Free His Perfect Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch - Spicy Version Book 1) by Merry Farmer

could muscle his way to the front of the pack, and as much as his father encouraged him to use his cane to beat away the competition, Franklin would rather end up with table scraps than raise a hand against anyone, even in jest.
    “What’s going on?” Corva whispered breathlessly, squeezing close to his side as Minnie tore past, burrowing through the adults to get to the table.
    Franklin looped his free arm around Corva’s waist to shelter her from Mason as he carried his plate above his head back into the parlor, looking for a seat. “We have a tradition of chaos at the supper table in the Haskell house,” he explained. “Hang back or you might be trampled.”
    He meant it as a joke, but Corva made a strangled noise, as though she took him at his word. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she whispered. “In my uncle’s house, anyone who made any noise or pushed and shoved like this, besides him, would have seen the strap.”
    Her words were like a punch in his gut. He tightened his hold on her waist, peeking at her. The reflection of old fear in her eyes had him ready to forgo his pledge of non-violence. “Your uncle.” He swallowed, not sure how to form the question that needed to be asked. “Was he…cruel?”
    Corva tensed beside him, staring down at the floor. It was a clearer answer than her reply of, “This isn’t the time to talk about it.”
    Anger burst through Franklin’s chest. In its wake was an even stronger feeling of protectiveness. He knew that Corva had come from a sad background, but in that moment, he felt it too.
    “What are you two doing just standing there?” Virginia pushed her way through everyone who was finished fixing their plates and had turned to looking for a seat instead. “There’s still plenty of good cuts of meat, and far more vegetables than there should be.” She turned to the hall. “Who isn’t eating their vegetables?”
    “Mr. Cody isn’t,” nine-year-old Christopher Flint hollered.
    “Hush up, boy,” Cody hollered back, all in fun. They both giggled.
    “I don’t think I’ll ever fit in here,” Corva sighed.
    Franklin gave her waist one last squeeze, then escorted her to the end of the table where the plates were. “I’ve never fit in,” he confessed, “but you do get used to it.”
    They made their way around the table, filling plates with everything from steak to peas to pasta. It was decidedly convenient to have Corva hold the plates while Franklin used his free hand to scoop delicacies onto them. Yet another way the two of them could work well together. Franklin planned to seat the two of them on the stairs in the hall—his usual spot. He should have known his father would have other ideas.
    “No hiding away in the hall for you this time, Franklin, my son,” he said in his booming voice. “Bring your pretty, new wife in here. We’ve reserved you a place of honor.”
    The place of honor turned out to be two chairs that had been set front and center before the fireplace. Franklin sent Corva a look of apology, then escorted her into the heart of the crush of enthusiastic family and friends. Corva had been pale before they arrived, but now she was flushed and wide-eyed.
    “So Corva, tell us all about who you are,” Howard asked once they were settled.
    “Howard, hush,” Franklin’s mother, Elizabeth, swatted his arm. “Let the poor girl eat.”
    “Nonsense,” Howard declared, his mouth half full of mashed potatoes. “She’s my daughter-in-law now, and I want to know something about her. Where were you living before Hurst Home, for example?” He pointed a turkey drumstick at her.
    “I…” Corva hesitated.
    Franklin rested a hand on her arm. “You don’t have to play along if you don’t want to,” he whispered. “I’ll handle it.”
    She swallowed, then whispered back, “It’s all right. He’s your father.” She cleared her throat, sat straighter, then said to Howard, “I have been living in Nashville for the past