Stabled (The Stables Trilogy #1) Read online

  Stabled

  Penny Lam

  Copyright © 2015 Now and Wren Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  "Look in the wanted section." Her mother's easy drawl was at odds with the violent way she slapped the newspaper on the table in front of Maple. That was the way her mother had always been; soft words, hard action. Maple Parsons, the black sheep, was soft words, indecisive action.

  "Mom, does anyone even use papers for work ads anymore?" Maple grabbed her coffee, which had been at risk from the slamming newspaper, and cradled it to her. The warmth from the mug seeped into her fingers and, even with the heat of the day, comforted her. Despite her protest, she let her hand slink forward and unfold the paper to the wanted ads.

  A red marker had already marred the paper's crisp black type, heavily circling a small ad buried beneath larger pictures of women modeling department store clothing. The picture was a joke. In Silt Springs, Texas, there was only one department store. It had three departments: food, farming supplies, and clothing. The clothing was more coveralls and work shirts, than it was the frilly skirts and v-neck shirts the models wore.

  Rubbing a finger at her temple, Maple read. Obviously her mother was done being subtle. "Stable hand needed. Must have previous experience with horses. Room and board provided. This job requires confidence and discretion."

  "Mom, I'm not qualified for this," Maple complained, though her eyes kept drifting back to the ad. Her fingers tightened on the mug. Sure, she liked horses. Loved them, in fact. But her experience with horses was one summer, at camp. She’d spent a week learning to ride and clean the stables. That was definitely not enough to qualify as a stable hand at a ranch.

  Her mother was at the sink, back turned to her. Sunlight and spattered shadow from the maple tree outside illuminated the space around her. Maple was named for that tree. The single Lost Maple had been in their yard since before her mother was born, surviving over three generations of Parsons farmers. "Honey, you're perfect for it. You have experience with horses. Did you see? Room and board included."

  Room and board included. Maple suddenly found herself a guest in the kitchen of her childhood. "It says I need to have confidence," she half-joked. Jokes with that much truth tended to not be very funny. Whereas the maple in the yard was strong and defiant, growing easily in soil that made growing anything else a battle, Maple was anxious and unsure and desperately meek.

  Meek. Maple had a hard time believing the meek would inherit the earth. In all twenty-three years of her experience, the meek inherited all the shit that flowed downstream from the strong. They didn’t persevere, they didn’t thrive. If the meek inherited the earth, then the earth was fucked.

  "Just call, Honey." Exasperation was well-hidden in her mother's voice. Its absence somehow made it more present. Maple pulled out her phone. At least they finally got service out here. Not that Maple was eager to connect with the world outside of her parents’ cattle farm. No, that world was best left alone.

  The ad only had a number, no name of the rancher or location.

  She remained silent, hovering in that moment of almost-action. When her mother stood, waiting, hand on hip, Maple gave her a pointed look. There was encouraging, and then there was just nagging.

  "Fine," her mother heaved, tossing her dishtowel at the sink. "I'll leave you be. When you're finished, meet your Paw outside. He needs help with the Jeep."

  Maple waited until her mother's footsteps disappeared. Then she waited more. Thumb hovering over the screen, ad open on the table. Her coffee's steam was losing purchase in the air. Soon it'd be too cold to drink.

  So this is what it felt like, she thought, to be unwanted. It wasn’t that her parents disliked her. It was just that, when she’d made it clear that life on the farm wasn’t for her, it had wounded them deep. Perhaps some part of her had wanted that. Small town girl going to the big city. Only, to her dismay, she’d not been Mary Tyler Moore. And being her own person had consequences she hadn’t counted on. Now she knew she never should have left, but it was too late, and Maple was stained too deeply to scrub herself clean again.

  Her body was jittery. Electric. She still hadn't dialed the number. Was it the perfection of the job that caused her to stumble? A chance to move back out of a house that had already let her go? A chance to escape the failure of her flight from home? A chance to hide in a stable and try to forget?

  She hadn’t always been so meek. Once, she’d had the confidence to leave home. Once, she’d had the confidence to explore her inner workings and desires. Once had been enough to shatter that confidence and send her running from herself. Into herself. Now she was ruled by timid questioning and a constant internal struggle.

  Her inhale was shaky, but her thumb typed the number before she could overthink it.

  The phone rang twice before someone answered.

  "Speak." The dark, cowboy timbre on the other line blasted through her. The voice had a rough edge that tugged at her in a way she hadn’t expected. Old instincts flooded her, shaming her. It was a command, speak, and yet it paralyzed her.

  Maple's mind stuttered and then stopped.

  "I’m waiting,” the man spoke again, this time with a hint of annoyance.

  Say something! Choking through her anxiety, Maple managed a "Hello?" Her stomach was twisting, and she was glad she’d only picked at her toast that morning.

  There was silence for a breath, and then, "You called me. Who'm I speakin' with?" The voice was pure gravel. Marlboro man. Maple's eyes were still shut tight, and she pictured the owner of the voice. Tall, slim. Cowboy hat and boots. Three days of stubble, maybe salt and pepper. She was terrible at determining ages. A moustache, maybe. People were either younger than her and children, or far older and wiser than her. Adults. And the voice on the other end was that of a man.

  Of course, she was picturing a movie cowboy. She’d been living on a ranch all her life, and had met many ranchers and cowboys-- they rarely lived up to the movie hype. Most likely this was just another old, grizzled rancher.

  "I'm Maple?" She chewed her lip and wiped a sweaty palm on her jeans. "I'm callin' 'bout the ad in the paper?" Normally she didn't use the heavy drawl of her hometown, but when first introducing herself to others she'd found it helped them trust her more. Like a dialect spoke more about a person than their actions.

  "Are you askin' me or tellin'?"

  "Um..." she stumbled, unsure. "I don't know what you mean?" This was not going well. The phone trembled in her hand. Maple considered throwing it in the sink. Running away. Hiding in her small room with its ancient quilt and not much else.

  Don’t you do it, Maple Parsons. There’s no more shelter here. Time to move out and move on.

  She didn’t know if that was true, but she didn’t throw the phone, either.

  "If you're sayin' a fact, miss, just
spit it out. If you're askin' a question, then ask it. But you keep endin' your facts like they're questions."

  Alone in her parents’ kitchen, Maple's cheeks burned. This was a mistake. The man on the other end had a voice that made her body tight with longing, but she wasn't prepared for bluntness or critiques. Chances were she'd bombed the interview before it'd started, so she'd just politely end the call.

  "Miss? You still there?"

  "Yeah, I'm here. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, sir, and--"

  "Did you say your name was Maple?" He cut her off, startling her.

  "Yes, I did, but--"

  "Have you worked with horses before?"

  "Well, yes. I rode and worked in stables awhile in high school." It had been middle school, and camp, but Maple knew enough about interviews to tell a small lie.

  "Your family? Y'all ranchers?"

  She nodded, despite nobody being there to see it. "Yes, sir. Steer. Out in Silt Springs."

  The pause this time was longer. She could hear the hitch on the other end of the line. Did he know them? "You hear of Deyton Ranch?" He asked.

  Of course she had. Everyone knew Deyton Ranch.

  "Mr. Deyton lent my father money. He owns half my farm." It wasn't as sore a spot as it sounded. Fact was, raising steer was hard. Harder still when there was a drought in an already dry land. Her Paw had needed to buy far more feed for the steer than usual, and it'd put them in the red. Mr. Deyton owned the largest cattle ranch in West Texas. Maybe in the whole west. Rumor was he had his hands in oil, too. Loans and farm buyouts like he'd done for her Paw were pretty normal. One or two good seasons and her Paw could pay off most of the loan, buying back the farm. "Why?"

  "You're speakin' with J.B. Deyton, Miss Maple."

  Her stomach dropped along with her pulse. J.B. Deyton was hiring? No, it wasn’t that he was hiring that surprised Maple. It was that he’d put his number, his actual, personal number and not the one of an assistant, in the paper.

  And she was speaking with him. Maple was speaking to a man who had more money than she could imagine, with a voice like sin.

  "Maple?" He said, as tentative as that gruff voice was able to sound. "Still there?"

  Her heart pounded so hard she heard it louder than her whispered, "Yeah, I'm still here."

  “Who’s your father?”

  “Jim Parsons. Parson’s ranch out in Silt Springs.”

  "Good, I know where that is. Come on out here. I'll send a car. I reckon we’ll do the interview and I'll show you the horses. We'll decide if we think you're a good fit."

  A car? Who sends a car out here? Besides, she had her own truck, and what if she changed her mind or wanted to leave? "I can drive--"

  "My driver will be there tonight."

  The pounding in her chest sped up and her head swam. "Tonight is awful soon? I don't know what to bring?"

  "There's more of those fact-questions, Maple." He was stern, bordering on scolding. It made her skin burn, prickly with embarrassment. "Work on that before I see you. Bring whatever you would if you were movin' here. I'll see you this evenin'."

  He hung up before she could reply.

  Dumbfounded, she laid her phone on the table. The wind blew outside, throwing dancing shadows from the maple's leaves over the small kitchen. Her mom had forgotten to twist the sink's handle tight, the small drip from the old faucet echoed with the same hollow rhythm as her heart.

  The call replayed in her head and she did what she always did; dissect and analyze. His slow cadence. The way his voice sounded like a baritone pushed through a cheese grater. The way he ordered her around without even knowing her. How he corrected her.

  Dark memories stirred in the recesses of her mind. Another man had ordered her around, too. He’d commanded her body, her mind, her everything. He’d altered her DNA, it felt like. He’d ruined her. When Maple had tried to reclaim herself, it had ended in a secret so great it threatened to crush her. Even her parents’ home barely helped her contain it.

  So she broke down the phone call, weighing it with the anxiety of trying to leave home again.

  In her dissection, she wasn’t simply terrified of the past that haunted her; she was trembling with the sudden, hungry need her body felt after just a short, gruff conversation over the phone. J.B. Deyton meant money, power, and authority. She was shamefully, horribly, and only interested in the last of those things.

  Her mother helped her pack. He'd said bring everything she'd need if she was moving in with him. How many other people had he interviewed? Was she the only one? Did she want to work for someone who hired the very first applicant?

  More worrisome, though, was the thought that other applicants might be there already. That he'd bring her up to his home and then pit her against others. A contest. Survival of the fittest.

  Maple wasn’t the kind of person who won those sorts of things.

  She stood in front of her simple, floor-length mirror. Having lived most her life on a ranch, she didn’t have fancy clothes. Maple brushed her long, honey brown hair. It dusted the tops of her breasts, small though they were. She wore a black v-neck t-shirt and some skinny jeans. Of course, her hips and ass were a little on the larger side, so ‘skinny jeans’ was relative, but the close-fitting denim made it easy to pull on her nice boots.

  All in all she liked what looked back at her. Not one for much makeup, Maple put some mascara on and a quick slick of a nude lipstick. The mascara made her already thick eyelashes dramatic, a dark frame for her hazel eyes. It would have to be good enough.

  Her suitcase was easy to carry. College had taught her that owning things only held you back; it's easier to run if you pack light.

  A couple of button down work shirts. Some jeans. Two pairs of boots. A tea set her grandmother had given her, the yellow roses fading on old porcelain. It was the nicest thing she owned. She packed her underwear and socks, her toiletries, and her favorite novel, its pages worn to velvet from the many times she'd thumbed through it.

  Maple rolled her eyes when her mom packed a Bible. "Just in case, Honey," was all the answer she got. Her mother hadn’t liked how Maple left God behind, too, when she’d left for college.

  They didn't have a doorbell, but Maple knew when the driver pulled up. After all, their farm was only approachable by a two mile long gravel drive. The grind of gravel and kicked up dust announced all visitors just before they pulled up to park in front. She watched a large, black SUV drive up and park.

  All of the windows were black. The tires large and shiny. From the driver’s side a man in sunglasses and a suit stepped out. The car, the man… they looked out of place at the ranch, like pictures from fashion magazines pasted on old cardboard.

  Maple grabbed her suitcase and went out to meet him. She’d already said ‘goodbye’ to her folks. Besides, they didn’t know how much of a goodbye it was, seeing as she hadn’t fully interviewed yet.

  “I’ll take that, Miss Maple,” the man said. She noticed his fingernails were manicured as he gripped the handle of her suitcase. In all her life, she’d only seen a handful of manicures and they’d all been on women. When you work hard, your nails tend to get bumped down on the list of priorities.

  She let him take her bag. She let him open her door. Before she stepped in, she looked at her home that didn’t feel like home any longer. Badly in need of repainting and the sun glaring off the tin roof, it was large and comfortable. This home had meant the smell of cattle and coffee, and the sound of her Paw’s shuffle past her door every morning at four as he got ready for the day. It had meant hard work and harder, though genuine, love.

  Now it just meant she needed to, as her father often said, “shit or get off the pot.”

  Maple got in and shut the door. The only person reluctant for her to leave was her. She couldn’t hide from the world forever. The farm had merely been a bandaid, and it was time to replace it. She said nothing as they drove away, and the driver respected that.

  She slouched in her seat and pa
wed through her bag, looking for her book. Something delicate slinked against her fingers. Pulling it out slowly, she realized it was a fragile gold chain. Hanging from it was a tiny pearl pendant.

  The necklace was her great, great grandmother’s. She’d worn it as a mail order bride, bought and sent out west before the west was more than dirt and sky. Maple thought her mother meant it as a symbol of her leaving home on an adventure. Maybe that’s what this could be. A smaller, more controlled adventure.

  Clasping it at the nape of her neck, she did find the delicate weight reassuring. Also terrifying.

  She’d have to ace her interview with Mr. Deyton. The further she was from her parents’ home, the more she realized she couldn’t return. Her mother didn’t just want her to have a sense of adventure; she wanted her to grow up.

  What her mother didn’t know was Maple had grown up, fast and hard and miserable in college. Maple left school a semester before she would have graduated because of it, unable to face the gritty reality of being a grown up. A bad breakup had left her hollow and devastated, needing the comfort of the familiar. Some things are just too hard to bear. For Maple, those things weren’t just a burden; the very core of her character was on trial. Constantly.