Molly Ann Wishlade - Menage

“Hello?” She raised her voice to intimate that it was a question not a greeting. She straightened her back and wiped the perspiration from her upper lip with the back of her free hand.

The cowboys reached the fence. This close, she could see how big they were. Tall, broad-shouldered men. Large and masculine. They made her acutely aware of how petite and feminine she was.

How utterly defenceless.

She eyed them, her senses on high alert. Being a woman alone at an isolated homestead a few miles outside of Deadwood meant that she was constantly wary. Letting her guard down, even just a fraction, could have been fatal whether dealing with man or beast.

“Mrs Holbein?”

Grace met the blond man’s blue eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. They were as intense as the sky on a clear summer’s day. Beautiful, bright blue framed by thick black lashes. He rested his large, tanned hands on the fence. She found her gaze drawn to his long, slim fingers with their short nails and the tiny white-blond hairs on his muscular forearms which shone in the afternoon sun. This was a man who worked hard for a living. Outdoors. Probably with horses and cattle.

“Are you Mrs Holbein?” He repeated the question.

“That’s me. Whadda you want?” She pulled herself up to her full height. She could see that if she stood next to either man she would not reach his shoulders. As the cowboy searched her face, she let the basket swing in front of her body. An obstacle between them, to hide her figure from view. Protection. A barrier.

“We’re looking for work, ma’am,” the cowboy explained. He pushed his Stetson further back on his head and wiped his brow with a folded neckerchief.

“And what makes you come out here looking for it?” Grace scowled. She nudged an inquisitive chicken away from her skirts with her foot.

“We asked in Deadwood, ma’am. They said you was likely to need some help around your farm. In light of your…” He removed his hat. “Your recent loss.”

So they knew about 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.