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 Seduced by the Mountain Man
A Short Steamy Mountain Man Romance

Carly Keene

Thistle Knoll Publishing

 Copyright © 2023 Carly Keene

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not
intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Olivia Pro Designs on Fiverr

 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE
Thank you for reading!
About The Author
 CHAPTER ONE
SAGE

It's Wet Your Whistle Wednesday. Again.

That was my idea. I still think it was a good one. This bar is a little way out, on the opposite
side of town from Glacier National Park, and it's not the first choice of the transient vacationers
visiting Whitefish, Montana. Or it wasn't.
I'm happy to say that I've had a hand in changing that.
It's partly due to streamlining the kitchen flow, partly due to switching up the snacks menu, partly
due to some good marketing, and partly due to observing the mixologists on the job long enough to
sniff out a bartender with sticky fingers and firing him. It's all down, really, to working with the
manager or owner about how to really run their own business.
I don't have a real education. I have a two-year general degree, and tons of experience around
town, working restaurant after restaurant, figuring out how things should operate, for the past ten
years. I started working at our local steak buffet place when I was sixteen and desperate to get out of
my parents' house (lest I get put to work anyway, but unpaid).
I've been tending bar at Boots 'n' All for the past three months, and I'm getting pretty tired of it.
I'm tired of the actual bartending part of it, anyway: the drunk tourists, the good ol' boys hitting on me,
the bachelorette party trying to get me to split a tab six ways, the drunk tourists (again), the idiot
spring breakers trying to get shitfaced on beer (why didn't they just go to the beach?), and the one old
guy riding a barstool and staring at the bar through his triple scotch all night... Boots 'n' All is running
right these days and I'm just done.
I mean, the money's pretty good. But I'm ready to do something else with my time. I need a new
challenge.
Maybe I need a new man?
But to be brutally honest, all the guys I've dated have started to run together in my mind. I don't
always pick the same kind of guy. I'm an equal-opportunity dater: blond, dark-haired, ginger, bald,
doesn't matter. Tall, skinny, built, average, that doesn't matter either. Professional or working-class,
either is fine. Older, younger, college-educated or not, I don't care. It's always been just for fun.
Nothing serious, always casual.
It's just...maybe I want something different.
I know, I know, this is me we're talking about, Miss Serial Dater. I've never had a relationship
that I wanted to continue beyond about six months. Kissed my first boy at age thirteen, and never
looked back.
But I think maybe I'm at a stage where I want to meet The One.
I ask Billy--the other tender working tonight--if he knows of any restaurants in town that might
need a boost. He shrugs one shoulder at me. "I dunno. I hear that new cupcake truck is doing really
well, maybe they're gonna expand?"
 "Not that one." Cupcakes on Wheels is where Sammi's been working all summer. And I do love
my baby sis, but I already share an apartment with her. I do not want to work with her. Especially for
server wages (although I think she's getting paid a little extra for doing some marketing stuff in
addition to manning the truck). "Anything else?"
Billy ruminates, pouring tequila shots. "Pizza place? I hear Slice is having trouble getting enough
delivery drivers."
I give Billy an eye roll. "I'm thinking more like manager, you get me? I don't just wait tables
anymore."
"What job do you want, then?"
I take an order and mix a martini before I answer him. "Dude, you know what I do. I'm a fixer.
I'm the person who figures out what's wrong with a place that's almost there but not quite. Then I fix
it." I deliver the martini, then come back and start mixing a pitcher of margaritas.
"And then you leave." Billy shoots me a mournful glance. "You should stay and be manager."
"Not gonna happen. Ted's dad owns the place. Besides, I'm getting bored."
When I look up again, a small group of people I know are coming in the door. My sister Sammi
and her new squeeze Zane are smiling into each other's eyes. Zane's old friend Clint, one of the
rangers at the state park, is here with a girl who looks familiar. I think she drives for one of the food
delivery services.
Oh, wait. I think she was one of the bridesmaids at that wedding a couple of weekends ago.
Caleb Dumont married a girl he rescued from a spring blizzard up on Big Horn Ridge. I got to go help
Sammi manage the cake table, because her boss the cupcake lady was the other bridesmaid.
While I'm pondering through all of this, one more person follows them inside, looking so burly
and forbidding that I wonder for one second if some modern-day version of Hoss Cartwright has
walked through the door.
Nope. It's Holt Woods.
My heart gives a jolt, and I tell it to chill, for shit's sake. It's just Holt, who I've known for
twenty of my twenty-six years.
Holt, who was a senior in high school when I was in kindergarten. Holt, who walked his
football-player shoulders through the halls of Big Horn Ridge Elementary in his graduation regalia,
high-fiving little kids and reminding them to stay focused and graduate.
Holt, who had become a ranger at Flathead Lake State Park by the time I was a rebellious
teenager sneaking out and doing all kinds of things she knew she shouldn't be doing. Holt, who
happened to be on duty the night that Misty and Jackson and Willis and Cher and I went skinny-
dipping in the lake.
Holt, who made us get out and go home, but not before he gave my sixteen-year-old body a quick
glance and immediately tossed me a blanket to wrap up in. I mean, my tits were right there, he could
hardly miss seeing them. I saw him see me. I saw him swallow hard and then look away like he had to
force himself to do it.
I mean, I know he noticed, but he ignored me.
And since then he's spent the last ten years pretending I don't exist. The bastard.
He got married some years ago, but it didn't take, and I can't say I was all that sorry. Except that
Holt Woods is determinedly single these days. Doesn't date. Doesn't really socialize much, except
with other rangers. Spends his free time in his cabin up on Big Horn Ridge doing nothing but working
out, apparently, because under that plaid button-down is a solid stack of muscle.
Damn. I can still feel the way he looked at me when I was naked getting out of the lake, and it
still hits me low in the belly.
We lock eyes, and the impact of Holt's gaze makes me lose my breath. I have to look away while
I'm reaching into the ice to grab a couple of bottled Michelobs for an order.
"You okay?" Billy asks me.
"Sure." My voice is almost steady, as my sister Sammi approaches the bar, with her sweetie's
arm around her waist.
"Hey, Sage," she says, her sunny smile directed right at me. "I hope you don't mind that we came
here for beers and snacks."
"Not at all," I say. "Hi, Zane. What do you guys want? Need a menu for the snacks?"
"We'll want an order of nachos, an order of potato skins, and an order of onion rings," Zane says.
"And a round of--what do you think, Samantha, maybe IPAs?"
She wrinkles her nose. "I don't want beer, and I know Gabi wants a margarita. Can I just have a
lemonade, Sage?"
"Of course." I send the food order to the kitchen and pull out three bottles of locally brewed pale
ale, then pour my sister a glass of the fresh-made lemonade we keep on hand all summer. "Sure you
don't want a shot of vodka in it?" I ask, mixing a margarita for the tray.
She shakes her head, then looks up at Zane with a goofy, dreamy expression that makes my heart
turn over. My baby sister is in luuuuuuuvvvv.
But it looks like Zane is, too, because he's giving her the same goofy, dreamy face back. I hand
Zane the tray. "Your server will bring your food when it's ready. Want me to start a tab for you?"
"Cool," he says, still staring into Sammi's eyes.
I mean, love sure looks goofy as hell on other people, but I'm starting to believe that it exists.
Two minutes later, Holt Woods is standing at the bar, looking like a human-shaped mountain with
dark eyes and lips so full you automatically think about kissing them. Once again my breath deserts
me. "Evening," he says to me before I can get enough air to greet him.
 CHAPTER TWO
HOLT

"You're coming to the bar with us, right?" my colleague Clint Dumont says, pointing at me. "Zane
will be there, and the girls."
"I don't have to get dressed up, do I?"
"Hell, no. It's just Boots 'N' Beer. You can wear lederhosen, for all I care."
I roll my eyes, but I agree to meet them there and stay for at least a drink or two, and a best-of-
three darts challenge.
I almost never go out. Not my thing, not anymore. When we were dating, Lisa and I used to go
out on Saturday nights. The first year we were married it got to where she was hitting the bar every
night, with or without me, and saying things like she thought being married would fix things--would
fix her--but it hadn't. She wouldn't say why she needed fixing, either. The second year, it got to where
she was staying drunk most of the day. She wouldn't consider counseling. She wouldn't consider
therapy. She lost her job and lied to me about it.
I finally realized that she was never going to sober up if I kept pretending everything was okay. I
filed for divorce after three years of marriage. For a long time, I was really angry that she wasn't able
to face her demons, much less tell me what caused them. And then I was just...down, I guess. Sad.
And not ready to face the idea of dating again. Not when Lisa's alcohol addiction seemed to
come out of the blue. It's so hard to really know people.
Except if you've known them a long time, maybe.
Take my buddy Clint. He's a little younger than I am, and he's a solid park ranger. Really cares
about the lake's health. Got burned by love, like me. Unlike me, he dealt with it by becoming a serial
dater. A playboy. And then he met Gabi, and fell hard--hard enough to commit to her within bare
weeks. Surprising? Not to me. He was waiting for the right woman; he just didn't know how to deal
with her until she told him she needed him to be all in.
Then he was all in. But he's always been that kind of guy, anyway. When you grow up in a small
town, you know people and you know how they're likely to behave.
So here I am at Boots 'N' Beer, mildly cursing the music and the neon holiday lights still strung
up around the bar, and the noise of patrons who are already drunk. Then I see who's tending bar, and
my stomach does this weird swoop.
Speaking of knowing the people I've known a long time, take Sage Landon, for that matter.
She grew up around here. Her parents run the Dock Holiday Guesthouse and Charter Boat Tours,
and the Landons made use of their three bright and attractive daughters as help for the family business.
Worked out great for the oldest, Sara, who got a degree in accounting and still does all the books. And
it looks like the baby, Sammi, is set to transfer her community college studies to Montana State soon.
Sage is the black sheep of the family. She had a troubled adolescence, if "troubled" is the word
for mildly rebellious attitude. She didn't quit school, do drugs and get pregnant, but she went rogue for
a couple of years. Dyed streaks of pink in her dark blond hair, wore more eyeliner than Avril Lavigne,
rode a skateboard around town, snuck into her friends' parents' houses and stole their cooking sherry.
Posted rude limericks in her distinctive handwriting on the town bulletin board. Went joyriding
around the ski resort in Judge Miller's golf cart. Refused to go to college. Dated a lot of guys--some
of them townies, some of them only in the area for vacation.
None of this was really bad behavior, of course. It just made her an outlier in that family. I could
relate. My own teenage years were a little rough, since my dad dipped out without a forwarding
address when I was about twelve, and I spent some years figuring out what it means to be a man.
Hint: being a man does not require getting drunk every weekend, or doing stupid shit like
stealing Jimmy Fenroy's motorcycle and racing it around town before returning it, lighter in the gas
tank but unharmed. Or climbing the fence to go skinny-dipping in the lake after hours. Or...you get the
idea.
I caught Sage and some of her friends skinny-dipping in the lake one night when she was a
teenager. That must've been ten years ago, before I met Lisa. And even then, Sage had a gorgeous
body to go with her Slightly Bad Girl persona. She kept flaunting it at me, until I managed to throw a
blanket in her direction. The other girls in the group were squealing, floundering around to cover
themselves with their clothes, but not Sage. She looked me dead in the eye, all blue eyes and don't-
care attitude, all creamy-pink skin and I dare you to stare bravado.
It might still be the sexiest damn thing I've ever seen. I dream about her sometimes.
And here she is in the flesh. Black tee with the name of the bar on it, the letters curving over her
tits. Jeans snug over those round hips and fitted to her gorgeous legs. Kickass boots. Her long hair is
pulled up in a loose gather on top of her head, and it shows off the little moon-and-stars tattoo at the
nape of her neck. She's pulling a draft beer and laughing at something her coworker said, and I get a
flash of the tattoo on her inner wrist.
Makes me wonder where else she's got tattoos. Makes me jealous of the coworker.
Which just makes me rethink this whole stupid crush thing. Crushes are for teenagers, not
divorced men with some fucking mileage on them like me. For fuck's sake, I'm a dozen years older
than she is.
Trouble is, I can't explain that to my dick.
Zane and his girl, little Sammi Landon--Sage's sister--come to the table with bottles of IPA and
the girls' drinks. I say hi to Clint and his girl, pretty Gabi who often delivers us rangers our lunch
from one local takeout place or another. Clint and Zane get their beers; the girls get their drinks,
leaving me to stare that damn bottle of IPA and try to keep my face from sneering. That's not beer,
that's beer-flavored herbal tea.
"Be back in a mo'," I say. "Get myself a real drink." Clint hoots with laughter, shaking his head,
but then he pulls Gabi closer for a kiss so I know none of them are really going to miss me while I'm
at the bar.
"Hey, Holt. What can I get you?"
Damn, even her voice is sexy. It doesn't help that I can see her nipples perk up under her shirt.
"Whiskey ditch. Maker's Mark, if you have it."
She pours the whiskey and adds a little water to open the flavor. "Should I add this to the table's
tab?"
"Nah. I can't drink that IPA shit."
She smiles, setting the glass down on the bar between us. "Just between you and me and the
gatepost, I agree with you. I like a nice brown ale, but I find IPA too bitter."
 "Exactly." I pull out my wallet and hand her a twenty. When she goes to make change, I wave it
away. "Nah, keep it. Get yourself a drink."
She shoots me a sidelong glance. "I don't like to drink when I tend. I could go for a lemonade,
though. And thank you."
"No trouble." Some part of me is relieved that her underage drinking was only a phase for her. I
sip my own whiskey and tell myself that I cannot, no matter the provocation, just lean across the bar
and take one of those tight nipples into my mouth through her shirt. I should go back to the group.
"Saddle up and chat a minute, won'tcha?" Sage says. It seems there's a brief lull in people
ordering drinks at the bar, and she leans on the bar while I try to eradicate lustful thoughts from my
head.
It wouldn't hurt to stay a moment, though.
 CHAPTER THREE
HOLT

I take a bar stool. "How long you been working here?" I ask, idly. I don't know if I can come back
here often if she's going to be a walking temptation around the place. Don't want to make a nuisance of
myself.
"Three months," she says, swiping a fallen strand of hair off her face with a hand graced by three
silver rings. She leans a little closer to me, and my jeans get tight at the scent of her. It's not that the
smell of lemons and oranges is that sexy in itself...it's that it's her smell. I'd probably be hard even if
she smelled like, I dunno, axle grease. "But also just between you and me and the gatepost, I'm
looking for somewhere else. I think this place is doing well now and I'd like a challenge."
I nod. "Sure seems busier than it used to be around here for a Wednesday, even during tourist
season."
Sage's pink lips curve into a smile, and damn if that doesn't make me even stiffer. "Yeah. That's
due to me."
"Because you're the sexiest bartender around?" I say, and immediately regret it. "Sorry. That was
insensitive of me. I'm not hitting on you." I stand up to go back to Zane and Clint's table.
"You're not? That's a shame," Sage says carelessly. "I never get interesting guys hitting on me. It's
usually jerks and assholes."
Did she just say that she doesn't mind me hitting on her? That I'm not one of the usual
assholes making a female bartender's life difficult?
"So I'm not the sexiest 'tender around?" Sage says in a teasing tone. "That's disappointing."
I look her in the eye. "No, you are." Her eyes go wide, and the pupils seem to enlarge. "It's just
that I shouldn't have been disrespectful to a working gal."
She licks her lips, and fuck me if my zipper isn't imprinting itself on my johnson right now. Don't
know if I can even move away from the bar without letting everybody know I'm sporting wood.
"I don't like hearing it from some random guy while I'm working," she says softly. "But...it's you,
Holt. So thanks."
Holy shit.
The next second, somebody comes up to the bar to ask for another round, and she whirls away
from me to help him, and I figure if I don't leave the bar right now I'm going to do something to
embarrass myself. So I grab my drink and think about work: cold lake water. The ongoing problem of
invasive species. The paperwork that will be waiting on my desk tomorrow morning. More cold lake
water.
That does the trick. I'm back to the table with the two sets of lovebirds by the time Sage finishes
filling that order. I sit down with my back to her, hoping that not looking at her will keep me
presentable in public.
I really ought to do something about the situation. Maybe this whole age gap thing isn't that big a
deal.
"We gotta find Holt a girl," Zane says to Sammi. "Here we are all loved-up, and he's by his
lonesome."
"Ask Sage out," Sammi says to me.
It practically blows my hair back. "What?"
She shrugs, and tucks a strand of her hair, lighter than Sage's, behind her ear. "Oh god, I can't tell
you, she'll kill me."
I lean forward over the table. "You better tell me."
She raises an eyebrow. "Well. She's always had kind of a thing for you. I don't suppose you
remember catching her and some of her friends swimming in the lake years ago?"
The sight of Sage naked and wet is burned into my retinas, but I don't say that. "I do remember
that, actually."
"She told me about it. And just the way she talked about it..." Sammi waves a hand. "I don't
know, I think she's always had the hots for you."
"And every other guy her age in town," Zane cuts in.
I shoot him a glare.
He shrugs. "Just sayin', Sage dates like a guy. Doesn't seem to be looking for anything
permanent."
I sit back in my chair and sip my drink.
Maybe this would work. Maybe I could go out with her. Get her out of my system. I mean, for
fucking years now I've been super-aware of this girl around town. It's like she's a stray eyelash.
Maybe a short fling would let me let go of my mini-obsession with her.
"Ask her out," Sammi says again. She smiles and nods at my drink. "You're almost empty. Go get
another one."
And get another hard-on.
But that might be all to the good. I mean, I know Sage. She dates a lot and never seems to get her
heart broken. Some fun together and no broken hearts? Yes, please.
I turn the conversation to work and let Clint tell the group about the guys who wanted to take a
backpack electrofishing unit out on the lake today. They claimed that they were "doing it for science!"
but couldn't prove any affiliation to a university or state agency. I'd bet those guys were planning on
doing it for fun. We confiscated their equipment and gave them a citation.
Any time somebody asks me a question, I answer, but I'm not really participating in the group
conversation, and eventually somebody notices. Sammi leans toward me and touches my arm. "Go
talk to her," she says softly enough that nobody else hears her. "I mean it."
I nod. "I might go get another drink," I say out loud.
"Oh good," Zane says, breaking off his conversation with Clint. "Get us another round?"
"No, I think I might drink it at the bar, and then head home. I'm feeling just a little too much like a
fifth wheel, no offense."
"None taken," Gabi says.
I nod and go over to the bar. It's not that late, but people are starting to clear out. I park my ass on
the same barstool I was riding earlier, and Sage comes right over. "You want another one like that?"
she asks, pointing a ring-clad forefinger at my glass.
"Nope. Make it a lemonade."
She gives me a Mona Lisa smile, and pulls out the pitcher to fill a tall glass.
"You had yours yet?" I say.
 "Not yet. Think I'll have it now," she says, and grabs another glass.
I wait until she sips from hers to taste mine. It's excellent. I say so. She smiles. I look at her lips
and think, she tastes like lemonade right now.
I could beat around the bush with her. I could hint. But I'm a blunt guy. And you could say that
I've been waiting for her for a very long time. "Would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?"
She freezes, arm in midair as she's holding her lemonade glass to her mouth. Then she puts it
down. "Let me get this straight. Holt Woods is asking me out?"
I nod. Spin my glass in a tight single circle on the polished wood of the bar. Look back up at her.
"When?"
"Any time you want." She takes her time responding, so I add, "Look, I'm not going to make you
feel uncomfortable. If it's a no, it's a no. I won't keep bugging you."
"It's a yes," she says, and spins her own glass. "I just wondered...why now? Why not, say, eight
years ago when I came of legal age?"
Startled, I stare at her. Guess Sammi was right, and Sage has had a thing for me as long as I've
had a thing for her. I try to formulate an answer. "Well. I don't know exactly. Except that eight years
ago, you were barely legal. Only eighteen, right?"
"Just a baby," she agrees dryly. "Except that I'd already lost my cherry by then, so it wouldn't
have been cradle-snatching."
The thought of Sage Landon's virgin cherry getting popped by somebody else, somebody who
probably had no idea of the worth of this girl, has me feeling both annoyed and painfully aroused.
"You have a vein throbbing in your forehead," Sage says conversationally. "What did I say to
piss you off?"
"Stop talking about your cherry and tell me whether you'll say yes to dinner, Sage," I growl.
"You're Holt Woods," she says. "I'm probably gonna say yes to everything."
Again: holy shit.
 CHAPTER FOUR
SAGE

"Holy shit," Holt says under his breath, looking away.

"I would have sworn you didn't like me," I say. I'm not usually this blunt, but he's blunt, and I can
tell that he's the kind of guy who doesn't really go for wordy flirting. "You had plenty of time to stare
at my tits, that time the gang and I went skinny-dipping. And you've had plenty of time to ask me out
since I turned eighteen." I can barely keep the annoyance out of my voice, because I've wondered and
wondered about his reaction, that careful blank face he gives me every time I've talked to him since.
He sighs almost imperceptibly. Raises one eyebrow at me, which has me even more turned on
because I wish I could do that. "You were a kid back then. I wasn't. Moreover, I was doing my job. It
would have been unprofessional of me to wait until you were eighteen and then jump on fresh meat
the minute it became available."
"Fresh meat?"
He laughs a little, looking down and running one of his thick fingers through the condensation left
by his lemonade glass. "It would have felt like I was trying to use you."
"Bullshit."
"To me, it would have. Kids have no fucking idea what they want at that age. Girl or boy, they
don't know. No way was I going to be some notorious old baby-snatching goat."
"You would have been, what, twenty-eight at the time?"
"Thirty," he says with emphasis. "That would have been legal, but I doubt it would have been
ethical. I was a grown-ass man, and you were a baby."
"I thought guys liked that barely-legal, fuck-a-teenager thing," I say, not sure whether to feel
protected or pissed off.
"I liked you." He lays it right out for me, those hooded dark eyes pulling me into their depths.
"Didn't just want to fuck you."
I think that means he wanted more than sex. The idea of it makes my stomach fluttery, because
mostly that's what my dating has consisted of: hanging out, good conversation, fun, and sex. Not
commitment. Not, you know, more than sex.
I don't know quite why. I guess I always thought that someday I'd have a relationship like my
parents, but I wasn't ready.
Now...now I'm ready? That's what my need for something different means?
I'm not sure.
What I am sure about is that Holt Woods, that older man, that sexy older man, has the skills and
the desire to turn me out. I'm confident that this man can fuck me forty ways to Sunday, and I will beg
him for more.
Guess I'd better prepare for calluses on my knees, because I can already tell I am gonna fucking
beg.
 "Well," I say, my voice full of too much air because not enough of it is going into my lungs,
"make a plan, then, Mr. Woods. I don't work tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night, Miss Landon," he says. "Pick you up at seven, take you to..." He tails off, lifts
one of those meaty hands and gestures with it. "Whitefish Lake Restaurant?"
That's the fanciest place in town. Usually it's packed with tourists from the resort. Suits and
cocktail dresses.
"Nuh-uh," I say, suddenly struck with inspiration for my next job prospect. "Fat Daddy's BBQ."
Fat Daddy's would be perfect for me. It's pit-smoked pork and brisket, no frills, located in a rundown
building that would probably get more traffic if it was freshened up and the menu expanded just a bit.
I give Holt a little smirk. "Because I like to get my mouth on some fresh meat."
His face doesn't move, but his eyes go even darker, and this time I can see the desire in them,
echoing my own desire.
Holy shit, Holt Woods wants me. Has wanted me for a long time, from the sound of it.
"Fat Daddy's it is," he says. His eyes lose none of their intensity, but he smiles. Sets his cell
phone on the bar. "Go ahead and put in your number, and your address, please."
I pick it up, fighting off the shiver of excitement that flows through me at touching something
that's been in his jeans pocket. I dial my own number, then hang up. I set down his phone and pick my
own up, and I text my address to the number that just called me. Two seconds later, his phone dings
with my text. Everything open and aboveboard, which he seems to need.
Nothing wrong with that.
Or, nothing wrong with that that a little dose of me won't cure.
He picks up his phone and taps it on the bar. "See you tomorrow, Sage."
I finish the shift, serving drinks and taking inventory almost by rote, while my mind keeps going
back to that night ten years ago, when sixteen-year-old me, out for some excitement, stepped out of the
chilly night waters of the lake and watched the park ranger's eyes go dark and seductive on my body.
I remember how it felt, being so in command of myself. Owning my own sexuality. Knowing that
there was some kind of connection between me and Holt.
And it's funny: at this stage of my life, I realize that I've been waiting for his attention all this
time. Waiting for him to admit that there was something between us all along.
Those other boys were practice.
This might be the real thing. And now I have to make certain I'm ready for it, because it's going
to rock my world.

I get in late, and I sleep late. Sammi has practically moved in with Zane at this point, so I pretty
much have the apartment to myself. When I wake, I'm still alone and I'm just wearing the oversized t-
shirt I sleep in, and I've been dreaming about Holt.
I dreamed that he was the one to pop my cherry, not that cute floppy-haired blond guy visiting
from California, what was his name? Taylor? No, Tyler. Tyler was cute and he was a good kisser, but
he had no fucking idea what he was doing with his dick.
Luckily, I didn't take that personally. With other boys, I was selfish enough to keep touching
myself during the sex, and found out what I needed to get me there. I've never apologized for that, and
I never will.
I have this feeling that Holt does know what to do with his. Thinking about him gets me hot
enough that I lift my shirt and slip a hand between my thighs, playing with my girly parts and thinking
about the strength in Holt's body until I make myself come.
 Not five minutes after I'm finished, while I'm making up my bed, there's a pounding on the door. I
slip on a camisole and some shorts and go open it, wondering if Sammi forgot her key.
But it's my other sister on my doorstep. Sara, the good girl. Sara, the smart, pretty, perfect one,
the one with the college degree and the country-club husband and the 2.33 perfect blond children.
(Okay, there are no actual three-tenths children that I know of, but the thing about Sara is that she
always does things exactly the way Mom and Dad expect their kids to do things. Her kids, Violet and
Morris, are perfect angels.)
Sara does not currently look like the Perfect Suburban Mom she usually embodies. She's crying.
Her makeup has run, and she looks like a panda. Her hair is a rat's nest. And instead of her usual fine-
gauge tank sweater and linen capris, she's wearing a raggedy old Whitefish HS Cheer t-shirt and a
saggy pair of thin cotton pajama pants, along with slippers.
"Come in," I manage to say before my sister pushes past me and bangs her purse down on the
kitchen counter.
"Please tell me you have vodka," she says.
"I don't like vodka."
"Wine then," Sara demands, before I can tell her that I only have gin and two bottles of amber ale
in the apartment. Sammi's not much of a drinker, never has been, and I'm picky.
I open the fridge door and get out the gin I keep in there, along with tonic water and some lime
wedges. I silently make Sara a gin and tonic and hand it over, only to watch her down it in about four
gulps. I make her another one. "That's the last you're going to get before you tell me what's going on.
You can't get drunk until I know what shit is going to hit what fan."
"Matthew," she says flatly, and then gulps a quarter of her second drink.
"No kidding. Has he been careless with his genitals?"
Sara screws up her face. "What the hell, Sage?"
I clarify. "Is he cheating on you?"
"No. Worse!"
"Okay then, what did he do?"
Sara collapses into a kitchen chair. "Money," she says.
 CHAPTER FIVE
SAGE

I blink. My brother-in-law is one of those financial-wizard guys who grew up in a wealthy family
back east and came out to Montana for the skiing and outdoor sports. He works from home, mostly
managing his own investment portfolio as well as my parents' investments. He's the kind of guy who
spends his time playing Outdoor Sports Guy and paying other people to do the unpleasant house
maintenance stuff, so he and Sara have this McMansion near the ski resort that is maintained by two
landscapers, an on-call handyman, and two live-in maids.
Mom and Dad thought Sara hit the jackpot when she married Matthew. And yes, he's attractive
and well-mannered and loaded, and I would have said, not a complete asshole.
But.
This.
My older sister, Miss Perfect, is a mess right now.
She pounds down the rest of her cocktail and gets up, staggering just a little. "I need carbs," she
says, sounding desperate.
"You just had carbs," I point out. "Alcoho--"
"I need sugar," she snarls. "Cake. Cookies. Brownies. Hell, waffles will do."
"We have cupcakes," I offer gingerly, stunned at the lengths to which my crunchy-granola-mama
sister has gone. Not only is Sara drinking before 11 a.m. and demanding sweets, she just said hell.
"Sammi brings them home from Cupcakes on Wheels." I open the plastic container holding Sammi's
favorite strawberry cheesecake cupcakes and my favorite chocolate-coconut ones.
Sara's hand reaches over mine and grabs one of each. She rips off the paper and eats half the
choco-coco one in one bite. "What is this?" she asks through the mouthful. "Tastes like a Mounds bar."
"Yep. Listen, sit down and slow down before you choke, okay? And you still haven't told me
what Matthew did." I get her a glass of water. "No more booze."
"He said it was a sure thing," she says, once she gets that giant glob of cupcake down her throat.
Tears start rolling down her face. "And it was bad enough when it was just our money, because he
can't even touch his second legacy from his grandfather until he's thirty-five, so that's another quarter-
million, which would get us out of the hole, but that's not even the worst."
"I'm not really following this," I confess. "So there was a bad investment and...what?"
"Mom and Dad's money," she wails. "They're broke, Sage! And they're getting too old to have to
rely on the guesthouse and the fishing tours. That's so much work. And I can do the financial stuff, but
I can't manage the house and the boat, and you won't help, you never help, and it's my husband's fault,
and he's saying Mom and Dad can just declare bankruptcy. They'll lose the Dock Holiday, they'll lose
everything..."
"Wait. Did Matthew lose your money, too?"
She's sobbing. "Yes! He turns thirty-five in December, so a short loan from his parents will keep
us from losing everything...I want to sell our house and give the money to Mom and Dad, I never liked
that house...and I don't want to live with a man who would do that to family, make them bankrupt..."
She goes back to incoherent crying.
"Okay," I say, patting her shoulder and ignoring the hollowness in my stomach. "Okay. Okay.
Calm down, Sara."
"I hate him."
I'm not thinking too highly of Matthew at the moment, either. "He's your kids' dad. Don't forget
that, before you decide to feed him arsenic."
"I'm not going to feed him arsenic! I just want him to die!"
Dramatic much? I shake my head, trying to comprehend. "So Matthew lost your money, but he'll
have more within six months?" She nods. "But Mom and Dad are up Shit Creek without a paddle, and
Matthew doesn't fucking care?" She nods again, vehemently.
I proceed to call my brother-in-law every nasty name I can think of, while my sister interjects
agreement. And my stomach is twisting in nausea. I didn't want to work at Dock Holiday when I was
growing up--the B&B was Mom's bailiwick, and the boat was Dad's, and Sara Little Miss Perfect
was their perfect helper. She's been doing the business stuff, filing the taxes, that sort of thing, for
years, but she doesn't really want to do the physical work of caring for guests and the house.
I never minded that. What I minded was, A) being compared unfavorably to Sara, who is seven
years older than me and a totally unfair example, and B) having to do it for free. Instead, I went out to
work on my own so I wouldn't be shown up for the relative incompetent that I was, next to my big
sister.
Who has terrible problems right now.
How could you trust a guy who does that to his family and his wife's family, and then blows off
the incredible breach of trust with an airy, "nah, everybody just declare bankruptcy, except me,
because I want to keep my big fancy house."
Fucking bastard.
He's even more of a bastard than Holt has been. All Holt did was ignore an underage temptress,
and I'm inclined to forgive him for that now.

The rest of the day is spent with Sara, Mom and Dad, and their lawyer. Mom says that the house
out-earns the boat tours, so they may need to sell that business and keep the B&B. Dad reluctantly
agrees. Sammi says she'll help, but she hasn't finished college yet. Sara says she can get a full-time
job with an accounting firm, and after a brisk shouting match with Matthew on the phone, she comes
back to the table and says she's filing for divorce tomorrow, and he'll have to sell their house so he
can give her half. She'll go work for an accounting firm. Her friend Brittany will keep her kids.
"And Matthew can go fuck himself," I say out loud, earning myself a gasp of horror from my
mother and a censorious look from my dad.
"Yeah," Sara agrees, which seems to send Mom and Dad into shock.
By the end of the day, I'm exhausted and emotionally drained, but when Sammi suggests I
reschedule my date with Holt, I smack that down. "No. I need this. I'm going."
Sammi gives me side-eye, but nods. Sara goes home to pick up her kids and kick Matthew out of
the house.
And I go back to the apartment to shower and get ready for Holt.
This night has been ten years in the making. I might be upset and unsettled, but I've been waiting
for this date for too long to skip it.
 I shave everything. I moisturize everything. I scent everything. I paint my toenails blue. I curl my
hair into loose waves. I put on a red cami with a built-in bra and top it with a lightweight floral-print
button-down shirt, rolling up the sleeves and leaving the front open. I slip on a knee-length denim
skirt and wedge heels. I put my anklet on. I do a neutral eye and a lush red lip, and I add thin silver
hoops to my earlobes. I pack a toothbrush, a hair clip, and extra underwear in my straw purse.
I've been sitting on the bed nervously picking fluff off my bedspread for ten minutes, trying not to
think about Dock Holiday, when I hear a vehicle pull up outside. I peek out, and it's Holt in his white
pickup truck.
When he gets out and comes to the door, I almost forget about dinner and decide to have him
instead. He's wearing a plain black tee shirt that shows off his massive biceps, and jeans that hug
those mighty thighs, and he smells amazing.
He's smiling.
At least until he gets a good look at me, and then he turns his head to look at Sammi as his smile
fades. "Something's wrong," he says. "You both look like somebody ran over your dog."
Sammi sniffles. I backhand her. "It's not that bad."
"It's pretty bad," Sammi says.
"I'll tell you," I say to Holt, "but not right now. I still want to go on this date. I still want to eat
pulled pork and get kissed good night."
"We can do whatever you want," Holt says gently. "We can reschedule. Or we can go eat pulled
pork now. I just don't want to get shut out."
He's looking at me seriously, and I am trying really hard not to feel rescued. "Dinner, please," I
say with relief. "I want my mind taken off it for a little while."
"And then you'll tell me?"
I nod, making up my mind that he's trustworthy. "I'll tell you everything."
 CHAPTER SIX
HOLT

Sage looks gorgeous.

I've seen her in dressier outfits, like her boho Stevie Nicks looks, all trailing scarves and long
skirts and dangly earrings. I've seen her in shorts and baseball jerseys. I've seen her in wide-legged
pants and those halter top things that show off her shoulders. I've seen her in a bikini and swim cover-
up at the lake.
And I've seen her naked too, as much as I've tried to forget that sight. Naked was by far the most
beautiful, but if I'm honest I'll say that I'd take the sight of her wearing literally anything.
What's worrying me is that both she and Sammi look like something awful has happened. I try to
be thoughtful and offer her the chance to go out another night, but she says she wants to not think about
it for a little while.
I can distract her. In fact, it'll be difficult to keep from distracting her the way I want to, with
touches and kisses and more. But I can try to make tonight a happy time. I just want her to be able to
be honest with me, the way Lisa never could.
We pull up to Fat Daddy's BBQ and I tell Sage to stay put until I can come open the door for her.
It's a thrill to take her hand and help her down to the ground. She's not a tiny little thing, but I like how
delicate she seems next to me.
It's been so long since I've been out that I'm actually dismayed at the state of Fat Daddy's. It's
always been kind of a hole in the wall, which doesn't matter that much when a lot of their business is
takeout, but it's even more of a dump now. The menu's predictable too: pulled pork or brisket, with
sides of macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, and baked beans. They have bottled sodas, iced tea, and
bottles of local beer. That's it. That's all. Good, plain food.
Sage wrinkles her nose. When somebody comes out from the back to take our order, Sage says
it'll be to go.
A sweet shock goes through me as she turns to me and says, "That's okay, isn't it? We can take
this to your place?"
"Absolutely." Good thing I did a last-minute clean after work, in hopes that I'd get to show her
my cabin.
We get pulled pork with all the sides. We turn down plastic utensils and paper plates. We get
Cokes. We take all this stuff in the truck, and we drive up to Big Horn Ridge.
"You gonna tell me now, or later?" I ask. "Not gonna push you. It's just...look, you know I was
married, right?"
"I know," she says.
"The thing with us was that Lisa, my ex, she had some issues. But instead of telling me about
them, she just drank instead. And I swore I'd never be with somebody who couldn't tell me stuff."
"Could you tell her your stuff?" Sage asks.
 I shoot her a quick glance. Damn, she's so pretty. "Well. A lot of my shit had to do with being
unhappy with her drinking, so that was a tough one."
"You never hid any secrets from her?"
I sigh. "Well. Maybe. Like...for example...I never told her that before I met her, I once rousted a
bunch of naked teenagers out of the lake and I still had inappropriate thoughts about one of them."
That shouldn't make her smile, but it does anyway.
"No, I guess that would be an iffy thing to tell your wife," she says primly. She straightens her
jeans skirt, and that one small motion has me suddenly very aware of her body next to me. Her citrus
smell. Her red lips. Her smooth thighs. "I'd want you to tell me, though," she says. "I'd want to know
that you were attracted to somebody else."
"Bullshit. You'd hate me."
"I would not," she says calmly. "I'd just remind you, in the most thorough way possible, that I
was the only woman who deserved your attention."
And just like that, she's turned the conversation to a possible future in which we're not only
married, we're honest with each other. Not to mention, fucking each other stupid.
I can barely keep my dick in my pants at this point. And I shouldn't ask.
I really shouldn't ask.
Ah, hell with it.
"So what would you not want your husband to tell you?"
She's quiet a minute, still running one hand over her skirt. "I would not want my husband to tell
me he was in love with someone else, no. But that would be more that I wouldn't want it to be true,
not that I wouldn't want to know."
"Fair enough."
"And I would not," she says, her voice getting shaky, "want my husband to make terrible
investment decisions that would lead to my parents losing everything."
I dart a quick look at her. "Shit. Shit. Is that what's going on?"
"Fucking Matthew Whitfield," she says bitterly. "I would especially not want my husband to lose
my parents' money and livelihood and property, and then blithely say that they can just declare
bankruptcy."
"He did that?"
"He did that. According to Sara."
"That smug Ivy League fucker."
"She's leaving him." She heaves a sigh, and I reach a hand over to squeeze hers. "Not so much
for the bad investment, but because he's not willing to do anything to help save Dock Holiday."
"Bastard."
We're quiet for several minutes. "I'm really sorry it happened," I tell her. "I know you're
worried." Then I ask something I'd always wanted to ask. "So why aren't you more involved in Dock
Holiday? Looks to me like you've done management all over town. Why not there?"
She sighs. "Because Mom doesn't want to listen to my ideas. I think she's stuck in the 1970s,
businesswise, because that's how my grandparents ran things. The place needs a full renovation, not
just fresh paint; they need to offer high-speed internet to guests; they need to offer streaming services
on the TVs in the rooms; they need to freshen up the breakfast menu; they need to offer more services,
and they need to charge more. A lot more." She sighs again. "But now it'll never happen. I'll never get
the chance to prove myself. It'll have to be sold, just for Mom and Dad to have enough to live on.
Fuck Matthew."
 I blow out my breath. "Look. I don't have a lot of savings--it's pretty much tied up in my cabin--
but I can chip in a little."
"Please don't tell anyone," she says quickly. "We're going to try to save it."
"I have faith in you." Because I do.
"I just..." She trails off, takes a deep breath, and starts again. "I just wanted to feel normal this
evening."
I squeeze her hand again.
"No, not normal," she adds, her voice quieter. "Better than normal, exciting. I wanted to savor
this time with you. Because Holt? I've had a thing for you for a long time. I wanted you to notice me."
"I noticed you all right." I can't help smiling.
"Why didn't you ask before now? Really?"
"I told you: you were too young. And then by the time the age gap didn't matter so much, I was
married to Lisa. And then I was pretty fucked up by her choosing alcohol instead of wanting to make
things work with me. It's nobody's fault, I guess."
I pull onto the long gravel drive that leads up to my cabin. "This is it. This is home." I pull up to
the cabin, a wood-and-stone construction with big windows. "Merrick Dumont built this for me."
"Oh, Holt," she says, peering out the windshield. "It's so beautiful!"
"It's not as beautiful as you," I say with perfect honesty.
And then she's in my lap, kissing me. Getting red lipstick all over me, and I fucking like it. I love
it. I love the feel of her groin lined up with mine, her legs straddling my hips. I forget that I'm hungry. I
forget the food on the floor of the truck.
I forget everything but the taste of Sage's mouth, the feel of her skin, the swell of her tits against
my hands, the heat of her core against my jeans.
 CHAPTER SEVEN
SAGE

I just told Holt the Awful Thing that Matthew Did, and he told me he believed in me. Told me that he
wanted me to be honest with him. I threw out a theoretical "if we were married" and he seemed to dig
that.
He seems to be digging me.
Not hiding how he feels about me anymore.
So I kiss him. I don't wait to go inside. I give in to that impulse I had earlier, and I go right for
his mouth, for that lush full mouth that drives me crazy, especially the way it looks so sinful against
his dark, trimmed beard.
Tasting it is everything I could have hoped for.
He wants me so bad. Me, not someone else, me. He keeps saying my name. Holding my head in
his hands as he kisses me, touching me with passionate tenderness.
And he's rock-hard in his jeans, under me in the seat of his truck.
The steering wheel is jammed up against my back, and once he realizes that, he adjusts the seat
to push it back and recline it, and then I'm free to rock back and forth on that hard line of heat in his
jeans, my lacy underwear sticking to me with my own arousal.
"Sage...fuck, Sage," he groans into my mouth. "You don't seriously want to ride me for the first
time in my truck, do you?"
"I'll take you any way I can get you," I say between kisses, yanking his shirt out of his waist band
and unbuttoning it.
"Fuck," he says again, slipping his hands under my skirt and yanking it up to my hips before
squeezing my ass. "Damn. Listen, I have condoms, but they're in my wallet."
That was thoughtful. I've always been careful with condoms because nobody wants an STI and
I'm also careful about getting tested, but I'm also on the pill. "I'm on birth control. And I'm clean, so
unless there's another reason to use condoms, let's skip it."
"Fuuuck," he says again as I unzip him and slide on that hard ridge, "you mean I get to be bare in
you, Sage?"
"I want that," I say, panting. I've lost a shoe, which is fine, but I want his hands on my breasts,
not on my cami, and I can't quite get everything out of the way.
"Naw. Screw this, we're going in," he says. "I'm all in with you, baby. Been waiting too fucking
long to let this be all hurried and hole-in-corner." He pushes the door open, and somehow he gets out
of the truck carrying me. He carries me to the porch and sets me down, then opens the front door and
picks me back up again.
He carries me through the cabin so fast that I don't get to see any of it before I'm bouncing on a
big bed, losing my other shoe and (again) not all that sorry.
"Take that fucking skirt off, baby," he says, and this commanding presence of his is making me so
hot and ready. "I need my mouth on you."
I shimmy out of the skirt and lose my shirt, while he ditches boots and jeans and socks, then
hauls that snug tee shirt over his head. I'm about to yank off my cami, but he settles between my legs
on the bed and takes one of my breasts into his mouth, not moving my top out of the way. It's so urgent,
so primal, that I moan out loud. His hands are busy at my lacy panties, and then suddenly there's a
tearing noise and cool air on my bare, sopping wet split, and I moan again.
"Just like that," he says, lifting his head from my breast. He licks at my taut nipple, then moves to
my other breast, and his fingers get busy at my aching core, stroking along my wet folds and then
plunging inside me. "Fuck, Sage, so wet..."
I manage to push the straps of my cami down to expose my boobs, and he dives back in, licking
and sucking my nipples until I'm moaning constantly, finger-fucking me with one hand while the other
rubs at my clit, and he keeps going and keeps going until suddenly I fall right over the edge, my body
in free-fall, in ecstasy, in rainbows and butterflies and flying zebras.
I might be crying a little bit. He raises his head to look at me. "Sage. Sweetheart. Baby. You
okay?"
I nod. "So good. So, so good. Holt. I need you in me. Please. Please."
"You never have to beg me, baby," he says. He moves off the bed just long enough to shed his
boxers. "See what I got for you." He takes my hand and guides it to his swollen cock. It's not the
longest I've ever seen, but it's thick. Girthy. My mouth starts to water. "Feels so good, your hand on
me."
"I'm hungry," I complain. "Feed me that cock." I tug him to kneel astride me, urge him to slide
that thick stick into my mouth. I mouth-fuck him, playing with his balls, until he groans again and
moves away, squeezing the base and breathing hard.
"I'm not blowing it down your throat," he says, his voice like honey poured over gravel. "Not
yet. Not until I've filled that pretty pussy full of my cum, probably a couple of times before I'll want to
do something else. No. I'm gonna pour you full to the brim. Want to see my cream ooze out of your
sweet cunt."
This dirty, dirty talk is making me even crazier for him.
"I want it," I say, stroking my own nipples. "I want your cum in me, Holt. I want you to to dick
me down until I'm begging you to shoot me full. I've wanted you so long. Now I want you for a long
time."
"You never have to beg me," he says again, giving me a look so hot that I almost burst into
flames. "Doesn't mean I don't like hearing it."
"I'm begging now." I reach down and spread my inner folds, showing him my core. "Put it here.
And don't stop."
"Kiss first," he says. He reaches for me, kissing my mouth and settling between my thighs, letting
me move against all that good hardness--and then he moves back and puts his head there, licking at my
little button until I'm crying out and thrusting my hips.
And then he gives it to me.
He props himself on one elbow, using the other hand to smooth my hair out of my eyes and touch
my cheek, then playing with my nipple. "Ready?"
"More than!"
Then he's pressing into me, stretching me, filling me up, and I'm so very arousedthat even without
me rubbing my button, the stroking of his organ over that good place inside has me launching into
ecstasy again, moaning and crying, wrapping my legs around his back and, yes, begging him to pump
me full of his cum.
So he does.
It feels like a lot. He rests with his face in the crook of my neck for a few minutes, then gently
pulls away and sits back to look at my valley. I use my inner muscles to push out what he gave me,
letting him see the creampie.
"That is so beautiful," he says reverently, looking at my pussy before raising his glance to my
face. "You are so beautiful, Sage. You are everything I've ever wanted."
I sigh in completion. "I feel the same way about you."
Then my stomach gurgles, and I laugh. "I never had lunch. We were too upset."
Holt laughs, too. "Well, I'll feed you. Let me go get dinner and we can eat it now."
"Good."
 CHAPTER EIGHT
HOLT

She's everything I ever wanted.

She's everything. I don't want anything else.
The feel of her. The honest, blunt, openness of her. Her trust. Her body in my arms, the softness
of her skin, the smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth. The taste of her secret lips, the tight slippery
heat of her inner channel. The way it felt when she wanted me to fuck her mouth. The way she begged
me to fill her full of my cum.
It just...
Everything.
After we eat barbecue, we make love again, sweet and honest and raunchy. She's got the
sweetest filthy mouth, my darling bad girl.
And then we lay in my bed together and just hold each other. Eventually we start talking again.
She tells me more details about the Landon family's financial disaster. I tell her the truth about
what she can do for the business. "You know so much, Sage. I could tell earlier that you were thinking
about how you'd get Fat Daddy's BBQ into shape, but Dock Holiday needs you more now."
"Mom will never let me."
"Yes, she will," I say. "Offer. Just offer. She and your dad know they need you, now. Don't get
stuck in the past."
She's quiet for a long moment, and then she starts telling me about the first time she saw me.
She'd been six. I'd been a high school senior about to graduate. I'd walked through the halls of the
elementary school with the other graduates, encouraging the little kids to finish school so they can
wear these cool graduation robes.
"I did not say 'cool graduation robes,' did I?" I tease.
"I don't remember exactly." She shrugs one shoulder, raising one breast. I reach over to gently
fondle it. "I just remember the way you smiled at me. You looked right at me, and you said, 'You can
do it!' and I...I never forgot."
It's my turn to be quiet. I couldn't have imagined having an impact like that. "I didn't know," I say
finally. "I never dreamed I'd influence a kid positively. I never even wanted kids of my own. I saw
how much my mom struggled."
"Do you still feel like that?" she asks hesitantly.
I take a deep breath. "Now, I don't feel like it's a dealbreaker. I feel like if you want kids, I'll
throw myself into being a good dad and I'll probably wind up loving it."
"I don't want kids," she says, almost sadly. "It's another way I'm disappointing my parents, but I
never wanted kids. I want my life. I don't want to live through my offspring."
I sigh in relief. "Well, good. Let's put that issue to rest, then, because we're on the same page.
Besides, your parents already have grandchildren. They can deal."
 "So...so all those years ago when you saw me naked, you wanted me?" she asks, hesitant.
"Fuck yes. You know what it was? It was the look on your face. That strength. That ownership of
yourself. I mean, yes, I liked your beautiful body." I stroke down from her breasts to her stomach, then
down to her pussy. She shifts her legs for me, and I stroke her petals, then her clit. She sighs. "But it
was that confidence that really drew me. Kept you in my dreams. Kept you in my memories. But
honey, you were a child. I knew it wasn't right, not then." I slide down the bed and settle between her
thighs again. "Now it's right."
And then I get my dessert.
In the morning, I make her breakfast before I get showered and dressed for work. "I'm guessing
you'll be at Dock Holiday today?"
She nods. "Gotta give my notice at Boots 'N' Beer." She smiles. "I'm ready for the next phase of
my life. And I think it's the one I'm going to want to stay in for a long time. Years. Decades. Maybe the
whole rest of my life."
"Can I be there with you?" I ask, putting on my boots. "Am I part of this?"
She looks at me seriously, those blue eyes level. "I think you are my life, Holt. I think you always
have been."
I don't plan it. God knows I'm not prepared. "Marry me, then?"
She laughs out loud, and stands up from my kitchen table, wearing nothing but an old tee shirt of
mine. "Yes. Yes, I will!"
And so begins the rest of our lives.
 EPILOGUE
SAGE, FIVE YEARS LATER

"Baby?" I call, coming through the front door of the cabin after leaving Dock Holiday Guesthouse,
my parents' place. The fishing tours are, thank god, not my responsibility now, since the boat business
is under new management.
It's late since I stayed to close, but not too late. Holt will be waiting for me.
Holt doesn't answer my call. I kick off my shoes and take my hair out of its topknot, letting it fall
down my back. I get a glass of water and pound it down, then splash my face with water from the
kitchen sink.
What I'd love at the moment is a dip in the outdoor saltwater pool Holt put in the backyard soon
after we were married. But I'm missing my husband. Maybe I can swim tomorrow. I peek into the
bedroom, but it's empty. The sheets are turned back, but there's no Holt.
I love this life.
My sister Sammi has her degree in marketing and two wonderful kids with Zane. My sister Sara
has found love in someone new, and she has a job she loves. My parents have four grandchildren to
spoil and one more on the way, and Dad helps Mom and me run the guesthouse, except when he's
helping the new manager run the boat tours.
The guesthouse is running just great now--guess all that experience I had with different restaurant
and hospitality businesses all over town was good preparation--and Mom actually listens to my
ideas. She lets me try new things, and sometimes they bring in new business. If they don't work, we
try other new things. We go with the flow now, instead of being stuck in the old ways just because it's
what we'd always done.
I really love this life.
Holt and me, we live in this beautiful cabin up on Big Horn Ridge, just the two of us. Just the
way we love it. And Holt spoils me every chance he gets. So I spoil him back.
I turn to the backyard, and now I see that the citronella torches are lit. Which means he's out
there. Waiting for me.
I can't help smiling all over my face. I race outside to the pool area. "Hey! There you are. I was
just thinking the pool would feel good right now."
"Great minds think alike. Brought you a drink, too," he says from where he's resting on the
double lounger, in his swim trunks. He nods toward the small table near the pool. "Fresh lemonade,
with a slug of your good gin in it."
I pick up the frosted glass and knock back a third of it. I'm always really thirsty after a shift.
"That's really good."
"Your recipe." He smiles, his teeth white in his trimmed beard. "Now, why don't you relax in the
pool, Ms. Guesthouse Manager?"
"Come in with me," I invite. I pull my shirt off over my head, then ditch my work trousers and
socks, leaving me in my bra and bikini underwear. I give him the eye to make sure he's watching, then
take off the bra. I pretend to try to hide my breasts from him, while actually giving him a good look at
the way my nipples have peaked in the fresh summer night air. Then I turn my back on him, slip my
panties down, flashing him a glimpse of my split as I step out. "Can't wait to feel the water," I tempt,
sliding my hands down my sides and walking toward the pool. I dip one toe in, then step down two
steps. I bend over and splash my face and upper body, again letting him see the shadowy valley
between my thighs. "Mmm, this feels so nice." I step deeper into the pool, letting my breasts bob free
on the surface of the water. "Aren't you coming in?"
"Are you done giving me a peep show, baby?" His voice sounds like honey over gravel. "I can
watch a little longer if you want to tease me."
I turn toward the house to see him standing by the pool, naked, fisting that gorgeous, stiff, thick
stick of his. Knowing that I did that to him turns me on even more, and I stroke water across my
breasts. "Officer, I know I'm not supposed to be here after hours...but it's been so hot...and the water
feels so good...on my skin..."
"You'd better come out right now, ma'am," he says, not moving. Hand still sliding slowly up and
down. "This is against code."
"Oh, it's not actually illegal, is it?" I say, fluttering my lashes. "I thought rules were one thing,
and laws were another. I wouldn't want to do anything that would get me arrested."
"I could run you in right now for trespassing on state property. Have you been drinking, ma'am?"
I smile involuntarily, remembering how he'd set me up with the cocktail. I love the way we tease
each other, in bed and out. "Just one drink, officer. I'm not intoxicated."
"I think you should come out and let me run a sobriety check," he says. Still not stopping the
motion of his hand. It's making me need him more every second.
"I think you should come in," I invite again, walking back toward the shallower end of the pool,
exposing more of my body with every step. "I'm already so...wet. I'd just end up getting on you--I
mean getting water on you."
"You say you're wet, ma'am?"
I step closer, running my hands over my body from breasts down my stomach to between my
thighs. I slip one finger down between my secret folds, then bring it out and lick it. "Yes. Yes, I'm
definitely wet, Officer. You're welcome to come check."
"Body like yours oughta be in jail," he says gruffly, but he finally moves to the shallow end and
steps in, giving his shaft one more stroke. "We have obscenity laws around here."
"Oh?" I give him a fake-innocent look. "My body is obscene?"
"Obscenely fucking sexy, ma'am." We walk toward each other, and when I reach him, our bodies
come together like magnets clicking into place. I hear his tiny gasp as my skin, cooled by water,
touches his warmth. He slides warm, strong arms around me, and pulls me tight against him.
All the tiredness and stress I'd been feeling drains out of me. I feel loose, floaty, but anchored by
the strength of this man. Anchored by the sensation of his warm wet mouth on mine, his fingers
cupping my ass. Anchored by the depth of my ache for him, inside my core. Inside my heart.
He kisses my mouth, my face. My forehead. My neck, my collarbones, the tops of my breasts.
One hand captures a nipple and plays with it, while his mouth slides over the other nipple, and I cry
out in pleasure. He suckles me until my knees are weak with desire, and then he pulls away and spins
me away from him. "Go to the side of the pool. Bend over and spread 'em, ma'am."
I'm dizzy with arousal. "But why, Officer?"
"Gotta check you for contraband weapons." That sweet gravelly voice of his is unsteady. "Gotta
check these crevices. Gotta investigate thoroughly. Gotta do my job, ma'am."
I bend over, exposing all my secret places to him with complete trust.
"This is a nice one you got here, ma'am," Holt says, stroking my ass and then my inner thighs.
"Quality setup. Very tight. Well lubricated. Premium piece of equipment."
I gasp as his fingers excavate my folds, then stroke gently over my sensitive nub, rubbing it
expertly. Two fingers from his other hand slide into my valley, pumping in and out of me. I play with
my own nipples. "You find anything?" I ask, close to ecstasy.
"Not yet. I gotta use some specialized equipment to get deeper in my investigation."
"Do it," I beg. "Check everything, Officer. Go deep."
I feel the thick head of his cock against my slick opening, and I can tell it won't take much to push
me over the edge. Two strokes, then three, then five, and I am moaning out loud, my inner walls
clenching rhythmically around his shaft.
When I can breathe again, I arch my back and push back against him, reaching down to touch my
clit. "That's some really thorough specialized equipment, Officer," I say, feeling a second orgasm
beginning to build. "Where'd you get it?"
"This?" He gives me several long, hard strokes with it. "This equipment?"
"Uh-huh."
"This equipment that's investigating you so thoroughly?"
"Yes, sir, that very excellent equipment." I'm panting, I'm so close.
"That information is classified, ma'am, but I can tell you it's completely organic." I can tell from
the swelling of his cock inside me, and from the tightness in his voice, he's about to break.
"Give it to me, Officer," I moan, and then I'm coming again, a whirlwind of pleasure taking over
my body as I feel Holt's hands tighten on my hips and a hot jet of wetness inside me, as he groans out
loud.
We stay like that on the edge of the pool for a few moments, before he pulls out and turns me
around to embrace me. I tighten my arms around his neck, and he picks me up, letting me hold him
around the waist with my legs as he walks us out of the pool.
"I love you," I tell him.
He kisses me, then lets me slide down to my own feet on the side of the pool. "I love you too,
baby." He takes a beach towel from the lounger and wraps it around me. "Warm enough?" It's chillier
now, and already I miss the warmth of his body.
"I'm great. I'm so glad we put that pool in."
He smiles at me, his plump lips stretching into a satisfied smile. "The best part of that is that it's
totally legal to fuck your wife in the water at night. Had to wait a long time for it, but it's what I
always wanted. You're what I always wanted, Sage. And I'll never stop wanting you."
I look at him, my heart squeezing with affection. "Same here, baby. Same here."
 Thank you for reading!
The Men of Big Horn Ridge continues with Rescued by the Mountain Man – get it here:
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Men of Big Horn Ridge
Single Girls Wishing Club
Nerd Love
Single Dads Club
Blue Collar Hometown Hotties
Bringing the Heat
Christmas Lumberjacks
Dogwood Falls
Heart Doctors
Inn Love
Love Lake Blue Collar Bad Boys
Moonlight Ridge Mountain Men
Rivertown Fire & Rescue
Shenanigans & Malarkey
FIRST (a collection of five first-in-series books)
Standalones:
Rochelle's Manster
Signed, SEALed, Delivered
Holiday Hearts
Hot Pool Boy Summer
Aching for the Physical Therapist
Carnival Fever
Dating the Professor
Keeping What's Mine
The Last First Kiss
Waiting on the Boss
Found by the Mountain Man
Codename: Hollywood
Any Witch Way
Smitten with the Girl Dad
Gabe
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Results Driven
Found My Valentine

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 About The Author
Carly Keene

Carly's a small-town girl who loves writing short romance as sweet and steamy as a triple-vanilla
latte, served extra-hot. She's a sucker for cinnamon roll heroes and second chances.
She lives in Virginia with her husband and a bat-crap crazy dog.
Another random document with
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più che si poteva, a distruggere forse, l’efficacia di quella stessa
scuola, di cui i docenti erano i ministri e i sacerdoti.
Ma se a questo si fosse limitato, il loro metodo avrebbe potuto
costituire un male rispetto alle finalità della scuola, in cui
insegnavano, ma in fondo, entro modestissimi confini, esso avrebbe
pure potuto dar vita ad altre forme d’insegnamento e di educazione
spirituale. Ma tutto ciò non facevano, nè potevano fare, che i migliori;
i più dovevano vuotare la scuola classica di tutto il suo spirito, senza
nulla collocare al suo posto; dovevano farla degenerare, come più
tardi degenerò, in un esercizio, in una meccanicità, non si sa bene,
se più risibile, o più colpevole. Sarà questo infatti il carattere
generale dell’insegnamento classico in tutte le scuole cristiane,
specie in quelle rette da religiosi; di qui avrà origine l’idea delle
edizioni espurgate degli autori antichi [614], e Giuliano era
perfettamente nel vero, quando voleva fin da principio impedire il
consolidarsi di una tale deformità didattica.
L’insegnamento, dunque, che egli condannava, subiva la sorte
meritata, non in quanto era impartito da una certa categoria di
persone, più che da una altra; non in quanto contraddiceva alle
idealità della società pagana, ma in quanto esso contraddiceva agli
elementi oggettivi fornitigli dalla scuola, in cui s’impartiva, in quanto
repugnava agli istrumenti, di cui si serviva, in quanto — peggio
ancora — si tramutava nella negazione di se stesso. E la condanna
di Giuliano, quali che ne fossero stati i primi eccitamenti personali,
conteneva in sè un alto valore didattico ed educativo, come la
tendenza, a cui le volute riforme rispondevano, era la sola capace di
restituire alla scuola la virtù del docente, la sua efficacia, quale
plasmatore di anime e di intelligenze, tutto ciò, infine, per cui la
parola e il concetto di scuola han valore. Richiamando e grammatici
e retori alla coerenza con se stessi, Giuliano restaurava l’uomo nel
docente, e in quel suo richiamo era tanto di verità quanto
difficilmente si sarebbe potuto trovare in una concezione opposta,
magari liberata dagli errori, di cui l’imperatore avea potuto macolare
la propria.
Non basta! Quest’idea centrale, profondamente sana,
dell’illustrazione, che Giuliano premette al dispositivo del suo editto,
non induce Giuliano, come si è pensato, al divieto assoluto
dell’insegnamento ai Cristiani; lo fa invece concludere con la
imposizione che esso sia da loro tentato con mezzi e con ispirito
proprio. «Se [i maestri] pensano che furono sapienti gli autori,
ch’essi ora illustrano, e di cui quasi seggono interpreti, li imitino anzi
tutto nella pietà verso gli Dei. Ma, se invece pensano che quelli
abbiano errato circa le Divinità, che dovrebbero essere più sacre,
vadano nelle chiese dei Galilei e interpretino Matteo e Luca, i quali
impongono, e Voi, maestri cristiani, ne ripetete il precetto, che si
debba astenersi dalle cerimonie pagane.» E quanto ai giovani
scolari, essi sono, nell’editto, dichiarati esplicitamente liberi di
frequentare le scuole dei Cristiani o pure quelle dei grammatici e dei
sofisti pagani, «chè non è ragionevole — continua l’editto —
chiudere la via migliore a fanciulli, ancora ignari dell’indirizzo da
scegliere, o condurli per timore nolenti alle patrie consuetudini»;
«occorre, infatti, istruire, non punire, coloro che riteniamo in errore».
Dell’esigenza di una conformità tra le opinioni dei maestri e lo spirito
pubblico non v’è dunque alcuna traccia; e così l’accusa, rivolta a
Giuliano, di avere, con la sua legge e col suo editto, offeso la libertà
dell’insegnamento, e di avere formulato l’una e l’altro solo allo scopo
di apparecchiare la cieca e partigiana esclusione dei Cristiani dalle
scuole, può dirsi tranquillamente, e in modo assoluto, infondata e
suggerita o da partigianeria, o da esagerato ossequio alla tradizione,
o da incompiuto esame dei fatti. [615]
Ma, se la libertà d’insegnamento non riceve nessuna violenza, è
forse l’editto ispirato a una determinata teorica, concernente il diritto
dello Stato d’imporre le proprie dottrine morali, e di escludere le
altre, come taluno dei migliori fra i critici moderni ha pensato? [616]
Neanche questo. Giuliano non faceva una questione di privilegio per
le dottrine dello Stato, ma una questione sostanzialmente
pedagogica, quali che ne fossero state le ispirazioni politiche e
morali, che ve lo avevano determinato, quali le ripercussioni, sociali
e politiche, che potevano attendersene. O, se esercizio di
prerogative dello Stato è nel suo editto a riconoscere, si tratta di ben
altra cosa, non sufficientemente constatata; si tratta di una più intima
ingerenza del potere centrale nelle faccende relative all’istruzione
pubblica. Ma, per questo rispetto, l’imperatore nulla innovava;
continuava bensì la politica, ormai da circa un secolo e mezzo
inaugurata dai predecessori, politica che, incensurati o lodati, i suoi
successori cristiani spingeranno a più estreme conseguenze [617], e
che, in ogni modo, a torto o a ragione, è, dal progresso della civiltà,
riconosciuta ovunque legittima.
Tutto questo non intesero gli scettici del tempo, anche se pagani;
questo non volle intendere, o non intese, la maggior parte dei
Cristiani, vuoi perchè le leggi emanate dai principi, debbono sempre,
a ragione od a torto, combattersi dai loro avversarii, vuoi perchè la
società cristiana si trovava allora già avviata in una pericolosa china
di adattamento con la massa, o pagana o incredula, dei
contemporanei, adattamento, da cui non ebbe mai più la possibilità
di ritrarsi. Questo invece — l’abbiamo visto — intesero i pochi
Cristiani intransigenti superstiti [618]. Nella loro ignoranza, essi forse
non ricordavano che il problema dell’educazione, anzi il problema
della incompatibilità dell’insegnamento pagano con la fede cristiana,
era stato già dibattuto fin dalle origini del Cristianesimo, e che allora
appunto i Cristiani l’avevano risolto come ora lo risolveva Giuliano.
Ma la fede viva e pura fece loro intravedere ugualmente la
occasione propizia di una rottura completa con le vecchie ideologie,
e la continuazione, nella scuola, di una propaganda spirituale, che
avrebbe ricollocato il mondo su nuove basi morali. Ed essi soltanto
resero giustizia all’Apostata. [619]
Ma i critici antichi e recenti di Giuliano sono in certo modo
giustificabili pel fatto che neanche l’imperatore intese tutta la portata
del principio, da cui moveva, o, se la intese, non l’applicò in tutta la
sua pienezza e in tutte le sue conseguenze.
Nell’editto, invero, il consenso intimo, che si richiede tra docenti e
insegnamento, si limita solo alla fede dei primi e alle opinioni
teologiche degli autori, strumenti del loro ministero. E mentre la
scuola deve, non già infondere delle nozioni teologiche, ma
determinare, in chi apprende, uno stato morale nei rispetti della vita,
che ogni giorno si vive; mentre il difetto, constatato dall’imperatore
— l’assenza dell’uomo nel maestro — inquinava la educazione del
tempo, che s’era andata vuotando di qualsiasi contenuto spirituale e
— peggio ancora — sterilmente meccanizzando, le perturbatrici
prevenzioni religiose arrestarono e limitarono i provvedimenti di
Giuliano a qualcosa, che parve, e in minima parte potè essere,
rappresaglia religiosa e politica. Ciò che l’avrebbe —
irrimediabilmente — perduto nel giudizio dei futuri.

VI.

Quali furono, intanto, o si possono calcolare, le conseguenze

pratiche della legge del 362 e dell’editto?
Uno storico, dianzi citato, scriveva: «Il colpo ebbe una grande eco.
Non ci fu una città di studio, con scuole, che non entrasse d’un
subito in orgasmo. Dappertutto erano professori cristiani. Cosa
avrebbero fatto? E gli allievi si sarebbero costretti a non ascoltare e
a non seguire che un insegnamento, condannato ormai, senza
contrasto, all’errore?» [620]
Anzitutto — è bene metterlo ancora in rilievo, poichè non è mai stato
fatto a sufficienza — il divieto di Giuliano non riguardava tutti gli
ordini e tutte le specie di scuole. L’insegnamento elementare
rimaneva estraneo alle considerazioni dell’editto. E non questo solo.
Le scuole di filosofia, di giurisprudenza, di scienze esatte, le scuole
professionali, già incoraggiate da Costantino I. e dai suoi figli,
rimanevano anch’esse aperte a maestri cristiani e a pagani. Tutta
l’istruzione primaria, quella professionale e una buona parte
dell’insegnamento superiore non avevano dunque conosciuto ancora
alcun limite alla propria indipendenza. L’editto era stato la traduzione
del preciso intendimento di Giuliano di sottrarre ai Cristiani le scuole
aventi come precipuo scopo la formazione spirituale dell’uomo e del
cittadino nella società pagana, le scuole cioè di cultura media e
media superiore a tipo esclusivamente classico, e non si era
occupato di altro. Or bene, che, nelle scuole di grammatica e di
retorica, stessero ad insegnare dei Cristiani è noto, ma essi
costituivano una piccolissima frazione del corpo dei docenti.
Si dovette dunque trattare di poche dimissioni e di qualche
destituzione. Gli storici rammentano le due più famose. A Roma, il
retore Vittorino preferì abbandonare quella scuola, com’egli la
diceva, smerciatrice di ciarle, anzichè la fede di quel Dio, che rende
eloquenti i fanciulli appena nati e vuole ch’essi sappiano fare a meno
dell’insegnamento della retorica. [621] Tali dimissioni furono
certamente un atto lodevole; ma il volgare concetto, che quel
maestro aveva dei fini e dei mezzi del proprio ufficio, bastano da soli
a fare gravemente meditare sull’opportunità dell’editto imperiale, che
liberava la scuola di uomini, i quali spiritualmente l’avevano da
tempo disertata e da tempo avevano smarrito la divina virtù del
proprio magistero. Più vivaci commenti della dimissione di Vittorino
dovette destare quella di Proeresio, il retore, che abbiamo visto
chiamato in Gallia e poi a Roma, ove una statua, innalzatagli nel
foro, recava la scritta: «Al re dell’eloquenza, Roma, regina del
mondo.» [622] Egli, nel 362, insegnava in Atene, dove, insieme con
due tra i più illustri Padri della Chiesa, S. Gregorio Nazianzeno e S.
Basilio, aveva già avuto discepolo anche l’imperatore Giuliano.
Giuliano altra volta aveva esaltato l’eloquenza di lui, l’aveva
proclamato rivale di Pericle e l’aveva invitato a divenire suo
storiografo [623]. E, memore del passato, egli tentò di usare verso il
maestro tutte le indulgenze, di cui, nonostante l’editto, la sua potestà
imperiale era capace. Gli concesse infatti di continuare a insegnare
retorica ai giovani cristiani [624]. Ma Proeresio rifiutò la concessione
ed abbandonò sdegnosamente la cattedra [625].
Nessun altro nome ci viene fatto dagli antichi. Questo non vuol dire
che i destituiti e i dimissionarii si limitassero a due soli. La schiera
dei colpiti dovette essere più numerosa, e ad essa va aggiunta l’altra
— che le fonti cristiane amano dire insignificante — [626]degl’imbelli,
che dichiararono di convertirsi, pur di serbare la cattedra. Ma, dato il
complesso di tutte le nostre informazioni, sebbene questa volta ci
troviamo dinnanzi a dei narratori, interessati alla parzialità, possiamo
ben affermare che le conseguenze di questa così detta
persecuzione furono assai minori di quelle, che sotto altri principi,
avevano per l’innanzi subìto, non dirò i Cristiani, ma gli stessi filosofi
pagani. L’esempio inoltre della generosità, voluta usare nei riguardi
di Proeresio, è assai significativo, e poichè il giudicare spettava,
volta per volta, al principe, noi possiamo pensare che la sua pratica
dovette informarsi al criterio di escludere dall’insegnamento solo
quei Cristiani, che l’incapacità e l’intransigenza, o l’una e l’altra
insieme, rendevano inconciliabili col loro ministero [627].
Un gravissimo turbamento, dunque, nel personale insegnante
dell’impero, non dovette avvenire. Se ne verificò uno tra i giovani
cristiani, che sino ad allora avevano seguito le lezioni di grammatica
e di sofistica dei maestri cristiani? Il divieto di insegnare si tradusse,
direttamente, e maggiormente — come è stato asserito — [628] in
una morale impossibilità, da parte dei giovani, di frequentare le
scuole dei pagani?
Questa seconda ipotesi è ancor meno ammissibile della precedente.
E prima e dopo i divieti di Giuliano, i giovani cristiani frequentavano
indifferentemente maestri cristiani e maestri pagani, o, se una scelta
essi fecero, fu soltanto tra maestri celebri e maestri ignoti. I più
famosi oratori e teologi del tempo si erano sobbarcati a lunghi viaggi,
a strettezze e a dispendii, pur di ascoltare i più rinomati maestri
pagani del tempo. S. Gregorio Nazianzeno e S. Basilio erano andati,
dimorandovi per parecchi anni, a studiare e perfezionarsi in quel
centro di cultura pagana, che era Atene. Giovanni Crisostomo e
Teodoro di Mopsuesto seguivano, in Antiochia, le lezioni di Libanio,
l’apologista per eccellenza della reazione politica di Giuliano.
Diodoro di Tarso, il fondatore della scuola ascetica di Antiochia,
frequentò, e qui e in Atene, le scuole dei maestri pagani. E tutto ciò
era perfettamente conforme alla bizzarra teorica dei Cristiani del
tempo, secondo cui lo studio delle letterature classiche non doveva
avere più di un semplice valore formale: insegnamento di parole, di
bei costrutti e di null’altro.
I divieti di Giuliano, se dunque poterono irritare delle suscettibilità o
sollevare delle indignazioni, non produssero praticamente alcun
effetto deleterio nella cultura dei Cristiani, e i giovani allievi non ne
subirono alcun sensibile turbamento. Ma noi, se ben guardiamo a
fondo e scorriamo tutti i fatti, che sono indizio delle vicende del
tempo, abbiamo anche la prova di due altre circostanze, trascurate
dagli storici moderni: l’una, che l’editto, se chiuse le scuole dei
Cristiani, docenti discipline classiche, non chiuse punto le altre dei
Cristiani, docenti discipline cristiane, o, meglio, quelle scuole, in cui,
attraverso la letteratura cristiana, si intendeva conseguire quegli
identici effetti, che altri Cristiani dicevano di attendere dallo studio
degli autori classici; l’altra, che, se la legislazione di Giuliano non
fosse stata di così breve durata, avrebbe dato luogo a tutta una
nuova letteratura scolastica e a una completa istruzione cristiana.
Ed infatti gli storici ecclesiastici narrano che due cristiani del tempo,
uno, insegnante di retorica, l’altro, di grammatica, vollero attingere
alle Sacre Scritture la materia di un insegnamento scolastico, e
rifecero i Salmi in odi pindariche, i libri di Mosè, in esametri, e
composero comedie e tragedie d’argomento sacro [629], tutti
strumenti di una nuova scuola e di una nuova cultura. Certo, il
metodo dei loro tentativi era sbagliato e doveva mettere capo a
lavori, che sarebbero precipitati nell’oblìo, appena, con l’abrogazione
dei divieti di Giuliano, essi fossero entrati in concorrenza con i
modelli delle letterature classiche. Ma non per questo il criterio
ispiratore era meno vero, e, sopra tutto, non perciò quei tentativi ci
avvertono meno della libertà, rimasta inviolata, dell’insegnamento
cristiano, purchè fosse stato condotto con mezzi e con ispirito
proprio, purchè non venisse alla contraffazione della parola e dello
spirito delle antiche letterature classiche, quale appunto non lo
voleva Giuliano.
 VII.

L’editto, che si legava alla legge del 362, rappresentava la parte

negativa, il rovescio — diremo così — dell’opera, che Giuliano
intendeva dedicare alla istruzione e alla educazione pubblica.
Vedemmo come suo criterio dominante fosse quello di ridurre la
scuola classica, da maestra di parole, come il tempo e gli uomini
l’avevano resa, a diffonditrice di determinate ideologie. Un divieto
non bastava a raggiungere tale scopo; occorreva un’azione positiva,
e Gregorio di Nazianzo informa che Giuliano «aveva in mente di
edificare conventi e monasteri», luoghi di ritiro e di studii religiosi,
lontani dal mondo e dalle sue impurità. Meglio ancora, egli «si era
accinto a fondare scuole in ogni città e a istituire cattedre di vario
genere, dalle quali si spiegassero e si bandissero i principii
fondamentali del Paganesimo e di cui talune avessero, come
contenuto, un insegnamento morale; altre, delle materie più difficili e
di indole specialmente teorica» [630].
È ben difficile, da una fonte, quale, a tale proposito, è la nostra — la
violenta requisitoria di S. Gregorio di Nazianzo contro Giuliano —
che accenna, più che non chiarisca, e la quale, per gli scopi che
animavano il suo autore, tende, non tanto a spiegare, quanto ad
annebbiare e a screditare i progetti di Giuliano; è ben difficile — dico
— formarsi una chiara idea delle istituzioni vagheggiate da
quest’ultimo. Tuttavia sembra che egli, per mezzo di un’istruzione,
per natura sua più intima o meno esteriore di quella delle scuole del
tempo, abbia pensato di tentare un ravvicinamento spirituale dei
contemporanei all’anima della religione, della filosofia e della morale
ellenica. Dalla scuola, così rinnovata, sarebbero dovuti escire i
migliori sacerdoti e i maestri migliori delle nuove generazioni. Alla
propaganda spirituale del Cristianesimo Giuliano intendeva
contrapporre una propaganda spirituale dell’Ellenismo. Ed egli
preparava le persone acconce a tale ufficio e s’accingeva a
mandarle fra gli uomini, apostoli di un’idea, di una certa concezione
della vita.
Quale che sia la fede religiosa dell’osservatore, è d’uopo convenire
che il disegno era veramente nobile e grande e non meritava
davvero le derisioni e le invettive, di cui il Nazianzeno l’ha ricoperto.
Forse, anzi, la sua stessa bellezza era tanta da costituire una tra le
condizioni negative della sua attuabilità; certo, la brevità del governo
di Giuliano impedì che se ne sperimentassero i primi effetti.
Ma qui non si arresta la serie delle riforme vagheggiate da Giuliano.
Ammiano Marcellino e Giuliano stesso ci segnalano, in questa età,
una vera e propria frenesia per la musica, ma insieme una
decadenza del buon gusto e di quest’arte medesima. «Le poche
case — scrive quello storico — un tempo celebrate per serietà di
studi, ora sono invase dal gusto dei piaceri proprii della torpida
ignavia, e risuonano senza interruzione di canti e del dolce tinnir
delle cetre...... Non si fabbricano che organi idraulici e lire enormi
come carrozze, tibie e strumenti di sesquipedali dimensioni, che
servono ad accompagnare le pantomime» [631]. Giuliano,
discorrendo di Antiochia, la città ellenistica per eccellenza, ribadisce
queste accuse [632]. Ed egli stesso pensò, nei limiti delle sue forze, di
ricondurre la musica verso la buona scuola del buon tempo antico.
Esiste in proposito una ufficiale lettera di lui al prefetto d’Egitto,
Edicio: «Conviene — scrive l’imperatore — se di cosa alcuna,
curarsi della musica sacra. Tu dunque scegli, tra gli Alessandrini,
fanciulli di buona famiglia, e ordina che siano loro fornite ogni mese
due artabe [633] di frumento, olio e vino, e che i sovrintendenti
dell’erario forniscano loro anche una veste. Questi fanciulli siano
scelti per la loro voce, e quelli, che conseguiranno la perfezione
nell’arte del canto e della musica, sappiano che Noi abbiamo
stabilito per essi ricompense non piccole.... Quanto poi ai discepoli
del musico Dioscoro, fa che apprendano con cura la musica: Noi
siamo pronti ad aiutarli in tutto ciò che essi vorranno.» [634] Giuliano,
dunque, e proponeva sussidii, e istituiva borse di studio, e
prometteva premii ai giovani, che si fossero resi provetti nell’arte del
canto e della musica, materia, della cui cura egli faceva ai monarchi
un preciso dovere. Ebbe egli la fortuna di vedere realizzato il suo
sogno? O la brevità del suo governo troncò insieme e la sua vita e le
sue speranze?
Anche questa volta noi restiamo nella più assoluta incertezza. Ma è
così per la massima parte dell’opera di quel principe disgraziato. Se
un simbolo volesse tutta esprimerla con un segno solo, non
potrebb’essere che quello stesso, che gli uomini pongono sulle
tombe di coloro, i quali morirono giovani, perchè cari al cielo: il
tronco di una breve colonna infranta; onde ciò che di vivo e di
perenne resta di lui è solo, per noi, il senso dell’ardore, non mai
placato, col quale egli amò quegli ideali, di cui non era destinato a
vedere la gloria.
E di questo amore l’unica forma tangibile, in cui egli riuscisse a
tradurlo praticamente, fu il favore largamente accordato ai dotti del
tempo. Tornò con lui — si disse — il regno dei retori e dei filosofi, e
gli uomini della città, che Giuliano amò di amore umano, i
rappresentanti dell’Università di Atene — sentinelle morte di un
passato irrevocabile — egli volle, nei brevi mesi della sua vita di
monarca, colmare di ogni favore ed innalzare a suoi ispiratori
quotidiani. «Fratello desideratissimo ed amatissimo», scriveva un
giorno a Prisco, «io ti giuro, per l’Autore e per il Conservatore di tutti i
miei beni, che, se io desidero vivere, è solo per essere a Voi utile; e,
quando io dico Voi, intendo i veri filosofi, tra i quali sei tu [635].»
E attorno a sè egli chiamò, appena imperatore, il retore Mamertino, il
sofista Imerio, i filosofi Massimo, Crisanzio, Eustazio, Aristosseno e
Prisco stesso. Di simili inviti sono piene quelle sue lettere, che
documentano l’attiva sua corrispondenza con gli uomini maggiori per
intelletto e per cultura del tempo, con i succitati, con Temistio, con
Sallustio, con Proeresio, con Evagrio, con Ermogene, con Libanio,
con Eugenio, con Oribasio, con Elpidio, forse con Giamblico, [636], e
con altri ancora. E come sono calde le sue esortazioni! Come egli,
ch’è pur l’imperatore, mostra di sentirsi al disotto degli scalini del
trono, che innalzano a ogni lor fedele la cultura e la scienza! Come
sono teneri gli accenti, ch’egli trova per i suoi genitori spirituali, per i
suoi maestri d’elezione! Libanio è «il suo fratello amatissimo.» [637] A
Giamblico scrive: «Allorchè riconobbi il tuo messo, io corsi di un
balzo a lui, lo abbracciai e piansi dalla gioia di avere tue lettere.... O
nobile anima, tu, che sei il salvatore riconosciuto dell’ellenismo, tu
devi scrivermi spesso, tu devi sorreggermi, eccitarmi, incoraggiarmi
quanto più puoi.... Una tua lettera vale per me tutto l’oro della
Lidia.» [638] Ad Aristosseno scrive: «Alcuno chiederà come mai noi
possiamo essere amici, pur non conoscendoci di persona. Ma io
chiedo a mia volta come mai amiamo quelli, che vissero mille o due
mila anni prima di noi. Certo, li amiamo perchè furono valenti ed
ottimi. Desideriamo dunque di essere tali anche noi, sebbene
dall’esserlo realmente, almeno per parte mia, siamo le mille miglia
lontani.... Ma a che mi perdo in parole? Se, perchè tu venga, occorre
che non ti chiami, tu verrai certamente; se attendi una mia
esortazione, ecco, io ti esorto. Vieni dunque a me!....» [639].
A Massimo scrive: «Se vuoi che la tua conversazione epistolare mi
tenga luogo della tua presenza, scrivi, scrivi spesso, o, piuttosto, in
nome degli Dei, vieni, e tieni per fermo che, fino a che starai lontano,
io non potrò dire di vivere, se non in quanto mi è concesso di leggere
le tue lettere. [640]».
Ecco in qual modo Ammiano Marcellino racconta l’episodio
dell’arrivo di Massimo a Corte. Giuliano era intento a giudicare taluni
processi, quando fu annunziato l’arrivo del filosofo. Egli balzò
improvvisamente dal suo seggio, dimentico d’ogni riguardo, e gli
corse incontro, fuori dal vestibolo, ad abbracciarlo e a baciarlo, e lo
condusse seco trionfalmente nella sala [641].
E, come Massimo, tutti i retori, i sofisti, i filosofi, i dotti del tempo, sia
che venissero a lui, sia che preferissero rimanere lungi dalla corte,
ricevettero gli onori attesi e promessi. Mamertino, in un solo anno,
percorse la scala di tutte le onorificenze; e fu intendente del tesoro,
prefetto del pretorio d’Illiria, console; Temistio è prefetto; Aurelio
Vittore è nominato consolare della seconda Pannonia e onorato di
una statua di bronzo; Imerio, Prisco, Massimo occupano a Corte il
primo posto tra gli amici e i consiglieri del principe. Crisanzio, che
preferì non venire, è nominato gran sacerdote della Lidia; la sua
consorte, sacerdotessa. E, quando Proeresio, in forza di un editto
del principe, che non riguardava la sua persona, ma la classe in
genere dei sofisti cristiani, rischiò di essere deposto dalla sua
cattedra. Giuliano, memore, volle — sia pure invano — stabilire per
lui un’eccezione. La religione li aveva divisi; l’amore della scienza
antica li univa ancor più indissolubilmente.
La gioia di prodigare il suo amore alla cultura e agli uomini, che la
impersonavano, la gioia di esserne ricambiato fu una delle poche,
che Giuliano godesse nel triste viaggio della sua esistenza, l’unica,
che lo accompagnasse fino all’ultimo respiro. E, nella notte tragica,
in cui egli moriva sulle sabbie ardenti dell’Asia inospitale, il suo letto
di morte era circondato dagli amici filosofi, coi quali egli s’intrattenne
a lungo, conversando, come Socrate fra i suoi discepoli. E le ultime
sue parole furono raccolte ed incise sulle tavolette di cera da colui,
che doveva essere il suo futuro storico, Ammiano Marcellino; e
l’anima sua, che fuggiva, sfiorò, passando, le fronti di Prisco e di
Massimo, veglianti tra la febbre e lo spasimo a un capezzale, ove si
spegneva infranta la vita dell’ultimo degli Elleni [642].
Così, nonostante il gran discutere degli antichi e dei moderni, chi
adesso abbracci con uno sguardo tutta l’opera scolastica di Giuliano,
deve rilevare che le sue riforme, come non sono macolate dalle
colpe, che si è amato ascrivervi, nè ebbero il valor pratico di altre,
che le avevano precedute o che le seguiranno, nè lasciarono traccia
durevole nella storia dell’istruzione pubblica nell’impero romano. La
morte interruppe l’esecuzione dei suoi disegni migliori, e il poco, che
egli fece o tentò, si spense con la sua vita.
Ma chi da Giuliano volga lo sguardo a tutti i principi, che ressero lo
Stato romano durante la seconda metà del IV. secolo di C., non può
non convenire che questi furono anni veramente meravigliosi. Noi
assistiamo alla creazione di un nuovo centro di studii medii e
superiori, a una nuova germinazione degli studii liberali nell’Oriente,
a nuovi impulsi, dati a tutti gli indirizzi della cultura, anche a quelli più
remoti dall’antico pensiero classico, a un nuovo elevamento delle
condizioni sociali dei maestri, ciò che costituisce l’indice migliore
della civiltà d’uno Stato.
A tutto questo, che fu merito precipuo della casa di Costantino,
corrispose un periodo di splendore nelle produzioni dell’ingegno
greco e romano. Ma, poichè il ciclo di tale fenomeno si compirà alla
fine del IV. secolo, noi attenderemo quel momento per considerarlo e
descriverlo con ampiezza maggiore del cenno fugace, che qui,
adesso, ne facciamo.
 CAPITOLO VII.
La dinastia valentiniana e l’istruzione pubblica
nell’impero romano.
(364-383)

I. La reazione alla politica scolastica di Giuliano — II. Un

regolamento disciplinare per gli studenti stranieri in Roma —
III. Valentiniano riconferma le immunità; nuove immunità ai
maestri di pittura — IV. Valente e la biblioteca
costantinopolitana; Valente contro l’astrologia; distruzione di
opere scientifiche classiche; giudizio che di lui fa Temistio —
V. Le riforme scolastiche di Graziano; l’ordinamento delle
scuole in Gallia — VI. Valentiniano, Graziano e i medici di
Roma e della Corte; la cura dei monumenti antichi e delle
opere d’arte — VII. La rinascita intellettuale in tutto l’impero.

I.

Le sorti dell’istruzione pubblica nell’impero romano non ebbero a

risentire grave danno del trapasso dei Costantiniani. La nuova
dinastia, cui fu capostipite un generale, acclamato imperatore
durante la seconda sosta funebre di quello stesso esercito, che
Giuliano aveva condotto alla infelice spedizione persiana, segue
fedelmente la tradizione dei predecessori.
Era tuttavia prevedibile che l’indirizzo, propugnato da Giuliano in
fatto di istruzione pubblica, dovesse, alla sua morte e all’avvento dei
nuovi principi cristiani, subire una vigorosa reazione. Il breve regno
di Gioviano non aveva potuto iniziarla; ma, tostochè il successore
ebbe dato assetto agli affari maggiori del governo, appena ne ebbe
divise le attribuzioni con il fratello Valente, venne, dal proprio volere,
da quello della corte, dall’opinione pubblica, sospinto a portare le
necessarie innovazioni anche nel campo della scuola.
I bersagli della reazione cristiana furono la legge e l’editto del 362.
Contro l’una e contro l’altro tuonavano gli oratori sacri, scrivevano e
parlavano i retori, brigavano gli uomini politici. Ad essi dovevano
dunque mirare i primi atti dell’imperatore. Esiste tuttavia — ed è
troppe volte a constatarsi nella storia e nella vita politica — una muta
solidarietà tra gli uomini, anche di parti opposte, che assumono il
potere; essi si contraddicono, ma non si smentiscono
clamorosamente. E tipico esempio di un tale fenomeno fu la legge di
Valentiniano I., con la quale si abrogava l’altra aborrita di Giuliano
del 362 e l’editto relativo. La concisione è ivi pari alla misura e alla
circospezione necessaria a non trascurare alcun riguardo verso
l’imperatore estinto. La legge, indirizzata al prefetto del pretorio
dell’Italia, e, quindi, dell’Illirio e dell’Africa, dice: «A coloro, i quali,
vuoi per dignità di vita, vuoi per eloquenza, si dimostrano pari
all’ufficio di istruire i giovani, viene data facoltà di aprire una scuola,
o di riaprire l’antica, che eventualmente avessero dovuto
chiudere.» [643] È questa l’abrogazione della legge di Giuliano? È
l’abrogazione di altra legge? È un provvedimento estraneo a
qualsiasi abrogazione? Sarebbero tutte domande lecite e dubbii
assillanti, se noi, per valutare ed intendere, non dovessimo tener
conto delle ferree esigenze della ragion di Stato, e cogliere, non solo
ciò che il documento dice, ma, più ancora, ciò che esso accenna.
La nuova legge, dunque, voleva essere la cassazione pura e
semplice dei due atti più notevoli di Giuliano, in fatto di istruzione
pubblica. Ma, a chi ben guardi, la reazione di Valentiniano non fu
così radicale come il carattere anodino delle parole potrebbe fare
supporre. Noi possediamo, di qualche anno dopo, un’altra
costituzione dello stesso imperatore, che si riferisce agli insegnanti
di filosofia, ed essa ci parla, come di norma in vigore,
dell’approvazione dei «competenti» (a probatissimis adprobati), cui
quelli sarebbero da tempo costretti a soggiacere. Ma, poichè tale
approvazione non poteva essere chiesta direttamente, nè tali
commissioni di competenti funzionare all’infuori dell’iniziativa della
locale autorità, noi dobbiamo ritenere che essa corrispondeva a quel
parere, che, secondo la legge di Giuliano, i Consigli comunali
invocavano prima di rilasciare le autorizzazioni all’insegnamento. In
tale forma, la legge di Giuliano rimase infatti in vigore sino a più
tarda età; [644] onde l’abrogazione di Valentiniano ne riguardò solo
una parte: non quella, concernente l’autorizzazione dei Consigli
municipali, ma l’altra, che si riferiva alla ulteriore conferma del
principe, in cui, a torto o a ragione, il passato lasciava temere si
annidasse il veleno politico della precedente riforma.
Ma arrecava inconvenienti più gravi un’altra condizione di cose, che,
se si era originata via via durante l’impero, si era specialmente
acuita sotto il governo di Giuliano, [645] l’eccessivo numero di coloro,
che, spacciandosi per maestri di filosofia, venivano a godere della
esenzione delle pubbliche cariche e dei pubblici oneri.
Noi vedemmo a suo tempo quali norme Antonino Pio avesse
introdotte riguardo agli altri ordini di docenti; quali limitazioni avesse
arrecate al numero di coloro, che delle immunità avrebbero goduto,
e notammo ancora come egli avesse escluso da tali restrizioni i
filosofi, contando sulla loro scarsità e sulla autoefficacia delle loro
dottrine morali. Vedemmo le nuove limitazioni, poste al diritto di
insegnare da Giuliano, con la legge del 362. Ma la copia dei docenti
di filosofia si era andata spaventevolmente accrescendo, sì che il
regno di Giuliano, come quello di Marco Aurelio, era stato detto, e
sul serio, e per derisione, l’impero dei filosofi, e le inibizioni morali
non avevano impedito gli abusi nella caccia audace dei privilegi.
Valentiniano I. volle provvedere, e forse, provvedendo, cedette,
anche in questo, alla reazione cristiana del suo tempo, e scrisse al
prefetto del pretorio d’Italia, Illirio ed Africa, ordinando che
«chiunque, indebitamente e sfrontatamente, dichiarasse di
professare l’insegnamento della filosofia, venisse tosto rimandato in
patria», giacche «è vergognoso che chi si vanta di tollerare anche i
colpi della fortuna dica di non potere sottostare agli oneri imposti
dalla propria patria». Una sola eccezione era fatta — l’abbiamo
dianzi accennata — e riguardava i docenti di filosofia, i quali, su
parere di commissioni competenti, fossero stati autorizzati
all’insegnamento.
Non si trattava con ciò, come malamente anche questa volta è stato
detto, di una statizzazione dell’insegnamento; ma per certo, con
codesta disposizione, si abrogava, o limitava, qualche altra da tempo
in vigore, e si poneva termine ad una consuetudine trionfante, che
aveva finito per risolversi in un abuso. Si abrogava cioè la
disposizione, per cui non esistevano limiti nel numero dei filosofi
dell’impero, aventi diritto al godimento delle immunità, e si limitava la
consuetudine di considerare costoro come una classe privilegiata
dalla saggezza, e perciò esente dagli obblighi della vita municipale.

II.

Fin qui i ritocchi e gli emendamenti al passato; ma, nei rispetti

dell’istruzione pubblica, il regno di Valentiniano è ancor più notevole
per un regolamento disciplinare, emanato nel 370, che riguardò i
giovani, i quali dall’estero accorrevano a studiare nell’Ateneo
romano, [646] e della cui applicazione venne incaricato il prefetto di
Roma.
Valentiniano stabiliva che chiunque si fosse recato nella Città eterna
per istudiare, dovesse anzi tutto presentarsi al magister census, e
presentargli la relativa autorizzazione, rilasciatagli dal governatore
della provincia, donde veniva. Tale autorizzazione doveva contenere,
chiaramente specificati, il luogo di provenienza, il nome della città
natale e gli eventuali titoli onorifici della famiglia dello studente. In
secondo luogo, la nuova legge richiede che i giovani facciano una
immediata dichiarazione del genere di discipline, a cui intendono
dedicarsi, e dell’abitazione, in cui vanno ad installarsi, affinchè
l’ufficio del magister census possa agevolmente sorvegliarli,
consigliarli, e verificare se, e come, attendano agli studi dichiarati. Lo
stesso ufficio doveva curare: 1) che, nelle pubbliche riunioni, i
giovani si dimostrassero persone dabbene; 2) che rifuggissero dal
far parte di associazioni, la cui natura e i cui intendimenti fossero in
certo modo sospettabili [647]; 3) che non frequentassero
eccessivamente pubblici spettacoli, e non partecipassero
intempestivamente a pubblici banchetti. Qualora gli studenti
avessero contravvenuto a tali prescrizioni, e si fossero comportati in
modo diverso da quello richiesto dalla dignità degli studii, era
concesso al magister census, o ai suoi agenti, di infligger loro la
pena della pubblica flagellazione, e, magari, di rimpatriarli. Gli
studenti, invece, i quali avessero diligentemente seguito il corso
degli studii, avrebbero avuto facoltà di dimorare, a tale scopo, in
Roma, fino al ventesimo anno. Ma, scaduto questo termine,
sarebbero dovuti tornare sollecitamente in patria, a meno che non si
fossero inscritti in qualcuno dei corpora romani [648]; e chi avesse
contravvenuto a questa disposizione, o non si fosse così garantito,
avrebbe potuto essere rimpatriato d’ufficio, per ordine del prefetto
della città. Affinchè poi tutte queste prescrizioni fossero osservate
diligentemente, l’imperatore incaricava il prefetto della città di
sollecitare l’ufficio censuale a tenere appositi, ordinati registri
mensili, in cui si segnassero i nomi degli studenti, che arrivavano, la
loro provenienza, non che i nomi di quelli, che, scaduto il termine
concesso al soggiorno in Roma, erano in obbligo di ripartire. I varii
registri sarebbero ogni anno dovuti inviarsi al gabinetto
dell’imperatore, affinchè questi avesse avuto notizia delle buone o
cattive note degli studiosi e avesse potuto servirsi di loro per le
eventuali necessità di governo. [649]
Risalta facilmente agli occhi del lettore il carattere poliziesco del
nuovo regolamento.
Questa sorveglianza così intima sulla vita degli studenti e, per
giunta, sugli studenti forestieri, quali che siano stati i motivi, con cui
la si sia voluta dissimulare, era in buona parte una sorveglianza
politico-religiosa, e le pene minacciate erano quelle stesse, in cui
incorrevano i colpevoli di manifestazioni politiche, le quali turbassero
ciò che soleva, e suole in ogni tempo, dirsi l’ordine pubblico. Meglio
ancora lo provano le gelose e sicure informazioni, che l’imperatore
richiede di tutta la carriera degli studenti. Certo, uno degli scopi di tali
richiesta era il bisogno di scegliere tra essi, in modo illuminato, i
funzionari dell’impero, i pubblici insegnanti, gl’impiegati del suo
gabinetto. Ma, in tale scelta, è evidente, avrebbero dovuto pesare le
informazioni riservate del prefetto della città e ad esse, quindi, oltre
ai meriti, non sarebbero potuti rimanere estranei gli elementi della
religione e della politica.
Ultimo, ma pur significativo, particolare, il limite di età, già consentito
ai giovani, come termine massimo, per attendere alla loro istruzione
superiore, è ridotto di ben cinque anni. Dai Severi gli studenti di
giurisprudenza in Roma erano stati esentati dalla tutela, carico, che
colpiva i cittadini venticinquenni. Da Diocleziano, tutti gli studenti di
Berito, e, quindi, a potiori, di Roma, furono in modo identico riservati
agli studii fino ai 25 anni e, fino a questa età, esentati da ogni
gravame personale. Adesso si vuol tagliar fuori dalle Università il
corpo migliore, gli studenti maggiorenni, che avevano formato la
gloria degli antichi Atenei, come lo formeranno di quelli medievali,
ma che certamente erano anche la popolazione meno maneggevole
e più ribelle dei grandi centri di studio. E questa — gli è chiarissimo
— non era una previggenza scolastica, ma una precauzione di
politica o, forse meglio, di polizia.
Tutto questo però non vuol dire che le intenzioni inquisitorie fossero
state le sole a determinare il pensiero del legislatore. Non è questa
l’occasione per intrattenerci diffusamente su la vita e su la condotta
degli studenti nel mondo antico; ma noi abbiamo su ciò, da altre
fonti, informazioni, che riguardano i principali centri di studio della
Grecia, dell’Africa e dell’Oriente, [650] e possiamo ben giudicare
come fosse veramente nell’interesse, così dell’ordine pubblico, come
degli stessi giovani, disciplinare le loro troppo spesso eccessive
manifestazioni. Or bene, tutto quello che avveniva ad Atene, a
Cartagine, a Costantinopoli, doveva ripetersi, poco più, poco meno,
a Roma, città cosmopolita per eccellenza, ove affluivano, e si
mescolavano insieme, genti di ogni ceto, di ogni paese, di ogni
intenzione, per cui anche molte volte la qualifica di studenti doveva
essere una simulazione legale. Tenere il più che possibile i giovani
lontani da costumanze torbide, da distrazioni pericolose, non
significava soltanto provvedere all’ordine pubblico; significava
giovare agli studiosi stessi, alla loro istruzione, e il meccanismo,
escogitato dai funzionarii del gabinetto imperiale a disciplinare
l’anarchia precedente, fu certo — e i fatti lo provarono — in buona
parte — acconcio a raggiungere un tale scopo. Allorquando, circa un
lustro di poi, S. Agostino lascerà Cartagine per venire ad insegnare a
Roma, dichiarerà di averlo fatto solo a motivo dell’assai maggiore
disciplina, che era fama contenesse gli studenti della capitale del
mondo, e che in realtà regnava tra loro. [651]

III.

Ma Valentiniano stesso ripete, come oramai da tempo era in uso, le

concessioni di immunità dei precedenti imperatori. In una legge del
370, [652] forse emanata durante i preparativi militari di una
spedizione all’estero, egli dichiara di riconfermare le concesse
immunità ai docenti di Roma «perchè le loro consorti siano esenti da
ogni preoccupazione, essi stessi, liberi di tutti i pubblici oneri, nè mai
tenuti al servizio o all’obbligo dell’acquartieramento militare».
La legge non ha alcun valore speciale: o essa è una ripetizione pura
e semplice, o forse, come la sua dicitura farebbe sospettare, essa
conferma, con qualche restrizione, le precedenti liberalità di
Costantino il Grande, che aveva esteso la esenzione del servizio
militare dalla persona dei privilegiati a quella dei loro figliuoli.
Ma la concessione di privilegi veramente notevole del regno di
Valentiniano I. riguarda i maestri di pittura africani. [653] Una sua
legge del 374, con audacia di novità non mai tentata, stabilisce che i
professores picturae di nascita libera siano esenti: 1) dalla capitatio,