Southern Seduction [Bride Train 8] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Reece Butler

  “Casey,” he asked, “what’s the name of the biggest, meanest man you know?”

  “I ain’t calling no dog Bart!”

  Casey slapped a hand over his mouth and pulled back. He ducked, hunching as if expecting a blow. Was he scared because he’d talked back, or was it memories of this Bart?

  “Give us a name of someone powerful, but not in a bad way,” said Byron gently. He used the voice reserved for mares in labor and young children.

  “It don’t matter none,” whispered Casey. He clenched his toes against the floor as if it could save him from being knocked over.

  “I asked you a question, and I expect an answer,” said Cole. Following Byron’s example, he gentled his tone somewhat.

  Casey pressed his lips together, frowning for a moment. “Mama said Zeus was real powerful. He were the king o’ them old-time gods.”

  They all looked at the tiny puppy gnawing on Cole’s thumb.

  “Zeus?” said Cole. The dog looked up, gave a yip, and wagged its tail.

  “He likes it!”

  Casey’s grin changed his face, making him look younger and—and something else Cole didn’t want to think about. Those eyelashes, for instance.

  “Zeus is a good name,” said Byron.

  “Anyone check the sex?” asked Marshall. “Not that it matters,” he added quickly when Casey blanched. “Just good to know if Zeus is gonna be squatting or lifting his leg.”

  “Grandpa said he had a male dog that was so lazy he squatted so he didn’t have to lift his leg.” Marshall nodded seriously when Casey frowned disbelievingly.

  “I remember that dog,” said Cole. “He even lay down to eat. Would plop down beside that bone.” Cole turned Zeus over, holding him on his back. Though small, he struggled to get loose. That meant the pup had a bit of backbone, which might make up for him being the runt.

  “Unless he’s like Grandpa’s old dog, Zeus will be lifting his leg,” said Cole.

  He set the dog on the floor. It immediately raced over to Casey, who picked him up. The dog licked the boy’s nose, making him giggle. Giggle? Cole shrugged it off. Boy was awful small for his age. No wonder his voice was high. Casey set the dog in his box by the stove. It was lined with an old flannel shirt. Cole frowned, recognizing it. All it needed was buttons and a few rips sewn and he could wear it again. He grimaced. If, that is, the dog didn’t pee on it.

  “I couldn’t say no,” said Byron quietly, noting his glance. “The boy looked like he was ready to haul off his own shirt for the dog. It’ll be a rag as soon as he bathes and puts on the new one.”

  Casey, looking more relaxed than Cole had ever seen him, washed his hands and went back to making supper. He’d snared three rabbits, which he dredged in flour and pepper. Lard was heating in the pan on the stove. Cole tilted his head for Byron to follow. He led the way to the barn.

  “You should have seen Casey laughing, covered in puppies,” said Byron. A smile flirted with one corner of his mouth, but soon fled. “I think that runt is the best present in his whole dang life.” Byron looked away. “Something about that boy bothers the heck out of me. And I don’t mean whatever he’s scared of.”

  “Maybe he reminds you too much of yourself,” said Cole.

  Byron ignored the comment. “From his reaction, I’d say Bart must’ve hurt him, or tried to.”

  Cole narrowed his eyes at the knowledge of such evil. “The dog will help his fear, and he seems to be trusting us more.”

  Byron nodded. He ran his hands through his hair and then began pacing back and forth, three steps each way. Cole waited patiently. There was something on the man’s brain, and it would come out when he was ready. Byron eventually stopped, facing the wall. He clenched his fists. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

  “I touched Ace’s wall of books. Even opened one up and looked at a page.”

  Cole held still, barely breathing. Byron never spoke of reading, writing, or his lack of ability with each. Grandma had taught Cole his letters and numbers. He never knew his father, and Grandpa threw his mother out when he was five. Until he was twelve and Byron arrived, there was just him and his grandparents. When Grandpa said his cousin Byron was to live with them, he couldn’t wait to have a brother.

  But Grandpa had to lift Byron down from the peddler’s wagon. When he set him down his legs gave out. Grandpa carried him right up to bed. Grandma brought a bit of supper up. She stayed upstairs when Grandpa, red-faced and cursing under his breath, stomped down. He put his arm over Cole’s shoulders and hauled him to the barn. Grandpa had stomped back and forth like he was like to explode, then he slumped onto a bench. He’d patted the space beside him for Cole.

  Cole remembered asking if Byron had a fever, and if it was catching, because he’d take care of his cousin so Grandma wouldn’t get sick. Grandpa had wiped his eyes, blew out a breath, and said what Byron had wasn’t catching. He’d get better in time, but they had to be patient. It might be weeks before his cousin could run and play with him, but he mustn’t ask why. He added that Byron had a problem reading and Cole was never to say or do anything to make him feel bad about it.

  From then on Grandpa read out stories at night rather than them taking turns. Cole liked that because Grandpa would talk different for each character. He made those stories come alive.

  It was years before Cole learned his aunt and uncle had beaten Byron half to death. They were humiliated when the head of Byron’s school pointed out there was something wrong with their son because he wouldn’t read, hinting it was inherited. Rubbing salt into the wound, the schoolmaster told the nastiest gossip about it to the wife of his father’s main business competitor.

  Nothing was more important to Byron’s parents than what others thought of them. They were at one of the prime events of the season when the gossip came out. His mother was humiliated as the word spread. Nothing obvious, but vicious eyes sparkled and cruel laughter rippled from behind fans. His father had been drinking heavily while playing cards. He’d just lost a large sum of money to a rival when his mother told him what she’d heard. They came home and hauled their eldest child out of bed, accusing him of purposefully refusing to learn just to spite them.

  Though they wanted to ship Byron off the next morning, a maid came in to his room with a coal scuttle. She found him on the floor, covered in blood and, thinking there’d been an intruder, raised an alarm. When Byron told the doctor the truth, he insisted Byron not be moved for at least two weeks so his cracked ribs could heal. The bumpy wagon ride into the mountains would cause too much damage otherwise. He threatened to tell all if the Ashcrofts did not comply. Of course, the maid was fired.

  But the delay gave time for Byron’s mother to inform her parents they’d be raising her eldest son, as well as the oldest sister’s boy. They sent money with Byron and strict instructions that they never wanted to see or hear from him again.

  It took months, but Byron did get back the use of his left hand. The doctor’s letter explaining the situation, mailed in fury to Grandpa without the Ashcroft’s knowledge, said someone had stomped on it. It was likely done with the same boot that fractured a few of his ribs. The one belonging to Byron’s father.

  It took a long time for Byron to trust anyone. As far as Cole knew, Byron had never touched a book, paper, or pencil since he arrived at the Marshall farm. Nor did he take more than one drink. He spoke as little as possible and his smiles were rare. Yet he’d come close to smiling while watching Casey with the dog just now.

  Maybe the dog would heal a few of Byron’s invisible wounds, as well as the boy’s.

  “What happened when you opened a book?” asked Cole.

  “I could read before I came to the farm,” said Byron. He shrugged as if it wasn’t important. “I just refused to let anyone know. Since they wouldn’t let me use my left hand, I wouldn’t write.”

  Though Byron pretended it was nothing, Cole noticed his tight jaw and that he kept flexing his left hand.

  “Ranger Elliott learned to r
ead over the winter with Florence’s help,” said Byron. “I can read. I just need to remember a few things. I’ll work with Casey. It’s time the boy learned how to read.”

  Byron could out-stubborn a mule and, like the rest of them, wanted to have control of his life. It wasn’t surprising he’d refused to let anyone know he could read. Knowing how important this moment was, Cole chose his words very carefully.

  “If you teach Casey how to read, maybe he’ll learn to talk better in return.”

  “The way he talks bothers you that much?”

  Cole grimaced. “It’s not just the backwoods talk. It’s everything else. Grandma taught us to be gentlemen. Casey’s from so far back in the woods that I bet his mother never set a foot five miles from her cabin in her whole life. I won’t tolerate swearing in a boy. It’s disrespectful.”

  Byron narrowed his eyes at Cole. At least he wasn’t upset over himself anymore.

  “Casey set the table right, put flowers on it, and has pretty good manners for a backwoods boy of twelve,” said Byron. “Maybe you need to change your attitude toward him. He doesn’t have that strong accent when he talks with me and Marshall. If he’s not so scared of you, he might start talking better.”

  Cole knew Byron was wrong about someone like Casey changing that much, but it wasn’t the time to say so. He turned away, giving them both time to recover.

  “You think Zeus is part hound?” he asked after a bit. “Great-grandpa Marshall used to have some of the finest coon hounds in a hundred miles. When they treed one, their baying could be heard for miles.”

  “Expect we’ll find that out when we get the fiddle and banjo going,” said Byron, accepting the change in topic.

  Cole forced a chuckle. “If anything will get a dog to howl, it’s Marshall’s singing.”

  “Is that what he calls that noise?”

  Chapter 6

  Cole trudged uphill a couple of hours later, leading his lame horse. Thank God he had less than half a mile to go. Every time he put down his left heel it hurt like a son of a gun. That blister meant he’d worn right through the wool of his last pair of socks. If Casey didn’t know how to darn them, he’d have to learn quick smart. Cole hadn’t walked so far since they bought the dang ranch!

  He looked back, watching the mare carefully set down her left front foot. And didn’t that beat all. Both of them going lame on the same side. He’d barely started work when she picked up a stone. Since he dismounted immediately she should be fine in a couple days.

  Clouds covered the sun, dropping the temperature a few degrees as the wind picked up. At least he wasn’t all the way to Bannack Road when it happened. As it was he—

  He stopped, straining to hear. The mare nudged his shoulder and he automatically put one foot in front of the other again. The wind swirled into his face, drifting that tantalizing sound past his ears.

  Someone was singing. The more he walked, the clearer it was. An alto voice soared, sending a beacon of home. He hadn’t heard “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” since Grandma died. By then she was so old her voice wavered like a drunken sailor. But this voice was strong and pure. His throat clogged at its beauty.

  They’d lived in Montana Territory for a couple of years, playing the fiddle, gutbucket, and banjo at every dance and get-together. No one had ever sang so well. If it was Casey, the boy had the voice of an angel. He also spoke the words properly for once. Maybe keeping the boy wouldn’t be as bad as he thought. He’d be a great addition to their band.

  Cole slowed as he reached the yard, not wanting to interrupt. The voice soared louder, filling the yard with a powerful energy. Being twelve, Casey’s voice could break any day now, especially if he finally started growing. He might end up as a decent tenor, but he’d never sound like an angel again. Cole closed his eyes and let the music take him home to Grandma.

  It felt like he was there once more. A hungry boy, dirty from a long day’s work, scrubbing up before supper as Grandma shucked peas on the porch. She rocked back and forth, the creaking wood keeping time as she sang. Her cotton dress and white apron stretched over her spread knees, catching the peas as they fell from her knobby fingers. She kept her eyes closed, maybe thinking of when she was a girl being courted by wealthy beaus.

  She never hid the fact she’d been forced into marrying Grandpa after being caught in a compromising situation with her younger sister’s fiancé. Though it was totally innocent, her parents refused to listen. She’d refused many suitors and was getting long in the tooth. They solved both problems by bundling her off, far from the city, to marry a distant cousin on her father’s side.

  Grandpa said the first time he saw Grandma she was so beautiful his heart was like to break. But she was a city gal who knew nothing of working on an Upcountry North Carolina farm. He didn’t want her soft hands to become hard and callused like his own. Didn’t want her to resent being hitched to a farmer.

  But Grandma took Grandpa as he was, the son of a dirt-poor farmer. She’d insisted her papa give the same dowry as if she’d married into one of the top families in Charlotte. They’d bought land farther down the mountain, more suitable for growing crops, and made themselves a life. Grandma insisted she’d never have met a man half as good as Grandpa if she’d stayed in the city. She was a gal with an adventurous heart, and Grandpa respected her. He might not have money, but he was a Southern gentleman through and through.

  The mare tugged, bringing Cole back to the present.

  “I should thank you for coming up lame,” he said as he cross-tied her in the barn. “Casey might never have told us he could sing, especially like that.”

  As Cole worked, Casey sang a hymn he didn’t recognize. What other songs did the boy know? He smiled in anticipation. Wait until Byron and Marshall found out. If Casey could play the spoons and jaw harp, they’d have everything in their band.

  He was twenty feet from the kitchen, facing the front window, when the sun shot a beam through the side window. He stopped. A zap of fire shot from his head, through his body, and into the ground as he stared at a vision from his dreams. He must be so desperate for a woman that his imagination created one in the window’s reflection. She had her back to him. His eyes went to the narrow waist that curved out into hips and a lovely pear-shaped bottom. He followed the curve of her backbone up. Angry red lines crossed her back, running from side to side. They weren’t whip marks, but something else. She turned, and he found the same lines on her perfect breasts.

  He pounded his fist against his ribs to get his heart restarted. Below those breasts was a narrow ribcage. A swirl of brown curls marked the apex of her thighs. In awe, he raised his eyes to her face. Matching short brown curls danced around her ears. Her face was that of a pixie, with a sharp chin and pert nose.

  Those, he recognized. This was no dream. It was a nightmare.

  “Casey?” He gulped, blinking to clear his eyes.

  She had a sliver of soap in one hand. Keeping her eyes closed, she slid it over a small breast with a raspberry nipple. Her lush lips opened as she began to sing.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Cole whipped around so fast he staggered. Drops of sweat popped from his forehead, temples, and other places. His cock throbbed in time with the pain in his head. He stumbled to the barn and collapsed against a beam. His fingernails dug into the wood, shoving in splinters. He welcomed the pain. It matched the one in his pants as his cock throbbed desperately for release.

  There was a grown woman in his kitchen. Naked. And her name was Casey Wright.

  He blinked, but the image was burned into his brain. Seared onto his eyeballs. A vision of wonder, she was dang near everything he wanted in a woman. Physically. He slammed his forehead against the beam. It changed nothing. The clear voice still wove its way through his ears and into his soul.

  He’d asked the spirits of his grandparents to send a wife. Grandma always said to be careful what you pray for, as God works in mysterious ways. God had got him this time. Casey was beautiful, a good
cook, was hardy enough to survive life on a ranch, and could outsing an angel. But she spoke and acted like an unschooled savage. No matter how well he dressed her, as soon as she opened those rosy lips everyone would know her origins. Unless she was singing.

  Byron insisted Casey could learn to speak well, but she’d never learn all those social graces needed by his wife. Those little things might seem unimportant, but they’d make a cabin in the wilds of Montana Territory something close to the cultured home he’d grown up in. He groaned, rubbing his face in frustration at his dilemma. He wanted that vision in his bed, eagerly bucking under him. But he didn’t want her in his life for anything more.

  No decent woman would marry him if he kept an unmarried woman in his home all winter. But he’d promised Sophie they’d keep Casey Wright here for the winter. Whether Casey was a boy or a woman, Cole would not break his oath.

  The image of her soapy hand caressing her breast exploded into his mind. His cock near did the same. A groan erupted from deep in his lungs. She was temptation in the flesh. Until she spoke.

  Maybe he could handle her that way. When the temptation to touch her got too great he’d ask her a question. That atrocious accent would keep him from kissing those plump lips, both the ones above her chin and those between her legs.

  A sudden thought caused a surge of outrage to blast away his thoughts of bedding her. Had she done this to trap him into marriage? He dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck. No, Casey hadn’t trapped him. She’d done everything she could to hide the fact she was female. He groaned, thinking of what Byron said about why Casey and Willy left home