The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Read online

  The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3

  The Substantial Gift

  He walked in and her life began again. Two worlds collide when adventurous ranching heiress Violet Stinson clashes with dark and complicated rodeo champion Harper Davies. Both on the run from tragic pasts, Violet numbs her pain with food, Harper with anonymous, rough sex with other men at The Racquet Club.

  They share in common their lust for playboy jet-setter Sinclair Nieman. The unlikely trio bonds over a stolen menu from an old bordello. When Violet has a particular nostalgia for reenacting the Doctor’s Orders menu item, Harper knows it’s time to surrender to a woman again.

  After a long, destructive marriage, Violet has been ignorant about love. It is a difficult, soul-searching, substantial gift for her to express love to her two younger men. When her past catches up with her in the form of a greaseball stalker, Harper and Sinclair are there to prove themselves worthy of her ultimate gift.

  Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys

  Length: 54,197 words

  THE SUBSTANTIAL GIFT

  The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3

  Karen Mercury

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  THE SUBSTANTIAL GIFT

  Copyright © 2014 by Karen Mercury

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62741-254-4

  First E-book Publication: January 2014

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2014 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

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  This is Karen Mercury’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Mercury’s right to earn a living from her work.

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  DEDICATION

  Do not forget, some give little, and it is much for them, others give all, and it costs them no effort; who then has given most? —Knut Hamsun, Pan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  THE SUBSTANTIAL GIFT

  The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3

  KAREN MERCURY

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  Last Chance, California

  Violet Stinson wasn’t even particularly hungry.

  Her stomach wasn’t growling per se, but the mouth-watering menu at the Cavern on the Green had enticed her. Her brother Drake had a copy of the menu in his office at their Shining Lands ranch house just outside of Joshua Tree National Park. Once she’d read about the old-timey comfort food that Drake’s wife, Rose, served up there, Violet was in her rental car barreling toward Last Chance.

  It was the perfect remedy for what ailed her. She couldn’t stop thinking about the meatloaf with chopped carrots, stuffed with whole hard-boiled eggs and topped with a whipped cap of mashed potatoes. Rose Stinson had created a vintage mid-century supper club on the outskirts of Palm Springs and had been gaining notoriety and kudos for her style and substance. Violet’s sharp brain had taken a snapshot of the menu, and she planned on ordering stuffed tomatoes in aspic and the Party Potato Salad. A side of Spam barbecue even sounded good. Naturally, this would all be accentuated by Apple Cider Upside-Down Cake.

  Violet was hungry, but it wasn’t for food. She was just using food as a handy crutch, a drug to fill the void. She did that a lot—too much, she knew. She zipped through the desert studded with mounds of prickly pear and hedgehog cacti that polka-dotted the scene with splashes of magenta. The neon signs and clean, elegant lines of Last Chance’s “mod” architecture appeared on the horizon, cheering up Violet. This was a philanthropic mission as well as a culinary one. Violet was a patron of the Palm Springs Modern Committee—among many other committees, museums, funds, and charities the world over. Not having spent much time in California since age eighteen, Violet wasn’t up on the doings of the Modern Committee, but she was back to support it, since her mother had for decades.

  The retro neon Searchlight Motel sign guided her down Barry Manilow Avenue like the light at the end of the near-death tunnel. As she parked in the lot, Violet laughed at the kitsch—the sign was an actual searchlight that probably lit up at night and swept the skies. A thatched-roof cabana covered a poolside bar at the indoor-outdoor pool, and an edgy Flinstones-esque pathway guided her to the lobby.

  She might like Last Chance again, after all. The past few years she had spent mostly in Gstaad, Switzerland, and they had no sense of humor there. If anything was tacky in Gstaad—and many things were—it wasn’t ironic, it was intentional. In Last Chance, the recreation of the mid-century modernist architecture was done with l
ove. The family ranch, Shining Lands, was a prime example of the “desert modern” style of clean, sweeping lines, exposed beams, and native rock. The two hundred acre “Camp David West” had its own golf course, reflecting ponds, and stables, as well as the fifty thousand acres of ranchland her brother Drake managed. Violet had only come back to California out of desperation, but now, as she entered the space-age Jetsons lobby, for the first time she felt a bit at home.

  She knew her sister-in-law Rose was busy running the Cavern and wouldn’t have time to kowtow to her, so Violet paused to look at some of the humorous, witty graphics and objects from the Rat Pack era that adorned the lobby. Two vinyl-upholstered tulip chairs flanked a table that displayed gorgeous art glass the colors of tropical fish. There were the expected photos of Dean Martin partying with Frank Sinatra, and of course Barry Manilow playing tennis with Liberace. Barry wore white short-shorts, but oddly enough “Lee” wore a sequined cape as he stretched to hit the ball. He looked like a glam Secret Squirrel in his bedazzled purple tennis hat.

  Violet was scared away from a framed photo of her own father, Sam Stinson, at Camp David West shaking the hand of Richard M. Nixon. She hadn’t even semi-reconciled with her father like Drake had, so she moved on to the next item, a framed menu in black gloss with pink lettering. She had to squint and bend over slightly to read it. She gasped when she read the words exclaiming,

  The World Famous

  Sunset Palomino Ranch Bordello

  The Best Fillies in California!

  Not that she was a prude—far from it. She just wasn’t expecting to see such a ribald item in the vogue motel. Looking from side to side as though someone would catch her, Violet scanned the “Ranch Delights” on offer. Shut the front door! There were items like a Party Platter, a Feast at The Y, and a Pony Express. Violet could only begin to imagine what Doctor’s Orders were. If it was anything like what that boy Troy Washburn at neighboring Lone Palm Ranch had done with her and a plastic stethoscope when she was a girl, well…Violet’s face burned with shame.

  She was about to sidestep to view what looked like Humphrey Bogart playing bocce ball, but a low male voice came right behind her.

  “Hm. Interesting items. The most intriguing by far is Sex on the Beach.”

  Violet cringed back, clutching her purse to her abdomen. The speaker was a severely dark man in a nondescript business suit who looked as though he’d have a monobrow if he didn’t shave between them. He spoke low and rapidly, like he had a top secret government Bluetooth that spoke directly to some feds sitting on Manilow Avenue in an electric company van. It was rude to say “hmph” and walk away, but it was Violet’s policy to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, so she said politely, “Yes, although some of them don’t sound sexual at all.” She could just look at it from an anthropological angle, the angle she was most comfortable with. She had studied anthropology extensively. “For instance, the Irish Cream Party is clearly just sitting around drinking Irish Cream.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said the spy. There was a vague European lilt to his voice. His black hair seemed oily and his collar looked as though it should be greasy, although she detected no dandruff on it. He probably always looked that way. “These repressed 1950s people had creative ways of expressing themselves without seeming profane. For instance, the Low-Fat Delight probably doesn’t involve skinny women.”

  As a woman who fluctuated somewhere between chunky and plus size, Violet appreciated that. Feeling emboldened, she asked, “Oh, yes? Then do you think it’s something like the Cock-a-Doodle Doo?” She was proud of herself for having figured that out. They both must involve blow jobs.

  The guy smiled for the first time. His eyes crinkled as though unaccustomed to it. “Exactly. The only one I can’t figure is the Sex on the Beach. What’s that? Do they actually go to a beach? Is there one around here?”

  “I can’t recall,” said Violet pleasantly, warming to the strange guy. “I grew up here, but left when I was eighteen to get married. I don’t remember swimming in a river, though.”

  “Don Wexler,” said the guy, offering a hand for her to shake.

  Violet had no choice but to shake it. “Violet Stinson.”

  Don’s hand lingered a tad too long for her liking. “Stinson? Of Shining Lands Ranch? My parents used to go to cocktail parties there.”

  Violet didn’t recall the family name Wexler. She wondered if he knew Troy Washburn. “Really? You must be about my age. You must vaguely recall all of this mod paraphernalia from growing up nearby in the seventies. The Coachella Valley is absolutely loaded with it.”

  Don gaped. “Recall it? You bet your sweet beanbag chair I recall it. I’m on the Palm Springs Modern Committee. We’re organizing a gala two weeks from now at the Kupka Desert House to benefit the—”

  “The Bee Line Bowling Alley restoration! Yes, I’m on the committee for that too! I’ve only attended one meeting so far, but I don’t recall you.”

  Don looked to a corner where a bamboo egg chair hung from a ceiling chain. “Oh, did I say I was on the committee? I meant I’m attending the gala, too.”

  “Well, isn’t that a coincidence? I’ll see you there then.” Violet added, just to be in the swing of things, “You can bet your sweet caftan on that.”

  It was a terrible joke, but Don Wexler cracked what passed for a smile. “I presume you’re staying at Shining Lands with your brother—Drake, was it?”

  “Yes, you know Drake? Then you might want to come to a—actually, I can’t believe it, but it’s a cocktail party we’re having the night after tomorrow—”

  The color drained from Don’s face. Worry washed over him, he tensed, and he began to sprint off. “I just recalled an appointment I’m late for. Nice meeting you, miss…” His words faded off as he literally bolted for the front door to the parking lot.

  “That was odd,” whispered Violet. She tended to trust people—maybe less so lately, but it was hard to undo almost four decades of innocence and gullibility. Violet looked at things differently than most people, she’d discovered. She was analytical, intelligent, and highly perceptive of animal behavior, which was why her studies had focused on biology and the world of natural science. For instance, bowling alleys weren’t her normal crusades. She was just doing it because her mother would have. Violet was more interested in this Fringe-Toed Lizard Preserve that Drake had donated thirty acres to. She also wondered since when her hedonistic brother had become such a philanthropist.

  But while she was good at animals, Violet was fairly ignorant of humans, and now she turned to see her sister-in-law, the buoyant Rose with the cotton candy hair, waving as she entered the lobby from the pool.

  “Violet! You didn’t have to come here. I know your work is more important than some stupid old diner. Where’s Omar?”

  Omar was the boy Rose and Drake were fostering, an eleven-year-old from a bad part of Palm Springs. “Oh, Stony took him. You know Stony. He just adores kids.” The aide-de-camp had been traveling with Drake as a valet for about eight years. He was invaluable at smoothing over awkward moments or greasing wheels. They’d recently discovered Stony Curtis was an ace babysitter, too. Now that Drake had shaped up and stopped playing around, was wearing dusty chaps instead of cufflinks, there wasn’t much greasing for Stony to do.

  Violet’s own two children were over eighteen and living independently at their Côte d’Azur house. Violet knew she didn’t miss them in the normal “empty nest” ways parents missed their children. For one, Violet bonded more closely to animals than to people. For another, Angela and Hodgins had been away at boarding schools most of their lives while Violet had traveled to exotic places. She felt that she barely knew them.

  Rose took Violet’s arm and steered her back past the pool. “I’ll whip you up a grilled cheese sandwich, how does that sound?”

  “I was actually looking forward to one of these gelatin molds that peppered your menu. You do such creative things with them. I was looking forward to the ca
rrot and pineapple mold.”

  “We have a new menu since the menu you saw was printed up,” said Rose, reaching for the front glass door of her supper club. “One mold is just a novelty, a pickle-olive aspic, but I really think you’ll like the jellied turkey vegetable salad. I won a gelatin contest with it.”

  Violet drank in the space-age surroundings—the chrome dinette bar with speckled bar stools, the fake rock pattern of the linoleum, the curved booth seats with vinyl so brightly turquoise it hurt her eyes. There was clearly a waiting line at the maître d station, but they passed right on by.

  Violet allowed Rose to show her to a table. Violet said, “I certainly hope the turkey mold has those little square carrots and peas I remember from my childhood.”

  “Oh, frozen, absolutely,” said Rose, speaking to a passing waiter. Now she, too, sat opposite Violet. “I hope you don’t mind I ordered you a strawberry milk.”

  “You mean because I could stand to lose some weight?” Violet asked frankly. Rose opened her mouth to protest, but Violet soothed her. “It’s true, Rose. I was a runway model when Bryan met me at eighteen, but that didn’t last long once I had the kids. Bryan engaged in the active, sporting life, but I was more one for the books and the skeletons.”

  Rose smiled compassionately. “You learned much more than Bryan while he was busy being a partying asshat. You’re super-educated. I cower in the presence of your knowledge.”

  Violet knew Rose was trying to change the subject. She appreciated it, but she wanted people to know they didn’t need to step lightly around her. “I may have learned more, but I doubt my extra weight assisted in his continued attraction to me. Now I’m single—or hope to be soon, anyway—so I’d better face facts. The only man who will be attracted to me is one who is into fatties.”