His Kind of Home Read online

  Story copyright July 2014 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover design by Wicked Knight Designs. Cover image content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the content is a model. Proofreading by Carol Davis (http://caroldavisauthor.com/a-better-look-editing-services/).

  About the story:

  Jack hates the new gardener. Matt was hired by the wizard to repair Jack's hacking efforts. He's also blond and perfect, with good looks that make Jack feel uglier than dirt—and fill him with a strange longing.

  Jack has never fit in anywhere, belonged anywhere. Hired straight from the orphanage, used to fighting for survival, he's always longed for family and love.

  Now gentle, magical Matt seems willing to be his friend—or more than a friend?

  The arrival of caravan travelers turn Jack's life upside down. They might just be his true family—a family that actually wants him.

  Could this be his first real chance at belonging? And if so, where does Matt fit in his new life?

  Heat rating: very low

  Length: ~29,000 words

  His Kind of Home

  by Hollis Shiloh

  Jack stormed into the mansion, pausing first to stomp his muddy boots extra hard on the mat out front.

  The cook moved into the hallway, dough and flour still on her hands. She shook her head at him, but in a slow way, as if she knew there was no point in stopping him. And there wasn't. There just wasn't!

  How could he? Jack held on to his wrathful ire all the way up the winding staircase to the very top of the mansion. His courage wavered a little at the closed door there, a door that was curved, the way the rest of the house was curved, as if it was an old lighthouse. It seemed to make extra room in the house, so that Jack never knew for certain how many rooms there were. It sometimes seemed as though he would come indoors from tinkering with the motorcar's engine and discover a wholly new room, with doilies and careful brown couches.

  This always seemed to happen when he was at his most grubby and disreputable, so that he felt as if he had to hold his hands out in front of him, as if they were giant throbbing menaces leaking grease and filth, that if he touched anything he would irrevocably ruin the mansion and the wizard would scream at him and turn him into a toad.

  A toad that hopped around the garden.

  The garden that he was no longer responsible for.

  True, he was not terribly good at gardening, but it was his responsibility, and he'd kept it trimmed, after a fashion—the hedges never got overgrown, and he kept the grass at a low, even length. This was all because he'd trimmed the hedges too short last week, wasn't it? It really wasn't fair! One little mistake. It should still be my job.

  "Are you going to come in or just stand there breathing like a bull?"

  Jack startled at the sound of the wizard's amused voice. An irrational surge of relief filled him at the amusement, even as another part of him raged at being laughed at. Having the old, crotchety, rather frightening wizard not starting out angry was a relief, and made becoming a toad less of a possibility.

  He turned the knob firmly and pushed into the room, chin jutting up, jaw clenched defiantly. "You… you shouldn't have hired somebody else." His words came out sounding weaker and more wobbly than he liked.

  The gray-haired wizard looked up from his desk. Papers and herbs and books and pens and ink scattered across it in blatant disregard of neatness. It should have made Jack feel better about his own state—the rough boots, barely clean from the outdoors, the brown trousers, the flannel shirt with the patch over the elbow and the carefully darned socks. True, the wizard wasn't looking at his socks, tucked away carefully and hidden inside his boots, but the way the man was, something about his very presence could make Jack self-conscious even of his boots.

  "You didn't need to hire anybody else. I'd have taken care of it." He squinted at the wizard, trying to look defiant. He resisted rubbing the toe of his boot against the carpet in a nervous pattern.

  The wizard gave a snort that could've swept away papers from his desk, had it been aimed that way. Jack distinctly felt a breeze! "Young man, heaven knows you do your best, but the messy exactitude of an engine requires slightly different skills from those of a gardener. You can't grease a yard into submission, or make it look appealing by hacking the hedges into tiny nubs."

  Jack's blush rose hot and miserable in his cheeks. He wasn't forgiven for the hedges. "I c‑could've done it."

  The wizard regarded him over the top of his glasses. He had a kindly expression on his wrinkled face at the moment, and his blue eyes looked younger than the rest of him, sparkly with enjoyment. "You're well suited to caring for the motorcar, the steam, and the wood chopping. I should think they keep you busy enough." His tone became stern and he turned back to his papers with the look of a man who would not be argued with. "Now run along and don't bother me. And make the gardener welcome—no pranks. I shall be watching to see you don't."

  "I-I wouldn't!" He flushed hotter, ashamed that the wizard would still think such a thing of him. Oh, certainly he'd been a dreadful youngster with a wicked way about him when he'd first come here from the orphanage, a half-grown, gangling, defiant thing who put frogs where they didn't belong and tried to feed leeches to the patiently exasperated dog, back when they'd had a dog. But he had grown up a lot in the years since and had become a steady (or nearly steady) and trustworthy citizen. Even if he occasionally swore a blue streak and kicked at particularly recalcitrant machinery. What did that matter? He never swore in front of ladies, and he'd completely abandoned frogs and leeches.

  "Go," said the wizard in a voice like thunder.

  Jack jumped and darted out of the room. He stopped on the top step, and a shiver ran through him, leaving him cold and icy to his toes. The wizard hadn't spoken to him in that tone in a long time. He'd been spanked for the leeches, and only once since, but he had no doubt the wizard, with his strange, warped view of the passing of time, would consider him quite young enough to turn over his knee and spank again.

  It was the most humiliating punishment in the world. He'd received far worse beatings at the orphanage—the kind that made it hard to sit for days, left red welts and big purple bruises—but he'd borne them with the stoicism of any orphan who grew up trying to be tough enough to survive this cruel world. A less painful, more humiliating smacking from the wizard had frightened him in a way nothing else could—not least because the wizard could always choose to send him back to the orphanage. And he'd found, to his dismay, that he would do almost anything to avoid being sent back. That realization was the beginning of his reform, and he'd become useful instead of annoying to the wizard.

  Oh, he couldn't be sent back now—he was too old for the orphanage—but he could be sent away, to make his living on his own, away from the only real home he'd ever known, and the very thought made his stomach want to drop out and flop away to crawl into a hole and hide. No, no. He would make the gardener welcome, he would, he would!

  He hurried down the stairs as fast as he could quietly go, but his resolve weakened with each step. Perhaps not "welcome." He'd stop short of open hostilities, but how could he possibly welcome someone who had come to replace him?

  And if the gardening, then what next? Someone who's actually good with engines—who never has to kick them?

  He got out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, wiping the muck and grease from his face, wishing he'd remembered to do so before seeing the wizard.

  As he passed the kitchen, walking slowly and thinking bleak thoughts, he heard the cook's voice, sounding fawning and friend
ly. "Have another piece, love. I know how hungry boys get!" She laughed. "We have our own already, you see."

  "Oh?" A cultured voice spoke, sounding calmly interested, not talking around a scarfed mouthful of crumbs the way Jack would've done. "Is he the apprentice?"

  "Apprentice?" Cook Adrienne chuckled affectionately. "Lord love you, no. The wizard doesn't have an apprentice! I'm talking about Jack, our mechanic. He's a good lad—most of the time. Does love his drink, though."

  Jack flushed. Oh yes, too much blackberry wine three months ago, he'd come home from the dance tipsy and giggly, and that was the first thing she mentioned? Oh, they never let you forget anything in this house! His hands balled at his sides. I've not touched a drop since, except the wine we all had last Saturday at supper, and you drank more than I did!

  Gritting his teeth, Jack braced himself and stepped into the room, eyes flashing, preparing to hate the new man on sight.

  Except he was no older than Jack was, nineteen or twenty or thereabouts. But this mark in his favor—his youth—was immediately outshone by his startling flaws. He sat tall and straight in the kitchen chair, one hand holding a little cake, a cake with one bite taken out of it and no more. He had bright, beautiful hair, a pale color that gleamed like gold. And when he turned to look at Jack, his face was so beautiful Jack couldn't think of a thing to say. His whole mind went blank, and all he saw was high cheekbones, a handsome, even face with a strong jaw and big blue eyes and full lips. The newcomer took him in with a kind of tolerant interest, cataloguing him, as if seeing him even more clearly than the wizard could, darned socks and all.

  "Hello," said the gardener. His voice was cultured and perfect and everything Jack wasn't. And Jack had mud on his trousers and grease on his hands and holes in his socks.

  Jack's gaze flicked past him jealously to the little cakes filling a plate—a whole plate—and the best cherry cakes cook made, too, the kind she slapped his hand for eating if he took any between meals.

  "Hello, Jack," said Adrienne. "We were just talking about you."

  He scowled. "Yeah, saying I like my drink, when I don't."

  She colored a little, her plump face turning red. "It's not nice to eavesdrop." She was still using company manners around this upright, patrician boy, instead of threatening to box Jack 'round the ears or laughing at him. He glared at them both and turned on his heel.

  "Oh, don't pout," she said in a tolerant voice. "Come back and you can have a cake."

  He drew in a chestful of air and expended it explosively. "I would rather eat dirt!" And just then, he would have: gobs of it, great dry handfuls of it, choked down and coughed on, marring his mouth and gritting his teeth for a week.

  But later, as he toiled over the steam engine that heated water for washing and bathing, wiping his brow when it got hot, and swallowing when his mouth got dry, without quite wanting to go back to the kitchen and face her, he thought of the little huff of breath she'd made as he left: the hurt little sound, as if he'd hit her.

  All right, so she could be a bit foolish at times, but Jack wasn't immune to that himself. She might say foolish things, but the newcomer would realize that quickly enough and not spend the rest of his life thinking Jack was a drunkard.

  And what did it matter what he thought of Jack? What did it matter at all? It would be better if he did think Jack was dangerous and someone to be avoided, so he wouldn't go making trouble for him. Maybe even stay out of his way with his perfect cheekbones and his lovely eyes that saw everything and catalogued a person so very thoroughly.

  He twisted a wrench extra hard and hit his thumb when it slipped. The wrench clattered to the floor with a loud clang, and he jumped at the sharp pain in his thumb.

  "Shit!" he hissed the word in a trembling sort of yelp, and stuck his thumb into his mouth to suck away the pain. It didn't work; he just tasted oil and grime, and his thumb throbbed worse than ever. He drew it away and scowled at the sight; he'd begun to bleed under the nail. It was going to hurt for a long time, wasn't it?

  "All right in there?" asked a slightly uncertain voice, not quite amused, but clearly trying to be casual and unconcerned.

  Jack whirled to see the outline of that firm, tall figure, the new gardener. He was a lovely boy lit from behind, standing like the outline of all that represented manhood. It filled Jack with a desperate, jealous insecurity—and a strange ache.

  "Go away! You don't get to come in here!" He'd probably be good at engines and steal that too, with his perfect face and his calm, educated manner. Panic and rage warred with the pain, and Jack picked up the wrench and yanked it back towards the engine, his hand trembling. He was starting to bleed harder.

  The boy took a step back, so he wasn't over the threshold, but he didn't go away. "Don't you want to meet me, then?"

  Jack didn't say anything, just sucked on his lips so he couldn't make a sound of annoyance or pain. He could be grown up and above it too.

  "I'm Matthew," said the boy. "Cullican. You can call me Matt, if you like."

  I can tell you exactly what to do with your calm voice and your sweet manners. He wrenched harder, and a little huff of pain escaped him at the pressure of his finger. Drip, drip, drip: three drops of blood making little splats on the garage floor, and more welling dark and unhappy from his thumb.

  "Let me see," said the boy, moving closer, his voice quick and soft with compassion, as if he couldn't bear to see anything hurting. He was there in an instant, the shadow of him hovering over Jack, darkening his space. His long, clean fingers caught Jack's hand and stroked over it, as if gentling a small animal, but more competent than that. "It's all right. You're all right."

  Jack gasped as he felt something tingle and prickle inside him, right where his finger hurt the worst, and then a sudden lessening of pain. He jerked a little, and the boy released him quickly. "There? See? It's nothing."

  They faced each other. Matt's pale cheeks were blooming hot now, as if he was embarrassed about using magic to help Jack. "All right?" he asked, and started to move back out of the way, an undignified crab-like motion, the first time he'd appeared ungainly.

  Jack felt a rush of gratitude and hopeless fondness and something else he couldn't quite define. "I'm Jack," he offered. "Thanks." He gave the other boy a quick, firm nod.

  It stopped Matt mid-flight, freezing him in place. For a second, his mouth dropped open and he stared. "Um—you're welcome."

  Jack's gaze narrowed, and his heart clenched painfully. "What, did you think somebody like me couldn't say thanks?"

  "N-no. I—I d-didn't—" He was stuttering, flustered.

  Jack turned back to his machinery, a twist to his mouth and a clench in his heart. Oh, he was bad after all! He could hurt Jack just with one ignorant look…

  Why do I care what you think, anyway? Just go away! he silently raged.

  "I'm sorry," said Matthew miserably. "I just—people usually act shocked that I can use magic. I—I didn't expect you not to react. That was all." He sounded wretched.

  Jack snorted, and gave another hard wrench to the bolt that was stuck, and that he couldn't even remember why he was trying to undo at the moment. "It's not exactly odd seeing magic around here. A few years ago, all the roses died, so the wizard made fake ones with magic. Except they came out purple instead of red, and people used to come by to point and stare, and steal them if they could. It was hard keeping them away."

  Matthew blinked at him as if uncertain what to believe. "But surely the wizard could keep them away—if he wanted to?"

  Jack shrugged, suddenly not wanting to meet Matt's gaze. He hadn't been able to bear for anyone to steal the wizard's hard work, and so even though the wizard had just laughed when they told him what was happening, and said never mind, Jack had kept a weather eye out and a pitchfork handy for chasing and yelling. He'd never have hurt anyone, of course—not really—but it was handy to have something more than his own scrawny presence to give chase with.

  Till he fell and hurt himself la
nding on the pitchfork, of course. But he certainly wasn't going to tell that. That was only the second time the wizard had spanked him—after rushing down to gather him up and heal his gashed and bleeding leg. His fear had turned to anger and he'd spanked Jack quite humiliatingly, two hard swats on the bottom with the flat of his hand before stalking away coldly. The pitchfork had disappeared after that; he'd never seen it again. Nobody had suggested buying a new one.

  Matt closed his beautiful lips, firming them together as if to cut off that subject and tactfully keep from saying anything that might embarrass the poor, crass mechanic.

  "All right. Well, it's nice to meet you, Jack." He extended his hand, his long clean hand with his perfectly formed not-crooked-at-all fingers.

  Jack hesitated just a moment. He was greasy and filthy and felt so ugly compared to Matt.

  Matt's hand wavered and dropped, with a quick, hard twist to his face that was suddenly far less likable, far more snotty and entitled. He drew back, pursing his lips a little, his eyes cold now instead of warm.

  "Uh…"

  "That's fine," said Matt coldly. "That's just fine." He walked away, kicking once at a clump of dirt.

  Jack stared after him helplessly, wondering how they'd managed to offend one another so greatly right off the bat.

  Jack rebuilt the engine, occasionally checking his thumb to see if it had started bleeding again. It hadn't. Every once in a while he snuck out to take a peek at Matt, doing the gardening. The first peek he snuck, Matt was just standing there looking overwhelmed, or possibly appalled.

  I didn't do that bad a job, thought Jack and retreated, offended yet again. He banged his tools rather a lot.

  The next time he checked, Matt was tending the roses, trimming a bit here and there. After that, Matt checked the vegetable patch, which was more parched earth than food source. He got a gardening tool out of the shed and began breaking up the earth. Even while doing dirty manual labor, he looked straight and clean and proper, as if he could never get really unclean. The sun shone in his light blond hair, and Jack felt a strange catch in his throat, a mixture of painful jealousy and a longing he didn't understand. He would never be so beautiful, so perfect. It was humiliating to feel so ugly in comparison—and to not be able to stop looking at Matt.