His Kind of Home

By Hollis Shiloh

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 turns 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
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spare Words Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536556063

Book preview

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 turns 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 friendly.  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