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    Winton's Strays
    Winton's Strays
    Winton's Strays
    Ebook53 pages6 hours

    Winton's Strays

    By Hollis Shiloh

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Two young men meet on a train in 1917.

    Miles is out of the hospital in time for Christmas, traveling to relatives he doesn't want to see. He was lucky to survive the Great War. But he doesn't feel very lucky right now. Until blue-eyed Winton trips on a scarf and into his life. Winton, with his quirky smile, gentle nature, and rescued pets. 

    Miles could love this man, he really could. But how the hell can he burden this kind, bright young man with his wounded, limping self?


    A sweet, historical M/M romance / gay romance. 
    Length: approx. 13,000 words
    Heat level: low
    Some themes: Christmas, trains, pets, falling in love, bookstores, Army veterans, and WWI

    Excerpt:

    “Isn't it the most beautiful snow?” asked Win. “I could just eat it.”

    “You’d get cold.”

    “Yes, but--” He cast Miles a startled look. “Cold. You are cold, aren't you? And you just got out of the hospital.” He made an annoyed sound in his throat and halted. “I’m sorry. Here.” He put down his suitcase and retrieved the gigantic blue scarf from his bulging coat pocket.

    “You’ll choke me,” warned Miles, grinning.

    “I won't.” Winton wound the long, thick scarf around Miles’s neck, his fingers gentle, his slender face close.

    Close enough to kiss, if things were just a bit different: if this place were less exposed, if they’d known each other longer, if he was sure. Miles's mouth tingled, but he kept his hands firmly by his side, his mouth to himself.

    Win's fingers were careful and light as he fixed the scarf. At length, he drew away with almost a caress, and smiled, his gaze warm and full. “It looks better on you.” 

    He took Miles's arm again, and they fell into step.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSpare Words Press
    Release dateSep 26, 2015
    ISBN9781516392940
    Winton's Strays

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      Book preview

      Winton's Strays - Hollis Shiloh

      Winton's Strays

      by Hollis Shiloh

      THE TRAIN WHISTLE PIERCED the quiet day.  The chug-chug-chug sound increased.  Steam filled the station, and for a moment, Miles couldn’t see out the train’s windows.  Soon they moved into the open and he glimpsed countryside, open and flat beneath the lowering gray sky.  Snow coated fields and roofs, and only shoveled paths showed dark against it.  A sight like this would have enchanted him a few years ago.

      Miles’s army bag sat beside him.  He had the latest Conan Doyle and the latest P.G. Wodehouse both unopened beside him.  He might need them to make it through Christmas at his aunt and uncle’s farm.  The family had taken him in when he was orphaned at sixteen, had tried to be kind to him, but it never felt like home.

      Even through his brown wool gloves and hat, his fingers felt the cold.  Once, he’d have stayed outdoors all day long, cheerfully bareheaded, throwing snowballs, sledding, and playing a slippery game of king-of-the-hill.

      He knew he was lucky, after a fashion, to survive and escape the Great War and the trenches, even if it meant an injury he would carry for the rest of his life.  Sometimes it was difficult to feel lucky.

      Excuse me.  Coming through.  Sorry!  With the sound of bumps and laborious movement, someone made his way down the middle of the train, late; it was already picking up speed.

      Miles turned to look and saw a tall, slim young man in a long dark coat.  Wrapped round his neck was a blue scarf so long it kept falling down and tripping him.  He’d pushed his befogged glasses up on top of his head so they nestled in his flyaway, soft-looking brown hair.

      Sorry! said the young man again, wincing as his heavy suitcase bumped against another seat and then his own knee.  He also carried a birdcage with a felt cover.  His gaze met Miles’s.  May I...may I sit here?

      Miles blinked.  Those eyes, palest of blue, held a directness that made Miles feel as though he was waking up or a fog had just cleared.  Of course.  He drew his bag out of the way and plopped it onto the floor against the wall. 

      The young man seemed to require an extraordinary amount of room.  His scarf got tangled round the birdcage, which let out a scared cheep; he barked his shin on the seat; the suitcase thumped and bumped against his legs, the seats, and finally, Miles’s boot.  Sorry, again.  Eventually he got the cage beside him, the suitcase on the floor, and the scarf unwound.  Puffing, red in the face, he pulled off his gloves and unbuttoned the first button of his coat. 

      He pulled down his glasses, wiped them with his scarf, and then put them on.  They did nothing to obscure the clarity of his gaze, but rather magnified his extraordinary eyes.  Miles tried not to stare.

      I love my aunt, but I shouldn’t have worn it, said the young man without preamble, folding the scarf and setting it beside the birdcage. 

      Miles held up his gloved hands.  Mine knits more practical things.

      The young man smiled.  Lucky you.  He had a wide, mobile mouth that looked too big for his slender face.  His coat was dark gray and soft-looking.  Under it, he wore tweed.  His hair had a wispy, soft quality like spun sugar or down; it stuck up at odd angles even when he swiped at it. 

      He reached into his pocket and gingerly pulled out a small squirrel.  He cradled it close, stroked its fur and long tail, rubbed its little ears, and then put it back into his pocket in a nest made from handkerchiefs.

      Do you always travel with a menagerie? asked Miles.  A smile twitched his mouth.

      Winton laughed.  "No!  Well...not

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