect crimes. But Neil Farnsworth hadn’t heard from Cleveland Arbuckle in months. He didn’t think for even one moment that his lifelong friend and partner in crime had cut him out. At least, that wouldn’t be his first guess. No, something had to be seriously wrong.

  “I’ll go fetch us a couple of cups of tea. Make yourself comfortable, Uncle. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  Farnsworth did just that, made himself comfortable in the office of his nephew, a manager at Global-East Investments. Bryson Thomas was a good man, the only child of his sister, Eunice, who’d married a Londoner years ago. Bry had asked no questions when Neil explained he wanted to ring a friend in the States. Global-East was a sufficiently large company they had a dedicated line for transatlantic calls, which meant his one call would cost them nothing extra.

  Bry closed the door behind him. Neil took the paper with the phone number out of his pocket. Within moments of dialing, he heard the sound of the call going through. He’d timed it carefully. It was just after nine in the morning in Texas. His call was answered on the third ring.

  “Arbuckle’s Books.”

  “Yes, I’d like
to speak to Cleveland Arbuckle, please.”

  A short silence followed his request. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  Neil never thought to lie. No reason to, since he and Cleveland had been friends for years. Whoever it was who’d answered would be told by Cleveland, if necessary, whatever tale suited to explain his call. “Yes, it’s Neil Farnsworth. I’m a friend of Cleveland’s living in England.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Farnsworth, to tell you that your friend has passed away.”

  It was the absolute last thing Neil had expected. How could this have happened? He must have muttered that last sentence out loud.

  “Apparently, Cleveland died in his sleep, the last day in February.”

  “That’s why he didn’t send me—” Neil stopped. His mind scrambled, the shock more than he could manage at the moment, apparently, if he just about blurted out something incriminating.

  “If there was a special-order book you were expecting, I can look for it for you. I’ve just taken over the business, but I’m not ready to open, at least, not just yet. I need to take a thorough stock of what’s here, first, and then hire someone to help out.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Of course. I’m Michael Benedict. I’ve just acquired the store from your friend’s estate. Apparently, his sole heir was a distant cousin in the west, who wanted this place liquidated. I couldn’t bear to see books trashed in the name of money by some construction company who wanted to build another concrete tower here.”

  “No, quite right. I’m not surprised Priscilla had no interest in the books. She never had any interest in anything except cash. And no, there was no special-order book. Cleveland and I vacationed together each year. By now he should have sent me the itinerary, and so, of course, I was concerned.”