It Took a Rumor
Authors: Carter Ashby
It Took A Rumor
Carter Ashby
Copyright © <2016>
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Digital Edition. Personal use rights only. No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover Design by Pink Ink Design
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ISBN: 153085363X
ISBN-13: 978-1530853632
To all my fellow writers. I gained a lot of encouragement and insight from you all on this one. Thank you!
- Prologue: Once upon a time...
It was all over town that Ivy Turner was sleeping with one of the Deathridge brothers, only no one knew which one.
Myra Tidwell, the town social blogger, immediately set out to find answers. Armed with her iPhone, she typically used the location feature on Facebook and her connections with local business owners to track down her targets—in this case, Ivy herself. Myra drove a habanero orange VW bug, and frequently dressed in contrast with society’s expectations for a woman her age. Today, that meant wearing a vintage midi-skirt swirled with floral patterns in turquoise and orange, a deep blue blouse, and an orange scarf. Her hair, long ago gone white, was pinned up in a twist, and her cunning eyes were hidden behind large, round sunglasses. On her lips she wore a smirk and a bright red lipstick.
The gossip industry was good.
She swerved her car into the parking lot of the local Walgreens, pulled up the camera function on her phone, and strutted in on heels the likes of which most women half her age couldn’t pull off.
Ivy happened to be standing in the check-out aisle buying condoms. With a thrill of voyeuristic delight surging through her blood, Myra held up her phone. “Looks like you got a taste of something you like and are going back for more? Fair Grove is dying to know, Ivy…which Deathridge brother did you sample?”
Gossip was a harmless pursuit. Myra felt no compunction about subjecting the young woman to her first round of it. The girl was twenty-six, after all. How she’d remained under the radar this long was a mystery. Just look at her, in her uptight business clothes with her hair pulled back, too good to dress like the rancher that she was. Well, she apparently wasn’t too good to sleep with one.
“Uh…um…uh…” was Ivy’s response. Then she looked down at the condoms and shoved them behind her back. “These aren’t for me. I swear.”
Myra grinned and took her stammering as confirmation of the rumor’s accuracy. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to get any further information out of the stunned young woman. A shame. But Myra’s motto had always been, “If you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll just make something up.”
Myra’s next stop was the local watering hole, a run-down tavern where the farmers often had their drinks at the end of a long work day. Boone Deathridge, the youngest at twenty-five and the closest to Ivy’s age, stood at the bar flirting with two women. He wore his muddy work boots, jeans, and a sleeveless tee. It didn’t much matter what he wore, his baby face held all the allure of a piece of candy from a stranger in a creepy van. Myra adjusted the waistline of her skirt and approached him, iPhone set to record. “What’s your response to the rumors? Were you the one slept with Ivy Turner last night?”
Boone grinned. “Did you see her walking today? ‘Cause if you did, then it wasn’t me.”
Myra shuffled backward, just slightly put off by his insinuation. Her profession notwithstanding, at the age of sixty-five, Myra considered herself a refined Southern lady. So what if she published salacious local gossip on the internet for a living? Gossip had a longstanding history in their town, and Myra walked with her head held high.
She moved on to Cody Deathridge who was sitting at a table with two other farmers, deep in discussion about…well…farming. “Cody, would you like to make a statement on the Ivy Turner scandal?”
Cody stood to his full height of well over six feet. He wore the trademark dark Deathridge looks well. His bright blue eyes set him apart from his brothers, and his slow, quiet demeanor earned him a reputation as the stand-up, solid citizen of the crew. “I do have a statement,” he said, his low, raspy voice sexy enough to curl Myra’s toes in spite of the age difference. “It ain’t right her suddenly being treated like she done something wrong just because of some baseless rumors. And you oughtta be ashamed of yourself, Miss Myra.” He tipped his cowboy hat and sat back down without another glance in her direction.
Myra sniffed and shuffled her way to the pool table in the back where the eldest two brothers were playing a game. Dallas was widely considered the playboy of the bunch, though he played the reputation down. He was easily the sexiest Deathridge, with dark hair and eyes, and a smile that would melt your panties right off. The tattoos covering his bare arms added to his bad-boy appeal. From what Myra could tell, he was the favorite in the “Which one did Ivy sleep with” poll. “Dallas? Care to confess?” Myra asked.
“Now you know you’re the only woman for me, Miss Myra.”
Myra wasn’t above blushing. Actually she couldn’t help it. But dignity demanded she keep pushing forward, so she turned to Jake.
The eldest Deathridge was more handsome than sexy. While the other three were broad shouldered and powerfully built, Jake had the same build as his father—long, lean, and rangy. He wore a dark brown Stetson and an air of authority that came from being the oldest and the sole heir to the property, though Myra could easily remember him as a boy egging houses on Halloween just like all the others. Still, Jake was a no-nonsense kind of guy, and the least likely suspect. However, Myra knew from years of experience in the gossip industry that it was often the least likely suspect who turned out guilty. “And you, Jake? Have you been having an affair with little Ivy Turner?”
Jake frowned and drew himself upright. “Are you recording this? Are you actually recording this? I do not give my permission for you to publish this on your blog.”
Needless to say, Myra went home with no more knowledge on the subject than she’d started out with.
However, you wouldn’t know that to watch her video blog the next morning.
Myra’s Blog
…Obviously, there’s something behind this rumor, and my feeling is that Ivy is most definitely guilty of sleeping with at least one of the brothers. And oh my, that certainly was a large box of…protection. Looks like whichever brother it was is likely to be seeing lots more of Ivy Turner.
But why should this be a big scandal? Well, let me give you a little history on the Turners and the Deathridges.
Gideon Deathridge has been refusing to sell his property to Jared Turner nigh on ten years now. If Jared wants to use his property on the other side of the Deathridge land, he has to march his cows down several miles of public highway. For reasons unbeknownst to myself or my sources, Gideon stubbornly refuses to cooperate with his neighbor. But I posit this query: Wouldn’t he have to cooperate if that neighbor were his in-law?
So that’s the question. Is Jared Turner attempting to perpetrate a good, old-fashioned mercenary marriage? Or has little Ivy Turner become the Juliet in the greatest love story of all time? What do you think? Leave your comments below, and don’t forget to vote in our poll…
The video on Ivy’s computer screen automatically started playing again. She sat there subjecting herself to repeated viewings of it. Obviously this was a form of self-flagellation, or maybe she was simply caught up in the entertainment value of her own life drama.
How had it come to this? A lifetime of model behavior flushed by Myra the Mouth. “Damn it,” Ivy muttered as the video started its fourth replay.
“It’ll blow over, sweetie. You gotta stop torturing yourself.” Edna Ellis was the office manager at Turner Cattle Company the past twenty years, and the only remaining matriarchal influence in Ivy’s life. Ivy briefly recalled her mother being friends with Clara Deathridge back when she was a young child, but in recent years, they must have drifted apart. For the most part, Penny Turner spent her time with ranch hands. Ergo, Ivy spent her time with ranch hands.
“I just can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe people are so quick to believe something like this,” Ivy said. She wanted to slam something closed, to symbolically shut Myra out of her life. But she was on the desktop computer in her workplace, so all she could do was click out of the browser. She made sure to click extra hard, though.
It wasn’t enough that her good name was being dragged through the mud, that people she’d known since she was knee-high-to-a-grasshopper were looking at her like she’d suddenly morphed into a diseased whore…no, the worst part of it all was that the rumor happened to be true. But how had it gotten out? She’d been so very, very careful not to tell anyone. And it was hardly an affair. They’d had one momentary lapse in judgment. One illicit moment. Not even a very long moment, though one she’d regret until her dying day. Or at least she should. She should most definitely not be replaying it in her mind before bed every night.
“Just out of curiosity…” Edna started.
“Edna, don’t you dare.”
Edna laughed her husky smoker’s laugh. “I’m only fooling. Everyone who knows you knows you’re incapable of doing something like this. Trust me. It’ll blow over.”
How disappointed would Edna be if she knew the truth? Ivy was plenty disappointed in herself. She’d gone to all the trouble to get an advanced business degree, dress like a city girl, and even get herself a city boyfriend for a few years, and all for what? To throw herself at a filthy cowboy in a field in the middle of the day for no reason. Or at least no
good
reason. Her raging hormones and his damn charming appeal were not reasons to give up all semblance of civility and start doing it like animals in the great outdoors.
Ivy dropped her forehead onto her palms and groaned. How had they been caught? The whole thing had happened a week ago. Why were the rumors just now circulating? And why hadn’t anyone identified which brother she’d been with? She knew
he
would never tell. Those boys wouldn’t dare do anything to upset their father, and that made Ivy—along with women who couldn’t cook, clean, or bear children—strictly off limits. So where had this rumor come from?
“I’m going out for lunch, hun. The usual?” Edna asked.
“Yes, please,” Ivy said. The screen door slammed shut behind Edna. Ivy got up to crank the air conditioner, a window unit with a near-deafening drone that had been driving her crazy ever since she took her mom’s place here at the office a year ago.
Five minutes after Edna’s departure, the front door opened again. Ivy saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. Hot air displaced the cold, which automatically put the new arrival on Ivy’s shit list. She’d lost control of her reputation, couldn’t she at least have control over her climate?
Ivy took in a deep breath, stood, and prepared to offer a professional greeting to whoever had just walked in. But as soon as the door closed fully and she saw who it was, her words died in her throat, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.
Gideon Deathridge. The patriarch himself.
He was tall, like his sons. He was a gritty, hard sort of man in his sixties. His sun-toughened skin was craggy, and his jaw was covered in silvery stubble. He squinted his eyes at you, whether or not there was sun. Ivy remembered being terrified of him as a child. Even then he’d had something of a grim reaper quality, like he was judging your very soul.
“Mr. Deathridge,” Ivy said, forcing her voice low and steady.
There, that wasn’t so hard. Just keep the voice low and steady. Of course you also have to breathe. Breathe, Ivy
. The next step was to extend her hand for a professional shake, keeping it steady the entire time. This took a great deal of willpower, but she managed it. Unfortunately, the old man merely looked at it in disgust. She dropped it back to her side. “My father isn’t in right now, but—”
“I came to see you. I wanna know what game you’re playing, and with which one of my boys you’re playing it.”
