Call Me Softly Read online

  Synopsis

  When it comes to family secrets, Southern gentry would rather let sleeping dogs lie.

  Abigail Wetherington believes the evil that stalks her family in the streets of London is a sleeping dog come back to bite them. So with her last breath, she implores her beautiful granddaughter, Lillie, to flee to the family’s polo estate in South Carolina and seek the protection of someone Abigail has come to trust—Swain Butler. What Lillie doesn’t know is that she is putting herself in the hands of a woman who may be the biggest family secret of them all.

  “Be careful,” Abigail cautions Lillie. If sleeping dogs must be roused, then call them forth softly.

  Call Me Softly

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  Call Me Softly

  © 2011 By D. Jackson Leigh. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-510-9

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: April 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Bareback

  Long Shot

  Call Me Softly

  Acknowledgments

  The Deep South—filled with so many colloquial expressions, unique rituals, and interesting people—is incredibly fertile ground for writers.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge two colorful characters who supplied me with some of my best material: my former coworker, Jim, who turned out to be a hard dog to keep under the porch and moved to Alabama; and my delightful “butter my butt and call me a biscuit” friend Dale. I still chuckle when I think of her pushing the lingering drunks out of her house after a party with a good-natured, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

  My undying thanks go to my editor extraordinaire, Shelley Thrasher. To say that she made this manuscript better would be an understatement. She has uncommon insight and gives me so many opportunities to rewrite and fine-tune.

  As always, I have to give a grateful nod to Len Barot and the Bold Strokes family for the opportunity to share my stories.

  And last, but not least, I will be forever grateful to my partner, Angie. I never would have taken the first step without her support. I’ll always love her.

  Dedication

  For my grandmother, Alma.

  Her bloodline carried the genes

  that destined me to spin stories.

  Chapter One

  Less than a minute was left in the final chukker, and the score was tied.

  The knot of riders and horses jostled around the small white ball of hard plastic, mallets outstretched among the dancing hooves. Some were reaching, while others attempted to hook and restrain the reachers.

  With a resounding whack, the ball broke free of the group. It spun downfield toward a blue-shirted rider, who reined his gray steed in position to hit the winning goal.

  Suddenly, a green-shirted rider on a dark bay was at his flank, pressing against the gray as they galloped and bumping him off the line of play. The blue rider leaned right, encouraging his gray to push back. But the bay was already a full stride ahead.

  In a smooth backhanded stroke, the green rider reversed the course of the ball. The stroke had been soft, giving the bay time to whirl around and pursue. Swinging the mallet this time in a high arc, the green rider smacked the ball hard. Pursuit by the blue riders was useless. Traveling well over one hundred miles per hour, the ball neatly cleaved the space between the goalposts, and the four green-shirted Wetherington Raiders raised their mallets and voices in victory. They galloped from all parts of the field to cluster around and affectionately tap the helmet of their captain and star player.

  Swain Butler grinned at her teammates as she unsnapped her chin strap and pulled her helmet off. She wiped off the sweat trickling into her eyes before slapping their high fives with her gloved hand, then cantering out of the group toward the captain of the blue team.

  “Good match, Hoyt. You guys nearly had us,” Swain said, extending her hand.

  Hoyt Whitney, sitting astride his winded gray gelding, accepted her firm handshake. He smiled and shook his head. “You just let us get close so we’d get overconfident. I should have looked over my shoulder and seen you coming.”

  They walked their horses side by side toward where their trailers were parked.

  “It wouldn’t have helped.” Swain patted the neck of her gelding. “Your gray’s good, but Nor’easter here is fast. Did you know his great-granddaddy is Summer Squall?”

  “No kidding? No wonder you were on me before I knew it. Abigail must have paid a pretty penny for that piece of horseflesh.”

  Swain sometimes wondered why her employer kept an active stable since no Wetheringtons were still playing polo. But she paid Swain well to procure, train, ride, and sometimes sell “made” ponies—ones completely broken into the game—under the family colors.

  “I picked him up green as a two-year-old. He didn’t work out well at the track, so they dumped him right after the trials.”

  “So why isn’t my trainer at the track picking up bargains like this horse?”

  Swain smiled and shrugged. “I was just lucky, I guess. Right place at the right time.”

  Hoyt ran his eyes over the bay. “You seem to get lucky a lot. Think Abigail would sell him?”

  “Everything has a price, Hoyt. But he won’t be cheap. I’ve put a lot of training into him. He still needs another season.”

  “He looked pretty good out there today.” He turned his gray toward the Whitney trailers. “When you talk to her, tell her I want to make an offer once she’s ready to sell. And tell her to hurry back. We need her here to keep Hitchcock from rewriting the league rules so he can fill his team with ringers.”

  Her employer’s recent silence and her absence during the fall polo season worried Swain. Abigail had traveled to London months ago to bury her son and hadn’t returned. At first, she’d called every week to talk with Swain about the ponies and what was going on around town. But her phone calls had become less frequent in recent months and completely stopped three weeks ago. The Wetherington estate without its feisty matriarch was like a three-legged dog. It still ran well enough, but obviously something was missing.

  Where was Abigail? When the hell was she coming home?

  *

  Lillie Wetherington held her dying grandmother’s limp hand gently. The skin felt dry and fragile, like thin parchment. She fought back tears and admonished herself to be brave, but her despair was too deep.

  As if sensing Lillie’s desolation, Abigail Wetherington opened her eyes briefly. They were clouded with pain and her voice was a feathery whisper. Lillie bent close to hear her words.

  “I can feel you trembling.”

  “I’m just worried about you.”

  “My beautiful Lillie. So sorry.”

  A sudden fit of coughing stole her next words, and Lillie grabbed the oxygen mask that Abigail had laid aside earli
er and held it to her grandmother’s face.

  When her coughing finally quieted, Abigail pulled the mask away.

  “Too many bad things…happening here. You must go.”

  Lillie had lived an orphan’s dream, adopted by wealthy, loving parents when she was five years old and growing up in London. But that dream had become a nightmare.

  The members of her adopted family had met their deaths one by one. Three were gone already, and her grandmother was dying before her now. Individually, each one seemed to be a tragic accident. Together, they painted a terrifying picture.

  Someone had a lethal grudge against anyone bearing the Wetherington name. And she was surely next. He had already tried. He would try again.

  “Go to South Carolina. You’ll be safe…and I need…need you to make things right…” Abigail waved her hand in the direction of her bureau. “I’ve left letters…in the top drawer.”

  Lillie went to the bureau and found two sealed envelopes, on which she recognized Abigail’s flowing cursive. Her name was written on one. The other was labeled “Swain Butler.”

  Abigail took a shallow breath. “Promise…to go,” she whispered.

  Lillie returned to her grandmother’s side and sat on the edge of the bed. She covered Abigail’s cold hand with hers to warm it. “I’ll do whatever you want, Grandmum. You must rest now.”

  “Trust…Swain.”

  “Your farm manager?”

  Abigail closed her eyes, her words barely more than a sigh. “More than that.”

  Chapter Two

  Swain turned her pony toward the three long Wetherington trailers where her assistant trainer and head groom were preparing to load horses for the trip home. She dismounted and handed the bay off to her assistant, who had already handed his pony off to the groom. He offered her a bottle of water.

  “Thanks, Rob,” she said, draining it. “Would you ask John to rub him down good tonight? That last turn was pretty abrupt. He may have strained something.” She grimaced and rubbed her lower back. “I know I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

  Rob nodded, his gaze flicking over Swain’s shoulder at the person standing behind her. She raised her eyebrows at him when unseen hands joined her in the massage of her back, but he just smiled and shook his head. “Sure, boss. I’ll take care of it.” He chuckled as he led Nor’easter toward the wash area to clean off the salty sweat lathering his coat.

  “I can help you with that sore back.” The voice purred low and husky.

  “Seems to me that last time you ‘helped’ I had a sore back for a week,” Swain purred back.

  “I don’t remember you complaining.” The hands moved lower to caress Swain’s muscled butt. “But I’m willing to give it another try. Practice makes perfect.”

  Swain turned to face Susan Whitney. She and Hoyt were the children of Bonner Whitney, Abigail’s close friend and attorney. Twenty-four years old, Susan had been engaged to Jason Hitchcock for two years, but neither was in a hurry to marry. Jason was still making up his mind between teenaged boys and women. Susan just liked sex, with anybody. They would wed eventually to satisfy their families, but they weren’t yet ready to accept the social obligations expected of a married couple.

  “Not here, Susan.” They were standing between horse trailers, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching. Swain squeezed Susan’s hand. “I have to take care of the ponies right now, but call me later. You can bring some dinner over, and we’ll…practice.”

  Having dismissed Susan, Swain opened the door to the trailer’s small living compartment. A late-summer thunderstorm was threatening, and the breeze that had begun to ruffle the broad leaves of the surrounding magnolias had dried her short, dark hair. But the oppressive humidity had kept her polo jersey damp, smelling of sweat and clinging to her body. She wanted to wash and pull on something dry.

  The half bath was so small, she grabbed a washcloth and stood before the kitchen sink to strip off her jersey and sports bra. She was bent over the sink, her face coated with soap, when the door opened.

  “Dressing,” she yelled, expecting that John or Rob forgot to knock.

  “More like undressing,” Susan said. Swain heard her close the door and engage the lock.

  “Susan…” Swain rinsed the soap from her face, then ran the washcloth under her arms and over her torso before turning to her uninvited visitor.

  “You’re a goddess, you know that?” Susan took the washcloth from her and began to smooth it along the thick muscles of Swain’s shoulders and across her bare chest. “You’re like a female warrior—an Amazon washing off the blood and gore of her battle.” Swain’s nipples hardened and her blood throbbed between her legs. Susan tossed the cloth into the sink and began working the buckle loose on Swain’s belt. “But soap and water won’t wash away your battle lust, will it?”

  It was true. The adrenaline rush of her duel and victory on the field still coursed through her. “Susan—”

  “We’ll be quick, just to take your edge off. Later, at your place, we’ll take our time.” Susan’s hand slipped along Swain’s belly and into her pants. Swain sucked in a breath when the long fingers slid against her sensitive clit. “See how wet you are?” Susan grabbed Swain’s hand and pulled it under her skirt until Swain’s palm was against the damp crotch of her panties. “See how ready I am for you?”

  Swain growled and dropped to her knees. She yanked Susan’s skirt up and her panties to the floor to plunge her mouth into the dripping curls. She licked and sucked the thick clitoris, then raked her teeth against the swollen tissue.

  “Oh, oh. I’m about to come.” Susan was panting.

  “Not yet,” Swain growled. The heady scent of Susan’s juices mingled with the musky aroma of sweat and horses. She still wore her knee-high boots and leather knee pads, but she pushed her white riding breeches down as far as she could. She lowered Susan onto one of the bunks and climbed between her legs.

  Susan whimpered, bucking her hips against Swain’s bare torso.

  Swain grabbed Susan’s knees and forced them up against her chest, then rubbed her clit, hot and wet, against Susan’s sex.

  “Yes.” Susan opened her folds and bared herself to Swain’s thrusts.

  Swain was ready.

  She hadn’t realized it before, but her desire had been building since Nor’easter answered her call for speed. Her blood rose as her backhand swing connected, swelled as she wielded her mallet again to hurl the ball cleanly through the goalposts, and sang through her veins as another opponent fell.

  She was more than ready. Her hunger burned hotter with each thrust, then flashed through her like a firestorm.

  But her release wasn’t enough to sate the hunger of competition, the need to conquer again. She lifted her hips to slide her hand between them and plunge her fingers into Susan’s body.

  “Oh, yes. Fuck me hard. Fuck me everywhere.” Susan moaned, draping her legs over Swain’s broad shoulders.

  Swain pulled her slick fingers out and rubbed them lower against the puckered muscle before plunging one finger deep inside. Susan moaned again at the intrusion. Swain slid her thumb where her fingers had just been and stroked hard and fast.

  Voices sounded just outside the trailer. “Quiet,” Swain commanded.

  Susan whimpered, but grabbed the first thing she put her hand on—Swain’s sweaty jersey—and covered her mouth. It muffled her scream when Swain, still thrusting, took her into her mouth and over the edge with a few broad strokes of her tongue.

  *

  Lillie hated flying out of Heathrow in the summer. The airport was teeming with international visitors, vacationing tourists, and students on school-sponsored trips. She huffed as she stood in line at the security checkpoint behind a large group of clowning students.

  Bloody Americans.

  Truthfully, she welcomed her irritation with the students crowding the airport security gate. At least she could still feel something other than the emptiness, the loneliness of being orphaned again. Somet
hing other than the constant fear that she would turn a corner and encounter whoever, whatever was stalking her family.

  A chill ran through her. She could feel eyes on her now, had felt them since she entered the airport. She berated herself for being paranoid, but she couldn’t help it after all that had happened.

  Six years ago, Jim Wetherington, the grandfather Lillie never met, died when his small plane suffered a mechanical failure and crashed.

  Lillie’s father, Eric, would never speak of the rift that had estranged him from his family in the United States twenty-six years before. But after learning of his father’s death, he began to mend his relationship with his mother.

  When Abigail finally came to visit, she and Lillie formed an instant bond. Already a young woman, Lillie was either dashing to university classes or keeping appointments vital to her fledgling career as a photographer, but she always made time for Grandmum’s visits.

  Their small family had a happy few years of reconciliation and renewal. Eric, at last, was planning for all of them to visit the South Carolina estate where he grew up. Then tragedy, almost a year ago, struck again.

  Lillie’s mother, Camille, died when her car plunged down an embankment and wrapped around a tree. The car was so mangled, it was impossible to determine what might have caused her to swerve off the roadway.

  Three months later, Lillie’s grieving father, Eric, drowned in the icy river near their home. The inquest recorded an open verdict, and Abigail came to London to help Lillie survive her grief.

  Still, the surreal nightmare continued.

  In a familiar neighborhood where she and her friends frequented cheery pubs, Lillie narrowly escaped a terrifying assault by a hooded assailant in a dark alley. Even more disturbing, the attack apparently wasn’t random. The man had known Lillie’s name and, when her friend interrupted his ambush, he escaped into the night.