The Last Chance Ranch

Author: Parker D G

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The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

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Copyright ©2011 by D.G. Parker First published in 2011, 2011 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

CONTENTS Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 ****

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The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

Chapter 1 The sun was high in the sky by the time all the horses were fed and watered. As soon as the basic chores were done, the hands of the Bar J Ranch gathered in the little cemetery near the main house. Obie stood with the others, hat clutched in his hands, sweat pouring off his head and trickling down his back to soak his shirt. It was hard to pay attention to Percy's droning words, but he tried, out of respect for the departed. "Our brother Walter lived a full life," the old preacher was saying. "He traveled far and wide, visiting many parts of this great country. He had a wife who passed on many years ago, and a daughter, now grown. But I believe that he never truly knew a home nor a family until he came here. He lived out his final years doing work he loved, surrounded by friends, and went to the Lord peacefully in his sleep. And I tell you now, brothers and sisters, we should all pray for such a long life and such a gentle end." Percy closed his Bible and stepped back. For a moment, they stood quietly. In the north corral, a mare whickered softly to her colt. Ben stepped forward and crouched, scooping up a handful of dirt. He didn't linger at the grave, just opened his hand and scattered the soil over the plain, pine coffin before moving on. Obie repeated the action, all the while studying his partner's familiar squint, the tight line of his jaw. He took his place at Ben's side, standing close enough that their arms were almost 4

The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

touching. Further comfort would have to wait until they were alone. One by one, the men filed past, paying their respects to their old friend. When the last man had gone by, Porter and Larry took up spades and started to fill the grave. They all had work that needed doing, but no one left until the last bit of dirt had been tamped into place. Juanita, leading her small daughter Rosie by the hand, laid bunches of wildflowers on the mound. Just as Obie felt his throat tighten up, Ben jammed his battered, tan hat on his head and sighed. "All right," he said, scanning their faces before looking out over the ranch. "We all got work to do, best we get to it. Snow'll divide up Walter's duties. I know you all will pull your weight and then some." The men dispersed, most heading to the barn to continue the day's chores. Percy gave Ben a pat on the shoulder and mounted his plodding, old mare for the ride back to town. Obie lingered behind, as did Snow. The foreman put his hat on over his prematurely white hair. "I'm gonna pack up old Walter's things and send them to his daughter in St. Louis." Ben put a hand in his pants pocket and withdrew a wad of bills. "Send this along with. He always sent her most of his pay." Snow nodded and took the money. "You wanna write a letter?" Ben winced and glanced over the foreman's shoulder. "Why don't you do it, Snow? You know what to say. I ain't much for words." 5

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Obie snorted, earning himself a sideways glare. "What? I'm just agreein' with ya." "I think you ought to go see to your work. You agree with that?" Obie grinned fondly at the man who'd been his boss and his lover for just about a year now. Older than Obie by a good ten years, Ben had a weathered look about him, his green eyes permanently squinted as though he'd spent too long looking into the sun. On the outside he was tough as an old armadillo. Obie figured he was pretty lucky that he got to see the 'dillo's tender belly. Not to mention the other tender parts. "Yes, boss," he said, touching the brim of his hat and sketching a little bow. "Right away, boss." "Get to work, you lazy smartass," Ben ordered, but one side of his mouth turned up. Obie was glad to see a break in the sadness the man had been sunk in ever since they'd found Walter in his bunk that morning. The three men started down the hill to the barn. "You want me to bring down those new mustangs?" Obie asked. "Not yet," Ben decided. "We'll see if there's time before dinner, but I'm gonna carve a marker for Walter first. Porter, you posin' for a statue?" The man in question was standing still, gazing down the road that led up to the spread. He turned his pock-marked face to his boss and jerked his head. "Strangers comin'." Sure enough, two men on horseback were riding up the road. "Huh," Ben murmured as they approached. It wasn't often they got visitors they didn't know. Mostly it was neighbors and regular customers who made the trip out to 6

The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

the ranch, but these men didn't appear to be either. The first was a Negro, tall and thin with a neat beard and moustache, wearing a black hat and a dusty oilskin coat. The other, a white man who looked to be in his late thirties, was handsome and smiling with a mouthful of shiny white teeth. Obie saw that Ben's attention was entirely focused on their horses and had to beat back a smile. The new men dismounted. "Lookin' for the owner," the Negro said. "Found him. Ben Johnson," Ben said, holding out his hand. The man tugged off his glove and shook Ben's hand firmly. "Name's Temper Free," he said. "Fella at the saloon said you might be hirin'." "And I'm James Arcady, from Biloxi, Mississippi." The white man shook Ben's hand too, but he was a little too slow letting go for Obie's taste. And the way his eyes roamed over Ben's lean body made Obie want to put a fist in his smiley damn teeth. Obie edged a little closer to his lover and tried not to growl. For his part, Ben didn't seem to notice the extra attention. He looked over both men and walked past them to their horses, checking their body condition, their tack, their hooves and their teeth. Meantime, Snow introduced himself to the men and asked about their experience. "I spent a year rounding up mustangs in Nevada," Arcady said. "Which spread?" "Jack Hatfield's, up near Lovelock." 7

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"Good outfit," Ben grunted, pulling back the lips on Arcady's bay. "How 'bout you, Mr. Free?" "Haven't worked horses," Free replied. "Worked cattle for a spell. Sheep too." "You know there's a big cattle outfit bordering this spread to the west?" "Yassir. Like to try something different." Finished with his inspection, Ben drew Snow off to the side. Obie smiled tightly at the newcomers while they talked it out. He noticed that Free was looking with interest around the ranch, but Arcady was alternating between watching Ben and meeting Obie's stare with challenging, teasing blue eyes. Let him just try, Obie thought. I'll kick his goddamn head in. "All right," Ben said as he and the foreman returned. "Truth is, Walter had a pretty light workload on account of being an old-timer, so his passing hasn't really left us short. But I been thinkin' on adding a hand anyway. I'll give you both a try through the summer, but I can't make no promises come fall." "Fair enough," Arcady said, still smiling. Free nodded in agreement. "One other thing." Ben let his gaze drop to Arcady's hip, then back up to his face. "Nobody carries guns on this ranch, 'cept for rifles to keep coyotes away. You'll have to give me that pistol you're wearin'. I'll stow it up at the house." Arcady's smile faltered, and for a minute, his pretty blue eyes went flat. His hand went to his gun, and Obie tensed, taking a step forward. Then the smile reappeared. "You're the 8

The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

boss." Arcady tugged the pistol smoothly out of its holster and offered it to Ben, butt first. Obie didn't relax until Ben had taken it without comment. "This way," Snow said, heading for the barn. "You can put up your animals and stow your gear, then I'll show you around the place." "Mr. Free," Ben called as they started to move away. "Walk with me a bit." **** Temper fell into step with his new boss, catching Arcady's suspicious glare out of the corner of his eye. Ain't that interestin'. They strolled away from the barn, down a path that cut between two pastures. Johnson didn't speak until they were well out of earshot of the others. "The Bar J's a funny place," he remarked quietly, squinting into the morning sun. "All kinds of fellas end up here. Some runnin' from the law, some fightin' the bottle. Some of 'em just lookin' for a place to fit in." Johnson chuckled, low and deep. "I heard some folks in town call it the Last Chance Ranch." Temper nodded. "Bartender at the saloon said it ain't for everybody." Actually, the bartender had been pretty damn mysterious about it. "Let's just say a fella's either gotta keep an open mind, or keep his thoughts to hisself. Ben don't judge nobody by the company they keep, and he won't keep on those that do." Temper never could resist a mystery. His mama always said it was a quality that would cause him no amount of trouble, and Lord knew she'd been proven right 9

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many times over the years. He figured one more time couldn't make much difference, one way or the other. He spit in the dirt and leaned on the fence. "I seen how it is with you and the boy. Ain't no concern of mine, if that's what you're askin'." "Wasn't, but good to know. Didn't realize it was out there for everybody to see." Temper snorted, one side of his mouth turning up in a grin. "He was like to take Arcady's head off for lookin' at you too hard." Johnson actually colored a bit, scratching awkwardly at his neck. "Yeah, well. Boy's a little possessive." "Love's like that, I reckon." "Reckon so." They stood and watched the horses for a spell, until Temper broke the silence. "You wanna ask me somethin'?" "Yep. I wouldn't ask in front of the others, but I need to know if you're runnin' from anybody." Temper felt his gut drop and wondered if his disappointment showed on his face. "You mean is some owner gonna come chasin' me down." "Yeah. That's what I mean." Johnson's calm voice only made him madder. "Ain't no man owns me," he spat. "I was born free." He pushed off the fence and turned away. "You ain't the first man don't wanna hire a nigger. Too much trouble, ain't we?" "Mr. Free." The calm voice stopped him in his tracks. "Every hand on this ranch is trouble of some flavor. I've learned to try and suss it out ahead of time, so's to avoid 10

The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

surprises." Temper turned and found those hard green eyes squinting at him. "From this point on, you're under my protection, like every other man here. I just wanna know what to expect." Temper's cheeks burned. He felt a right fool and admitted as much. Johnson didn't seem bothered by his fit of temper. "I guess you've come to expect it. You don't know me, got no reason to hope for better. But I'll tell you the God's honest truth, Mr. Free. I don't give a damn what color you are or what you've done in your past. Work hard, put the horses first, and keep on Snow's good side, and you'll work out fine. And you may want to thicken up that skin o' yours. The other fellas'll hack on you something fierce if you go about all tetchy." "Thanks for the advice. I'll go stow my gear." "One more thing. That other fella, Arcady. How well you know him?" "Not at all," Temper replied. "Just met him at the saloon today. Heard me talking to the bartender about finding work and figured he'd try his luck too." Johnson made a "hmph" noise but didn't ask any more questions. Temper wondered if his boss was getting a funny feeling about the new man. Temper kinda was. He hesitated, but offered, "You want me to keep an eye on him?" "No. That's Snow's job, you just worry about yours. Go on and get settled." "Yassir." Temper touched the brim of his hat and headed to the barn. He'd see that his horse was put up proper before settling himself. 11

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**** The bunkhouse was dark and blessedly cool after the swelter of the late morning sun. Temper paused in the doorway and looked around, taking in the bunks lined along the wall, each with a trunk at its foot. There wasn't a soul in the place except for James Arcady, who looked up from stowing his gear and tossed him a nod. "That one on the end there is empty." Temper made his way down the row to the last bunk on the right and dropped his saddlebags on the bed. Days of hard travel caught up with him in a rush. For a long moment he fought the urge to just pull off his boots and stretch out on the clean blankets, but Lord knew if he lay down now, he wasn't getting up 'til tomorrow morning. And that was no way to start a new job, was it? He pulled his Bible out of a side pocket and then dropped his bags into the footlocker, sending up a cloud of dust as they hit bottom. He paused, cradling the little book in his hands. The durable black cover was worn in spots, and some of the pages were thin and creased from travel and constant handling. Even though it had last touched his mama's hand almost twenty years ago, he swore it still held her scent—strong lye soap and honeysuckle. He raised the Bible to his lips and kissed it before sliding it under his pillow. When he turned around, Arcady was right there in his face. "Boss say anything about me?" He was still smiling, but his eyes were hard and searching. "Just asked how long I knew you." 12

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"Yeah? What'd you tell him?" "Truth." Temper held the man's gaze until his eyes softened, and he backed away. "Well, that's all right, then," he said. His grin widened, and he gave Temper a friendly slap on his shoulder. "Come on, buddy, let's get to work!" Temper followed him out, but not too close. Fella's just not right. The white-haired foreman, Snow, was waiting outside along with a huge mountain of a man. "This here's Lonnie. He'll show you around and get you started." Snow nodded to them and went into the bunkhouse, closing the door behind him. The big man, Lonnie, watched him with sad eyes, then gave himself a visible shake and offered his hand to both new men in turn. "Hey, fellas, welcome aboard. I'm gonna give you a quick tour, then put ya to work. We're a little behind today on account of Walter's funeral. Well, you've seen the bunkhouse, and this here's the barn." Temper thought that was fairly obvious. The biggest building on a horse ranch was bound to be the barn, wasn't it? Especially given how close it was to the bunkhouse. And especially as how it was a goldarned barn. He followed along inside and kept his thoughts behind his teeth. It seemed wise not to sass a man who was six and half feet tall and as broad in the chest as a rain barrel. As expected, the barn contained rows of clean stalls, about half of which were empty. Near the front were a tack room and a work area with shelves of bottles and jars. "This here is where Ben works his magic when the horses fetch up sick. We 13

The Last Chance Ranch by D.G. Parker

do hooves here sometimes too." Lonnie gestured to the stalls. "You fellas will probably be on muckin' duty for awhile. Snow tends to grind the new guys a bit before he lets 'em loose." Temper was okay with that. Hard work never killed nobody, and so far as he was concerned, his job was to do whatever the foreman told him to do. Arcady, however, looked like he'd swallowed a bug. "No offense to my pal, here, Lonnie, but I ain't exactly new at workin' horseflesh." Lonnie had a broad, boyish face that naturally shone out friendship and good cheer, but Temper saw his smile tighten just a bit. "You're new here, friend. Snow won't let you near the horses until he sees what you're made of. Don't worry," he assured, leading them back out of the barn, "if you're as good as you think you are, it won't take long." Arcady still didn't look happy but had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Back out in the sun, Lonnie shaded his eyes and pointed to various fenced-in areas. "Holding pen. That's where we put the horses we're gonna work with for the day, once we drive 'em down. We're not working any today so far, since the day's all thrown off. North pasture, south pasture, and that one there is the big pasture. I know, it ought to be called the east pasture, but I didn't name it, and it's always been that way. Oh, see that big, black stallion in the south pasture? Keep your distance from that bastard. The only one who rides him is the boss. He'll kick or bite anybody else that goes near him." Temper eyed the huge horse warily and mentally agreed to stay clear. He figured Arcady was probably thinkin' he'd just jump right on and go for a trot. 14

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"Up there's the main house. Boss lives there. Obie stays there too, most nights. We all go up for Sunday dinner and special occasions." "What's that small house behind it?" Arcady asked. "Normally, it's the foreman's place," Lonnie explained. "Only, Snow gave it up and moved into the bunkhouse last summer." "So who lives there now?" The big man looked sheepish. "Well, I do. Since me and Juanita got married. It was sort of a weddin' present. We were meant to build Snow a new place, but we're havin' trouble getting the lumber. Anyways, you'll meet Juanita soon, when she brings supper on down from the house. She's a damn fine cook, best fried chicken in the state." **** By the time the bell summoned them to dinner, Temper felt he'd gotten a pretty good idea of the lay of the land. It was a nice ranch, though smaller than some he'd worked on, and so far as he could tell, the animals were all top quality. The buildings and fences were in good shape, though he'd seen a few less-than-pretty repairs. Temper chalked them up to Lonnie's comment about not being able to source the wood and wondered again why that was, what with a mill so close by. He and Arcady had met a few of the hands, but the rest were only now coming in from the far pastures and lining up at the pump to wash up before supper. Arcady headed for the bunkhouse, set on changing into a clean shirt for some damn 15

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fool reason, while Temper took a place at the trundle table set up outside. Lonnie settled in next to him, making the wooden bench groan, and introduced him to each hand as he arrived. "This here's Porter; he's a grumpy bastard that don't talk much." Temper nodded a greeting to the tall, lean man with the pock-marked face, who returned the gesture. He must have been used to Lonnie's sass and didn't pay him any mind. A young man on the lean side of thirty, his shirt sleeves damp and rolled up to his elbows, sat down across the table. "And that's Larry," Lonnie said, "the only one 'round here that talks less than Porter." The man in question pushed his long brown hair out of his face, revealing a neat beard and moustache. He offered a shy smile. Temper couldn't help but smile back. He met them all: Miguel, the young Mexican with the friendly grin and the missing front tooth, the surly Go to Hell Mel, whose catch phrase made an appearance within ten seconds of his arrival at the table, Billy and Dave, Everett and Dexter. All of them had a friendly greeting for the new man and immediately set to horseplay. Temper was already getting a good feeling about this bunch. And then Arcady sauntered out of the bunkhouse, and Lonnie started his introductions all over again. Temper wasn't paying him any mind, though. His focus was on the young man sitting across from him, the one called Larry. All the blood had drained from his face, leaving him whiter than tallow. He looked like he might bolt or puke or both, and his wide brown eyes were fixed on James Arcady. [Back to Table of Contents] 16

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Chapter 2 Lonnie, who Temper'd already pegged as kind but a bit clueless, carried on naming and insulting the men and never noticed Larry's distress. Arcady though, had. He grinned and nodded to each man as he was introduced, but his smile was fixed, and his hard, glittering eyes kept returning to Larry. It wasn't until the boss, in the company of his young man, came to the table that Arcady shifted his focus, once again looking Johnson over like a starving coyote. Playing with fire, Temper thought as Obie's brow drew down. Boy's a spitfire, and no mistake. "Joinin' us for dinner, boss?" Lonnie called. Johnson didn't answer, just held up a bottle. The hands quit their joking and reached for their mugs, solemnly holding them up. Johnson walked around the table, pouring a small measure for each. Once he'd gone full circle, he looked out over the men and took a minute to compose his thoughts. "Walter was here with us for longer than just about anybody, 'cept Snow. We almost didn't hire him, on account of he was a drunk. Robert and me fought somethin' fierce over it. Lucky for me, he won." Johnson grinned and the men chuckled. Temper glanced around, fairly certain that no one he'd been introduced to was named Robert, and decided he'd ask later. "That first day, old Walter looked me in the eye and swore he'd never touch a drop as long as I kept him on. Well, he was good as his word, and he turned out to be a hell of a 17

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good hand." He raised his mug, and the others followed suit. "To Walter. We'll miss you, old man." "Walter," the men murmured. Temper toasted with the rest but put his mug down untouched. Lonnie nudged him, a tiny twitch of his elbow that nearly knocked Temper off the bench. "What's wrong? You ain't gotta worry, boss buys good whiskey." "I don't drink," Temper said, rubbing his side. Lonnie blinked at him. "You don't drink?" "Nope." "Not even beer?" "Nope." "You like Walter, then? Up and quit?" "Nope, never tried." Half the table was looking at him now, like he was some strange new creature deserving of study. Temper was used to it. They were distracted by the arrival of the chuck wagon, rattling its way down the rutted path from the main house. A short, plump Mexican woman climbed down from the seat, a little girl of about five clambering after her. Lonnie's face went soft and goofy, and Temper knew he was gazing at the exalted Juanita. To Temper's eyes, she was a hard, grimlooking woman, but her husband clearly thought the sun shone in her smile and roses bloomed in her cheeks. While her mother started unloading covered dishes from the back of the wagon, the little girl ran around the table and stood on tiptoe to give Lonnie a kiss on the cheek. "Papa, guess what? 18

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We made cherry pie for dessert, and I got to pick the cherries." "Did you? I can't wait to have some." "Dinner first," she ordered primly, skipping back to help her mother. Lonnie turned to Temper, his grin so wide his face could barely contain it. "That's my little girl, Rosie. Ain't she a peach?" "She's a cutie," Temper answered truthfully. He glanced over at Larry, who seemed to have recovered a bit. He'd regained his color and was putting food on his plate, but Temper didn't miss the way he kept shooting nervous looks down the table at Arcady. For his part, Arcady seemed to have lost interest. He was busy chatting with the other hands like they were all old buddies. Temper found he was a tiny bit jealous at the way the man seemed to just fit in wherever he went, where Temper was slow to make friends. It took more than a good meal for him to open himself up to any man, as he was more inclined to keep to himself. Made for a lonely existence sometimes, but as his mama used to say, those were his stripes and not like he could change them. Regardless of Juanita's looks, Temper had to agree she was one heck of a cook. Stuffed full of fried chicken, buttered ears of corn, turnip greens, and fresh bread, he tried to pass up dessert, but Rosie gave him such a pleading look, he broke down and had a little sliver of very good pie. When the last morsel had been consumed, all the hands helped pile the tins and plates back onto the wagon, and Juanita and the girl 19

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drove away. The men dispersed, some to the barn to close up for the night, others to smoke in a little area far from the barn and its flammable supply of hay. Uncomfortably full from dinner, Temper took himself off for a stroll. The sun was just sinking below the horizon, staining the sky orange and casting the ranch in deep shadows. He wandered wherever his feet took him, soothed by the sounds of the ranch bedding down for the night. Horses whickered softly, calling to each other in the dusk. A coyote howled, but it was far, far off, its solitary voice carrying miles through the still evening. Even the men were speaking in low voices, Temper noted as his walk took him back around to the barn. It was a specific voice, low and urgent, that made him frown and detour 'round back. In the last of the light, he could just make out Arcady, leaning in close to another man he had backed up against the barn. Temper couldn't make out the words, but the low, tense tone of them made his hackles rise. Mind your business, Temper Free. Don't you go pokin' your nose in other folks' business. No good ever comes of meddling. It wasn't often he ignored his mama's advice, but he had a bad feeling that wasn't going to go away until he checked things out. Still, he was no skulker. He walked up to the two men, bold as brass, scuffing his boots in the dirt. "Evening, gentlemen." Once again, he saw that flash of something just not right in Arcady's face, before the smile fell into place. It was like the show he'd seen once in Kansas City, Temper thought absently, when the heavy, red curtain dropped across the 20

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stage. Pretty but bland, hiding all the really interesting stuff. He had a feeling whatever James Arcady was hiding, it wasn't dancing girls. "Well, evenin' there, Mr. Free." Arcady gave him a friendly nod, leaning one shoulder casually against the wall. "Out for a stroll this fine evening?" Temper nodded. He wasn't surprised to find that the second man was Larry, looking wild-eyed like a hunted rabbit. "Biggest meal I've had in some time. Do y'all eat that way every night?" He directed his question to Larry, who ran a hand through his hair and nodded without ever taking his eyes off Arcady. Temper was beginning to wonder if the man spoke at all. "Gettin' late," Arcady observed. "You 'bout ready to turn in?" His eyes were fixed on Temper, but he himself made no move to retire. And he was casually blocking Larry's retreat with his body. Temper knew right then and there he wasn't about to leave these two men alone if he could help it. Before he could figure it, though, another voice sounded in the growing dark. "I suggest you all turn in," the foreman called. He stood with arms crossed, at the corner of the barn, but the shadows hid his face. "We start work early around here." Larry wasted no time in ducking away and walking swiftly past the foreman. Arcady was a little slower to comply, ambling past Temper with his damn phony smile. "Good advice, boss. Time to hit the hay." Temper watched him go without a word. Though he couldn't see for sure, he could feel Snow watching him. For a 21

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minute, he considered talking to the foreman about Arcady but decided against it. What could he really say? That the man gave him a bad feeling? He knew next to nothing about Arcady, and he truly hadn't seen him do a thing out of line. No, Temper thought as he nodded to Snow and took himself to bed. Best to heed Johnson's words and mind his own work, leave the other hands to the foreman. But Temper would continue to keep his eyes and ears open, all the same. **** Obie gripped his lover's hips and thrust. Probably should have used more oil He and Ben certainly went at it often enough to not need a whole lot of preparation, but with the sort of hard fucking he was giving his lover tonight, a little bit of lubricant was only polite. Only thing was, he wanted it to hurt, at least a little, and didn't that just make him six kinds of bastard? He wanted Ben to feel him every time he moved, every time he sat a horse, for days after this. God, the thought made his cock jump like a jackrabbit. He leaned across his lover's broad back, hooked his hands under his shoulders for leverage and rammed himself in, over and over. Ben was making low grunts every time he shoved in, and part of Obie's mind recognized they were more pain than passion, but he couldn't seem to stop. "Mine," he snarled and sank his teeth into Ben's sweatstreaked shoulder. That earned him a hiss from his lover and a reflexive tightening of the muscles that held him so snugly. Obie groaned and mashed his forehead into the thick muscle 22

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of Ben's back, rutting almost helplessly. He held on like Ben was a wild horse that might buck him off at any time, and suddenly he just couldn't resist giving him the spurs. When he brought the flat of his hand down on Ben's firm ass, the older man actually yelped. Obie chuckled at the indignant noise—Lord, but he was gonna pay for that later. He felt his finish approaching and pulled out, holding Ben down with one hand and working his cock with the other. With a shudder and a drawn-out groan, he spilled on that broad back, jet after jet, until he was spent. Still not satisfied, Obie ran his hands through the mess, rubbing his seed deep into his lover's skin. Everyone who came near Ben Johnson tomorrow was going to smell Obie on him, see his marks and know who he belonged to. And that included goddamned James Arcady. "Feel better?" Ben asked as Obie crawled up to lay beside him. "I do, actually." Ben turned gingerly over onto his back, revealing a nicely erect cock. Obie reached for it only to have his hand turned aside. "No thanks," Ben said firmly. "You're a mite violent tonight. Don't think I want you pulling on my johnson. Besides," he added, pulling himself up. "I ain't quite ready yet." And just that quick, Ben snatched Obie's arm and pulled him face down across his lap. "Now. I seem to recall that somebody got a bit big for his britches there a coupla minutes ago." He brought his hand down hard on Obie's backside, ignoring the younger man's laughing and squirming. Ben landed a few more smacks for good measure. 23

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Obie could feel his partner's hardness, felt it throb with each slap he delivered. "You're enjoying this a bit too much, you old pervert. Ow! That stung, damn you." Finally Ben let him up, laughing and looking way too smug for Obie's tastes. And speaking of taste.... Obie swallowed his lover right down to the root and was rewarded with a pleased groan. Ben was close, so it was only a few minute's work to make him pop. Licking his lips, Obie climbed up until he was straddling the other man's lap. Drawing patterns on his sweating, heaving chest, Obie ventured, "That Arcady's gonna be trouble." "Oh Lord." Ben rolled his eyes and reached for a tin mug of water on the nightstand. "Just 'cause you're jealous—" "I ain't jealous!" "That why you're spraying all over this room like a tomcat?" Obie pouted a bit but had to give in. "Maybe I am, then. Still...." "Still what? You being jealous don't make him a bad hand or a bad man." "Yeah? Well, just 'cause I'm jealous don't mean I'm wrong, neither." Ben laughed outright this time, nearly jostling Obie from his perch. "Obediah. The man's been here less than one full day, and you're fixin' to pack him off already." "I don't like him," Obie said, all teasing gone. "You mark my words, Ben, that man is trouble. If you trust me at all, you'll tell him to move on in the morning." 24

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Ben regarded him with that thoughtful frown, and Obie dared hope the man would take him seriously. "I trust you," Ben finally said. "I guess you don't trust me, though." "What? You know I do." "I've been runnin' this ranch for more than ten years now. If Arcady ends up bein' a problem, you need to trust that I'll take care of it." Seeing that Obie was genuinely worried and not just throwing a fit, Ben softened his voice and ran the backs of his fingers over Obie's jaw. "Snow's gonna keep a close eye on both them new fellas, you know that. He'll keep 'em on a short leash and let us know if he sees any problems. Trust me," he urged. "Trust Snow. And keep your eyes open. If Arcady actually does something queer, you let me know. All right?" Obie chewed his lip, still not entirely happy. "And then I get to say 'I told you so'?" "Many times as you want. Course, you say it too much, I might take it into my head to tan your backside again." "Careful, old man. Don't go makin' promises you ain't up to keepin'." "I'll show you who's an old man," Ben grumbled. They quit talking for awhile. **** In the morning, the foreman set the two new hands to mucking out stalls while the others went about their chores. Temper stripped off his shirt and took up the pitchfork without comment. His time belonged to Ben Johnson now, and however the boss wanted to spend it, that was okay with 25

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Temper. Work was work, and he got paid no matter what he spent his day doing. Arcady didn't seem quite so content, grumbling about having to do manual labor when he was so obviously a highly skilled horse master. He never complained when the foreman was close enough to hear, but Temper didn't seem to count. People tended to forget he was around sometimes. They were halfway done and taking a water break when Arcady deigned to speak to him. "I guess you're wonderin' what it was you saw behind the barn last night." Temper had found over the years that he learned more by acting like he didn't care than most folks did by asking. "Not my concern if you fellas have history." "History?" Arcady mused. "Yeah, guess you could say that. I saved his life, back when he was just a sprout." "That so." "Oh, terrible thing. His folks were settlers, had a little farmstead up around Ogallala. Sioux butchered the whole family, parents and a little girl. I was riding with lawmen back in those days, not hardly full grown myself." Arcady shook his head and blew out a long breath. "They butchered those people and burned the house down around them. Long as I live, I'll never forget that God-awful smell." He gave himself a little shake, and Temper could tell the memory still genuinely bothered him. "Anyway, we found the boy hidin' out in the corn, bloodied up and scared stiff. Couldn't have been but ten or twelve. He had no people left, nowhere to go, so I let him tag around with me. Two years we rode together, takin' work 26

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where we found it. One night, he just up and left. Always wondered what happened to him." "He talk any back then?" "Not one word, not in all the time I knew him. Damn, but it's good to see he's doin' all right by himself. Seems happy enough, if a mite nervous." Arcady shook his head, his gaze far away. "What were the chances of us runnin' into each other again, this far from Nebraska? It's a damn miracle, is what it is." Temper had to admit the odds were pretty small, but he stopped short of calling it a miracle. He had the feeling he wasn't getting the whole story. "He didn't seem too happy to see you." "Guess I remind him of things he'd just as soon forget." That made sense. Everything about Arcady made sense, once he explained it. But that didn't stop Temper from getting a funny feeling about the man, like someone was walking over his grave. "Maybe," he said slowly, still reluctant to involve himself, "maybe it would be a kindness if you gave the man his space. On account of his being so nervous." There it was again—for just a second, that dark look flashed across Arcady's face before the smile took over. "Reckon you're right. Poor fella's been through enough without me draggin' it all back up for him. I was just surprised to see him, is all. Might have come on a bit strong." "Understandable," Temper agreed. "Now you know, you can do right by him." The smile froze on Arcady's face, and the hateful look appeared again, this time for more than a flash. Temper met 27

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it without blinking, knowing he was sending a message. I'll be watching you, Arcady. Mind yourself. It seemed Mama was right. He just couldn't help himself from meddling. The work went fast once Arcady shut the hell up and put his back into it. Temper put the pitchforks away and spent a few minutes straightening up the tool room. When he came out, Arcady was reclined on a bale of hay rolling himself a cigarette. "Best not smoke in here," Temper advised. Arcady snorted and licked the paper, rolling it between his fingers to firm it up. "You get promoted to foreman since yesterday? 'Cause I sure don't recall signin' up to take orders from you." Temper glanced around. The air was full of straw bits twisting in the sunbeams, and he'd heard tell of whole barns going up from that. "Don't be a damn fool. You wanna burn down the barn on your first day of work?" Arcady passed the cigarette from hand to hand, looking speculatively at Temper. "Think you could stop me?" Temper's surprise must have shown on his face, because the other man sat forward with an eager look. "Really. You think you could take me? One on one, man to man, fair fight?" "You always talk such foolishness?" Despite himself, Temper realized he was sizing the man up. Arcady had several inches on him and was broad and solidly muscled, where Temper was lean and sinewy. He might be able to take Arcady, he decided, but he really hoped he wouldn't ever have to try. 28

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"You're thinkin' about it, ain't ya?" Arcady rose and walked slowly toward him, a sly grin on his face. "Right now, you're thinkin', wonderin' if you're up to it." He looked almost gleeful, like he was anticipating the fight. Temper felt his muscles tense, his heart beat a little faster in response. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 3 "You fellas run out of work already?" Snow stood in the doorway, his pale blue eyes taking in every detail from the clean stalls to the posture of his two newest hands. "I know you weren't gonna light up that smoke in here." "Naw," Arcady said, tucking the cigarette in his shirt pocket. "It's for later." "Good thinkin'." Snow moved to one side of the door and jerked his head. "I just bet I can find something for you two to do. Seein' as how you got time to stand around and all." Temper, annoyed that he'd let Arcady show him in a bad light in front of his new foreman, followed him outside, the other man trailing behind. Snow crossed his arms and gave them both a hard stare. "There are rules at the Bar J, gentlemen. No smoking in the barn or anywhere near the hay stores. No drinking on the job. Don't do anything to put the horses at risk. And no fightin'. Now, I'm not sayin' everybody gets along all the time. Hell, Billy and Dex beat the hell out of each other every Saturday night behind the saloon. But don't do it here. If I find out—and I always find out—you'll be gone. Understand?" "Yassir." "Got it, boss." "Good. Mr. Arcady, saddle up and meet the feed wagon up top of the big pasture. You know which one that is? Good. Mr. Free, you're with me." 30

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Glad to see the back of Arcady, at least for awhile, Temper followed the foreman around the side of the barn. Snow pulled back a corner of an oilskin tarp, revealing a pitifully small stack of planks. "That is all the lumber we got, Mr. Free, and all we're likely to get for some time to come." "Why is that, if'n you don't mind me askin'? I seen that big mill when I rode into town." Snow spat in the dirt. "That mill is owned by a Dutchman with a head like a rock, is why. Arne de Groot is his name. Last year, some of those roughnecks he hired ganged up on Ben in town and beat the hell out of him. The whole group ended up in jail." "And he blames Ben for that?" Snow shrugged. "He never liked Ben, not since he's came to town. Used to be he'd take Ben's money even if he wouldn't shake his hand. After the fight, well, he won't sell to us no more. And so, Mr. Free, we are hoarding lumber and making do without wherever possible. Today, you and I are gonna improvise a fence repair." "Good at that, boss. We used to be sharecroppers when I was a youngun. We learned real quick to make the best of what we had." "That's what I want to hear. Let's go and have us a look at that corral." **** If he spent the rest of his life at the Bar J Ranch, Obie would never get over the sight of Ben bending a wild horse to his will, and he knew the other hands were just as fascinated. 31

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He wondered if any of the others were feeling like their britches were too tight. The yearling finally quit cow-kicking and settled into a restless trot around the corral, Ben talking to it in low, reassuring tones. Just as everyone started to relax, the top board of the fence snapped with a crack like rifle fire. Obie and Lonnie, who'd been sitting on it, went spilling to the ground in a tangle. Startled by the noise, the yearling bucked wildly. Ben, who wasn't often caught by surprise, was totally unprepared and went flying, landing on the hard-packed dirt with a thud and a whoosh of expelled breath. Larry vaulted over the men and the busted fence and caught up the trailing reins, bringing the horse under control before it had a chance to trample Ben. The boss himself was a mite slow to get up, dusting off his britches and rubbing at a sore hip. "Goddamnit," he snarled, limping over to inspect the busted fence. The wood had clearly given way under plain old rot and wear, and Obie wasn't sure they had a board to replace it. He knew it was worry driving Ben's unusually angry response—worry and frustration and just a little bit of embarrassment. It had been a while since a horse had put him on his backside, and that had to sting in more ways than one. "Lonnie," Ben barked, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed until it seemed he could hardly see a thing, "saddle the Bastard. I'm gonna go see Arne de Groot and knock some sense into that thick, Dutch head of his if I have to use a hammer. Unsaddle that yearling, and put him back in the holding corral," he told Larry as he retrieved his tan hat, beat it back into shape, and jammed it on his head. 32

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The men scattered to do his bidding, unwilling to have that temper turned on them. Before Obie had a chance to ask if he was all right, Porter and Miguel rode up in a cloud of dust. "Folks coming, boss," Miguel called in his familiar lisp. "One on horse, bunch more by foot." "Lord, what now?" Obie heard his lover grumble. "Army?" It wouldn't be the first time a regiment stopped to buy horses on their way to Fort Union or Fort Craig, but that hadn't happened much since the rebels got pushed back at Apache Canyon. Porter shook his head, his face a lean, scarred shadow under the black brim of his hat. "Not regular army, anyway." "Unless they brought some goddamn lumber with them, their timin' could be better. All right, you two stay close, might need you to cut a few out of the herd if these folks are buyin'." With most of them traveling on foot, it took a few minutes before the visitors came into view. Leading the pack was a stiff-backed man with dark skin and a long, black moustache that curled up at the ends. He was wearing a union army jacket that had seen better days and obviously been cast off by someone with a much larger frame. A dusty cap was perched on his close-cropped hair. Obie glanced at Ben, knowing from the disapproving look on his face that his lover had already registered the slow, swaybacked mare on which the new man rode, as well as the short leather crop in his fist. The men who straggled behind him were a motley crew, dirty and shabbily dressed. They were underfed and undisciplined, wandering behind the man on horseback almost 33

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as if they had simply fallen in with him by accident. A few of them didn't even have shoes on their feet. Unless Obie missed his guess, the men on foot were all Mexicans. The leader drew up his horse and looked down at them with dark, watchful eyes. "I am Captain Alejandro Vargas of the New Mexico Volunteers. These are my men." Ben nodded. "Howdy," he offered, but Obie noticed that his body language was stiff and closed. If the captain noticed, he gave no sign. "We are heading to Fort Union for advanced training. From there we will battle the Confederates. We invite you and your men to join us in this honorable fight." Obie felt his eyebrow rise. He was glad Ben was in charge, because Obie himself had no idea what to say to that. "I reckon you fellas are a little late to the party," Ben drawled. "Confederate army pulled out of this territory last year. You boys are more likely to be sent after Navajo and Apache than rebels." Some of the "volunteers" started murmuring. Vargas twisted in the saddle and barked a few words to them in Spanish, and they fell quiet. The captain scowled and turned his attention back to Ben. "It may be you are right, senor," he conceded, dipping his head. "But my men and I will serve with honor, whoever the foe." Ben nodded. "I salute you and your brave men. How can I help you?" Obie found he was growing annoyed with the captain. He was the only one in this conversation on horseback, and the polite thing to do would be to dismount and talk face to face. 34

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He was obviously thinking the greater height would intimidate them. Obviously, he didn't know Ben Johnson. "As you can see, my men have very little. They need horses for the long journey. I, myself, need a new mount deserving of my rank." "We sell horses to the army all the time." Ben's face gave little away, but he stressed the word "sell" ever so slightly. "Happy to do business with you." At that moment, Lonnie cautiously led the big black stallion they all called the Bastard out of the barn. Obie saw the captain's eyes light up with avarice. "That is a magnificent animal." "He's not for sale." Ben's tone left no room for argument. "Every animal on this ranch is top quality. I'm sure you'll find some to your liking." The captain stared down at him, his head held high. "We will take thirty of your finest horses for my men. We will also need pack animals." Ben narrowed his eyes and spat in the dirt. "And how will you be paying for all that, Capitan?" "Paying?" The captain smiled, revealing a mouthful of black, rotten teeth, then turned and said something to his men that caused them to laugh. "The army will pay you, senor." "Army pays in silver on the spot," Ben answered. "Unless you have silver in them saddlebags, I'm afraid I can't help you." Vargas's smile froze and twisted into something darker. All the hair stood up on the back of Obie's neck, and his muscles 35

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tensed. The captain finally dismounted, walking slowly and stiffly in Ben's direction. "Senor, I am doing the work of the US government," he intoned, fixing his glittering black eyes on Ben's face. "I have the authority to seize whatever I need to fulfill my duty. Today, I am seizing your horses. And I'm going to start with that stallion." Obie took a step forward, fists clenched. "Like hell you are," he growled. He could see Larry out of the corner of his eye, tense and ready for a fight. Porter, the only one still in the saddle, loosed the strap that held his rifle in its saddle holster. Ben stilled them all with a gesture. "You heard the man, Lonnie," he said mildly. "He wants the stallion. Let him have it." The big man's eyebrows rose in shock, then he quirked a wry grin and held out the reins. Behind him, the Bastard snorted and pawed the ground, moving his tail in sharp, quick flicks. For a second, Obie almost felt sorry for the captain, until he remembered the man was little better than a horse thief. Vargas smirked in triumph and sketched a mocking little salute to Ben. The Bastard let him get one foot in the stirrup before rounding on him and sinking his teeth into the captain's thigh. The man screamed and fell to the ground but had no time to recover, having to scramble out of the way of flashing hooves. The horse then walked calmly to Ben, trailing his reins, and nudged him with his big, blunt head. Ben patted his nose with a chuckle. "Don't think he likes you." The Bar J hands were snickering, and they weren't alone. Vargas's troops were laughing at him too. The captain snarled 36

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and climbed painfully to his feet, his face flushed with fury. Between one second and the next, he pulled his pistol and pointed it at the stallion. Ben was in his face in a heartbeat, clutching the captain's wrist in a white-knuckled grip and forcing the barrel of the gun straight up. "You harm that animal, it'll be the last thing you do, Mister." Obie got a shiver. In a year of working for the man, living in his house and sharing his bed, he'd never heard Ben use that tone of voice. If the situation weren't so damn scary, he'd have found it sexy as hell. The foot soldiers were getting agitated, muttering and shuffling. They stopped moving when Porter cocked his rifle. Ben and Vargas were still locked in place, staring at each other. "I think you better be on your way, Captain. My horse don't like you. I don't like you, and that fella with the rifle? He really don't like you. Take your men and get off this property, before I show you what we do with horse thieves around these parts." The captain grit his teeth and pulled his arm loose. Ben watched him, stony-faced, flanked by Obie on one side and Lonnie on the other. Vargas's eyes flicked to Porter, who twitched the barrel of the rifle toward the road. "Cabron," he hissed, bending to pick up his crop. The Bastard lashed out with his teeth, narrowly missing out on a mouthful of the captain's backside. Vargas jumped back, and Obie figured he was more afraid of the horse than he was of Porter's rifle. With one last look at Ben, Vargas mounted his nag and took 37

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off down the road at a trot, his men running to catch up with him. "Porter, make sure our guests leave." The lean man nodded and nudged his horse, guiding it with one hand and keeping the rifle steady with the other. "That's quite enough from you," Ben chastised as the big stallion nudged him again, hard enough to knock him back a step. "Ill-behaved beast that you are." "Boss, I heard about that guy," Miguel said. "He hijo de puta. His mother was a whore in Santa Fe. He tells everyone his father was a great bandido, but no one really believes him. He un hombre malo, though." "Hmm. Well, he don't look strong, and God knows he ain't smart." "He mean, boss. Sneaky mean." "I believe he is at that, Miguel. We'll have to keep an eye on him. You figure those men of his know what they're signing on for?" "No, boss. They speak no English, probably. Just know what he tells them." "I figured. Think you can trail along at the back of the pack, maybe have a word with a few of them fellas? Make sure they know they'll be going up against Apache, not Johnny Reb." "I tell them, boss, but it make no difference, probably. If that captain tells them they get food and money, they follow him. Got nothing else."

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Ben shook his head. "Damn shame. Tell them the cattle ranch is hiring, the sheep spread too, I think. If nothin' else, at least you can tell them to watch their scalps." "Will do, boss." Obie managed to talk Ben into postponing his trip to the mill, reasoning it wasn't the best time for him to be riding out and about on his own. Ben wasn't happy, but the whispered offer to rub his back and kiss his bruises won him over. Miguel came back around nightfall, feeling hopeful he'd gotten through to at least a few of Vargas's men. A few days later they learned that more than half of the captain's volunteers had deserted, slipping away like shadows in the night. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 4 Temper settled quickly into life on the Bar J Ranch. Of course, settling in wasn't usually a problem for him. It was the staying that was hard. He hadn't been terribly impressed when he'd first ridden into Sugar Falls, a dusty little one-street town in the middle of nowhere. At first glance, it was no better or worse than the hundred towns just like it he'd passed through since leaving Denver, driven by the old wanderlust to see what was down that road, over that mountain, across that desert. He'd been traveling the country, at least the parts that were more or less safe for his kind, for going on three years now. He'd seen a lot of things, and a few of 'em were downright amazing, met some fine folks and some that were of no account at all. He'd herded cattle and sheep, worked the railroad, farmed some, even stayed with the Arapaho for a few months, up Wyoming way. All it had gotten him was tired and kinda lonely. Somewhere along the way though, the nature of his rambling had changed. More and more, what drove him from town to town wasn't the old wish for adventure. It was the hope that maybe this time he'd find a place where he could settle down and rest for a spell. Sugar Falls hadn't looked too promising, but Temper had long ago learned to resist judging places—or people—too harshly on first looks. He liked the ranch, and he liked the people, but he was afraid to get his hopes up. He'd been content in other places, 40

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but it never seemed to take for good, and after a spell, he'd always end up moving on. Now, shirtless and sweating in the stuffy barn, he continued forking out dirty hay and horse shit and decided it was a little too soon to tell. He'd been mucking stalls for four days now, and he had it down to a system. And lucky for him he did, as Arcady had taken to skiving off after the first day. Oh, he was never so far away that he couldn't grab a fork and look busy when the foreman was around, but he made it clear that the work was beneath him. Unspoken but just as clear, was his opinion that Temper was plenty suited to cleaning up manure. Temper supposed he could have complained about it, but it really wasn't in his nature. He couldn't control Arcady's actions or make him do the right thing. He could only account for himself as best he could and trust that his mama had been right when she used to tell him "the truth will out." So he worked, doing whatever job was assigned to him efficiently and without complaint, and left it to the foreman to worry about James Arcady. He finished with the stalls and took a moment to straighten the barn, as had become his habit. Arcady, who'd started the morning reclining on a bale of hay, had stretched and announced he was going for a piss hours ago, and Temper hadn't seen him since. Temper took the pitchforks back to the tool room and exchanged them for a hammer and a sack of nails. He'd noticed a loose board on one of the stalls and thought he'd better take care of it while the wood was still salvageable. He was knocking a few nails in and thinking about the lumber 41

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problem when Snow came in to find him. The foreman surveyed the clean stalls and ran an approving eye over his repair job. "All right there, Mr. Free. Obie's taking the wagon to the north pasture to patch up the fencing as best he can. Why don't you go with and lend a hand." "Yassir," Temper agreed, returning to the tool room for a few more necessities. When he came out, Snow was gone, so he left the barn and walked to the waiting wagon. Dumping his tools in the back, he climbed up next to the boss's young man, who favored him with a grin. "Howdy there, Temper." With a quick slap of the reins, Obie sent the cart horses on their way. "Fine day today, ain't it?" "Reckon so." The cart bumped and bounced its way over the rutted road that led due north, bisecting the ranch. Smaller paths branched off to the left and right, leading to the other pastures, corrals and runs. One path led to an unfenced patch of land overgrown with brush, trees, and saw grass. Temper was curious enough to ask whether it was part of the Bar J. "Sure is," Obie replied. "Ben's always planned on expanding the ranch, but he don't ever get around to it. Changes his mind every week as to what he wants to use that tract for. One day it's sheep, next it's for planting. Last I knew, he was thinking of a second stable and more corrals." "He's put together a nice spread here." Temper had already figured out that, like Lonnie, Obie Watson was a talker who just needed a little nudge to warm up. Temper 42

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would likely get all his questions answered without having to ask a single one. "Built it from the ground up," the young man answered. "Him and his partner came out here from Kentucky with hardly a penny between them, oh, almost fifteen years ago now." "Partner?" "Robert was his name. Robert Barnes. That's the Bar in the name, and J for Ben Johnson." Temper was careful not to sound too interested. "They were together a long time, then?" He wasn't sure what kind of response he'd get, but Obie didn't seem to be jealous of his man's old love. "Ten years, 'til Robert died of the influenza. That was four years ago, give or take, or so Snow tells me. Ben don't really talk about him. Sometimes though, I find him standing alone in that little graveyard up by the house, just staring at Robert's marker. I guess it still pains him, after all this time." "Must be hard for you, knowin' that." "Did hurt a bit, at first, but I've got pretty good at reading him. No choice, God knows the bastard don't actually talk about anything. I know how he feels, about Robert and about me. And I guess a man's entitled to feel sadness sometimes for what he's lost, even if he's found something else." Temper turned his head to study the young man, with his wavy, brown hair, soft eyes like a calf's, and tanned, unlined face. Lord, he was young, but there was a wisdom to him, one that Temper guessed was hard-earned. "I reckon you're 43

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right," he said. "Ben's lucky. A man is fortunate to be loved that well once in his life, and he's been doubly blessed." Obie actually blushed a bit. "I'm the lucky one. I drifted all over before I ended up here, gambling and getting myself in all manner of hot water. Found a home and a family all in one go. And then I almost wasn't smart enough to hold on to it." He brought the wagon to a halt. "And here's something else you should know, Temper. I believe Snow sent you up here with me, hopin' I'd learn a thing or two from you." Temper was surprised and his face showed it. "Thought I was here to help you." Snorting, Obie jumped down and grabbed a hammer from the wagon bed. "Help me figure out which end of this thing to hold, more like it. See, I've only been here a year myself, and came here not knowin' a damn thing about ranching. I guess Snow figures since they look to be stuck with me for awhile, they might as well train me up." Temper couldn't help but return the boy's sunny grin. Obie inhabited the ranch with such ease and comfort. He seemed like a veteran hand. Temper decided it was his comfort with Ben, bleeding over into everything else, that made him seem so at home. "I reckon I got a few things I can show you. First off, them nails? The pointy end goes on the wood, and you hit the flat part with the hammer. That's that thing you got in your hand, there." Obie burst out laughing. "I knew it," he cackled. "Soon as I saw you, I knew. All quiet and polite, but give you half a chance and you're crackin' wise. You're gonna fit in just fine around here." 44

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"I don't know," Temper admitted as they wrestled a rotten plank from the fence. "I like it just fine, but other fellas tend to find me kinda odd, on account of my not drinkin'." "In case you hadn't noticed, everyone here's a little odd. Either they don't talk, or don't listen, or got a bad temper, or got no temper, or fight too much, or screw too much.... And speakin' from personal experience, I'd rather be around a fella that don't drink than one that drinks all the time." Temper was careful not to look at the man. "Your daddy?" "Yup. Mean old bastard, used to get stone drunk and whup on me every day. When he finally died, I rode away from that damned old farm and never looked back." Between them, they slid one of the ranch's precious planks of wood out of the wagon and braced it in place. Temper watched as Obie pegged a nail and gave it an off-centered knock. "Who in the world taught you to use a hammer? You wanna hold it at the end, not in the middle. You'll hit with more power that way." Obie changed his grip and swung the hammer, missing the nail completely. Shaking his head, Temper smiled and gestured for him to try again. While the younger man drove the nails, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration, Temper came to a quick decision. "My daddy was a drunk too. That's why I don't drink. I made a promise to my mama." "That's nice, Temper, real nice." Obie finished nailing his side and passed the hammer to Temper, watching with envy as he pounded in three nails with quick, forceful swings. 45

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"Look here, if you'd rather not go into town tonight, you can stay behind, keep an eye on things here." It was Saturday, and Temper had heard some of the others making plans for the weekly journey into town. Most of those plans included drinking and whoring, neither of which held much interest for him. He considered Obie's offer, but the chance to see more of the town, not to mention learn more about his fellow hands, was too good to pass up. "That's all right, Obie. I'd like to go." "Well, all right then. Don't let them fellas hack on you too bad." Temper couldn't help but grin. It was kind of the young man to worry so, if unnecessary. His eyes strayed back to the overgrown field on the other side of the fence. "You know, I'm thinkin' we should clear that lot and make use of that wood." Obie pushed his hat back and scratched his head. "Unless you brought a mill in your saddlebags, I don't see how." "We wouldn't need to plane it down. Log fence ain't as pretty as a board fence, but works just as well." "Hmm. Well, that old Dutchman don't seem likely to change his mind any time soon, and that stack of planks ain't gettin' any bigger on its own. I'll run it past Ben, see what he thinks." Obie picked up the rotted plank and tossed it in the wagon. "Let's check the rest of this stretch and head back. I wanna play some poker tonight, and ain't nobody gonna come within a mile of me if I don't get a bath." ****

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Just before sundown the hands, freshly scrubbed and wearing their second-best clothes, piled into the wagon. Leaving the ranch in the care of Lonnie and Juanita, Ben and Snow climbed onto the seat up front. Ben took up the reins and gave the horses a slap, and they set off trundling down the rutted road. Obie sat facing the rear, his back nearly touching Ben's. His curls were still damp at the ends, and he was clean-shaven. Temper let his eyes move over the others, trying to guess their intentions by their appearance. Ben and Snow seemed the same as ever, if a little cleaner. Dexter hadn't stopped talking about a particular girl since noon, so that was no challenge at all. Larry reeked of some God-awful cologne, so he clearly had whoring on his mind as well. He was settled as far from Arcady as the limited size of the wagon would allow. Arcady was wearing a crisp shirt with fancy embroidering on it, and his footwear had already drawn some attention. "Where in the world did you get them boots?" Billy hooted, lounging against the wagon's side. His hat, perched on his knee, fell at their feet as he convulsed with laughter. Temper leaned forward to get a closer look. "Is that snakeskin?" Arcady stuck his chin in the air, both proud and a little defensive. "Damn right, rattler skin. These boots cost more than you shitkickers make in a year." Porter snorted, stretching his long limbs, that looked longer for his usual black clothes. "Foolish waste of money," he ground out, pulling his hat down over his eyes as though settling for a nap. "Not practical for ranching." 47

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"And they're ugly," Dex added. Arcady shot him a poisonous look, and he shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that, but they make you look like a Kansas City fop." The other men howled with laughter. Temper caught that ugly look pinching Arcady's face before he covered it with a good-natured grin. "You boys got no sense of style, is all. I wouldn't expect any of y'all to appreciate fine craftsmanship like this." Ben glanced over his shoulder for a peek. He didn't say a word, just shook his head and turned back to the road. That struck the men as hilarious, and they broke out laughing again. The ride to town passed pleasantly. Miguel had brought his guitar and strummed it softly, crooning a sad-sounding song in Mexican. One by one they fell quiet, watching the trees pass and letting the week's work fall away. Temper didn't realize he'd dropped into a doze until the wagon jolted to a halt, startling him awake. The sun was hanging fat and orange on the horizon, but they had a bit of daylight left yet. He climbed out of the wagon and joined the others as they lined up to get their pay. Each man took their money in turn and scattered. Most went right into the saloon, but a few went to the general store or disappeared into town. Porter even headed to the bank. Last in line, Temper stepped up to his boss and waited patiently as the man counted. He accepted his pay with a nod and took a step, only to freeze as he glanced at the amount. "Boss, it's too much." He looked up into Ben's green eyes and saw a flash of humor. 48

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"Think I don't know who works hard and who don't?" Temper felt his cheeks heat. He'd had plenty of bosses who'd been pleased with his work and said so, but somehow Ben's sparse compliment warmed his soul. "Thank you," he mumbled, turning away. "Temper," Ben called, stopping him. "If you and your Bible want to attend church services tomorrow, feel free to stay overnight. There's cheap rooms to be had over the saloon." Temper's mouth dropped open, and Ben's eyes crinkled with mirth. "Something for you to keep in mind, Mr. Free. I find out everything that goes on at the Bar J. Eventually." Temper grinned and shook his head, pushing his money into a pocket of his pants. "Yassir. I'll remember." He watched, shaking his head in amusement, as Ben headed into the saloon and Snow drove the wagon toward the store. He'd already noted the little church when he first rode into town. Temper thought he'd take Ben's advice and find a room for the night, go to services in the morning and then.... Huh. How was he expecting to get back, then? Deciding not to worry about it, he followed his boss into the saloon. If Ben had suggested it, he probably had a plan. If not, well, it gave him something to pray for tomorrow, didn't it? The saloon was certainly busier tonight than it had been when Temper had arrived in town, but that had been early afternoon on a Tuesday. Then, the only folks who'd been inside drinking had been James Arcady and a half-dozen roughnecks clustered noisily around a corner table. Mill workers, Temper recalled. He'd wondered at the time what 49

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sort of job left a man free to get drunk in the middle of the day. Now though, the room was fairly packed. Ben was making the rounds, exchanging handshakes and a few words with a number of the men. A homely young whore was plodding through a sad song on a badly out of tune piano. Larry was standing nearby, leaning on the piano case and watching her with longing and barely controlled anticipation. Obie had already joined a poker game, chatting familiarly with the other players and drinking from a glass of whiskey. Ben settled at the bar, sipping the beer put before him with a contented sigh. Temper slid onto the stool next to him and caught the bartender's eye. The thin young man swiped at the bar with a rag and set a glass in front of him. "Soda water, right?" Temper nodded, surprised he remembered. "I don't sell much of that in here," the bartender grinned, filling his glass. "He's one of yours now, Ben?" "Yup. Put it on the tab, Stanley." Temper thanked him and turned around so he could watch the room. Leaning back on his elbows, he sipped his soda and moved his gaze from face to face. At the far end of the bar, Billy and Dex were already arguing in hushed tones over a tired-looking whore wearing too much makeup. A few men were at the corner table, casting black looks at his boss, and Temper guessed they were lumber boys. They didn't seem inclined to do more than mutter, so he dismissed them and moved on. He almost missed the glowering face, hidden as it was in the shadows that lingered in the corner. A tingle of alarm 50

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started in his belly as he turned to Ben and quietly said, "Boss." Ben followed his gaze. The only sign he gave that he'd seen Vargas was a slight tightening of the muscles around his eyes. "Huh," he muttered, turning back to his beer. Temper wished he could be so unconcerned, but the captain was slouched over a bottle, glaring in their direction like he was wishing they'd catch on fire. Those glittering, dark eyes felt like little feet running over his grave. No one else from the ranch seemed to have spotted him, so Temper resolved to keep an eye out. Just in case. It was several drinks later when his vigilance paid off. Vargas pushed back his chair so hard it banged into the wall, swaying a little before finding his feet. As he made a beeline to where they sat, Snow, who'd joined them after completing his supply run, let out a tired sigh. "Oh Lord. Can't we have one quiet Saturday night?" Ben snorted and ordered another beer. "If it ain't one thing it's another." He turned around and came face to face with the captain. "Speak your piece," he said mildly. "But make it quick. I need a piss." Vargas's face flushed several ugly colors. He poked a thick finger toward Ben's chest, but stopped short of touching him. "You," he hissed, and the venom in his voice made the little hairs on Temper's arms stand up. "You think I don't know what you did?" "What exactly did I do?" "You! You told my men to desert! You brought dishonor on me and made me look like a fool!" 51

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"Well," said Ben. "That don't sound like something I'd do." He was calm and patient, and it only made the captain angrier. "You sent that bastardo"—he jabbed his finger toward Miguel—"to spread lies to my men. The same night we left your damn ranch, more than half of them left in the night. In two days they were all gone." "Is that so. I reckon they weren't so keen to fight, once they knew what the army had in store for them. Sendin' 'em off to get slaughtered by Indians and all." "Liar! We were to fight the Confederates. I was told—" "The army lied to you, not me. They do that from time to time, if it suits them. And the sad truth is they use men like yours to do their dirty work. Men who're poorly armed. Inexperienced." He means brown people, Temper mentally added. We're expendable. Ben lowered his voice, his tone taking on the soft, cajoling cadence he used to good effect with skittish horses. "Trust me, Capitan. You and your men are well out of that mess. Take my advice and forget about it. There are other ways to gain honor, ways that don't mean spillin' the blood of your countrymen for no good reason." For a minute, Temper thought his boss had won the day. Vargas was listening intently, his dull eyes widening as he took in Ben's words. Temper found himself silently urging the man to take those words to heart, for his own sake as well as for the general peace. As his mama used to say, no sense carrying on about what was done and gone. But the moment 52

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passed, and fury sparked in those dark eyes once more. "You're giving me advice, pendejo? Fine. Now let me give you some. Be very careful, gringo. I am not a nice man when I am angry. People tend to get hurt when I am angry." His hand strayed to the hilt of a large knife hanging from his belt. Ben followed the movement with his eyes. When he looked back up, his face might have been carved out of granite. He never raised his voice, never acknowledged how Temper and Snow had gone all tense on either side of him, how the room fell quiet or how Bar J hands all over the saloon left off what they were doing and sidled closer to their boss. Ben leaned forward until he was inches away from the captain's sly, rotten-toothed grin. "You get as angry as you want. Come near my ranch or my men, and I'll put you down like a mangy coyote. Pull that pigsticker in here, and everyone will hear how you're nothing but a common horse thief. If you're lucky, they'll just run you out of town instead of hanging you. Now, shut your damn mouth, and go back to your bottle. Folks are trying to enjoy themselves here." Vargas's face flushed purple, his body practically vibrating with the desire to fight. By this time though, quite a circle of men had gathered around, not all of them from the ranch. Realizing he had few friends in this crowd, Vargas spat on the floor at Ben's feet and pushed his way out the door. Temper barely contained a sigh of relief as the other hands drifted back to their own business. "Sign another one up for the Ben Johnson appreciation society," a rich baritone chuckled. Temper looked up—and up—at a barrel-chested man with slicked-down, black hair 53

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and an impressive handlebar mustache. "For such a mild fella, you sure know how to drive a man to violence." "Everyone's got a talent," Ben explained, quirking one side of his mouth in a grin. The big man clapped him on the shoulder, but the humor left his face. "Watch that one, Ben. He's a rattlesnake if I ever saw one." "I'll mind where I step for awhile." The man offered his hand to Snow, who shook it with a smile. "You keepin' him out of trouble?" "Too big a job for one man," Snow answered. "How's the B & L these days?" "Busy. Started calving last week, and we're fixin' to brand the yearlings. This your new man?" he asked, looking at Temper. Ben nodded. "One of 'em. This here's Mr. Temper Free. Temper, meet Sam Barstow. He owns the cattle spread east of the Bar J." Sam shook his hand with a nod and turned back to Ben. "I wanna buy you a beer," he declared. "You did me a favor breakin' up that little militia. A bunch of them fellas came up to the ranch, said Miguel told 'em I was hiring." "You've only been complaining about being short-handed every damn time I see you. How many'd you take on?" "Six, and sent the rest on to Gus. Told 'em working sheep was the same as working cows, just fluffier." Ben snorted. "How they working out?" "Just fine so far. Hard workers all. The poor bastards are so grateful to have hot food and blankets, they don't hardly 54

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expect pay. I bought 'em all boots, and I swear they was about to build a statue in my honor." "Kinder treatment than they'd get from the army, that's for sure." "I expect so. Well, let me get back to the game. Your Obie still has some money for me to win off him." "Oh hell," Ben muttered, turning back to his beer. "He's gonna be over here looking for an advance." A clatter of noise broke out down at the other end of the bar as Billy went crashing to the floor under Dexter's weight. Chairs scraped back out of the way as the two men tussled, but otherwise no one paid them much mind. "Outside," Ben directed in his customary unconcerned drawl. The men rose to their feet and, casting murderous glares at each other, stormed out the door to continue their fight. It wasn't much longer, and Temper was yawning fit to crack his jaw. A short discussion with the bartender yielded him a key to one of the rooms upstairs, accessible by way of a stairway outside that ran up the back of the saloon. Bidding Ben and Snow a good night, he left a few coins on the bar and pushed his way outside into the chilly desert air. The noise of the barroom was muted and seemed very far away. In the sudden hush, he paused a moment on the crooked wooden boards that made up the sidewalk and gazed up at the waning moon. He loved this time of night, that last hour or so before bedtime, when his thoughts fell still and God felt so close he could feel him with every breath. A little smile touched his lips, and he pulled in a deep lungful of air, stretching the muscles of his chest to their maximum. He 55

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exhaled, imagining the stresses and evils of the day leaving his body with the expelled air, twisting and dancing like the bits of straw in the sunlight shafts of the barn. He was feeling relaxed and sleepy when he strolled 'round the corner to the back of the saloon. The staircase looked a bit rickety for his taste, but at least there was a railing. He had his foot on the first step when a soft sound caught his ear and he paused, peering into the dark recesses under the stairs. The tiny bit of moonlight that filtered down through the steps was just enough to reveal the source of the disturbance. Two figures were pressed against the wall, moving together in an unmistakable rhythm. The first man—and they were both men, Temper realized—was sprawled face first against the wall, his head turned and his features hidden from sight. The other man clung to his back, hips jerking sharply to a duet of gasps and throaty groans. Temper froze, his own member growing in his britches. He ought to look away, to go about his business and leave these fellas to their own, but Lord... it had been so long since he'd had that sort of contact, since he'd felt the touch of another person, that for a long moment, he just couldn't help himself. And then the man in the back shifted his position, and Dexter's bruised face moved into the light. Temper started a bit, suddenly sure of the other man's identity and equally sure he'd be sporting matching bruises. Apparently, Billy and Dex liked to do more than fight with each other. Giving himself a little shake, Temper climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, though he figured nothing short 56

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of a cattle stampede would disturb those two. He let himself in to room number two, lighting the bedside lamp and glancing around. It was small and clean, with a washstand in one corner. Temper hung his hat on a wall peg and slowly stripped out of his clothes, folding them neatly and piling them on the straight-back chair. His manhood was still stirring as he slipped between the sheets, his earlier calm replaced by a restless feeling that came upon him from time to time during his lonely travels. Crooking one arm back behind his head, he let his hand trail down his body, over the sparse, coarse curls on his chest and the thicker nest at his privates. He trailed his fingers lightly over his swelling cock, letting his mind play back the scene beneath the stairs. Dex, splayed against the saloon wall, fingers clutching and scrabbling at the clapboard. Temper's imagination filled in the details the darkness had kept hidden. He could see the expression on the man's face, pinched around the eyes from the discomfort of the rough treatment but slack in the jaw at the sheer pleasure of it. Moonlight caressed the curve of his rear as it rose and fell, pushing back into the cradle of Billy's hips. One of Billy's callused hands was clutching Dex's hip, hard enough to leave indentations in the flesh. Temper stroked his solid member, his ears ringing with wet slaps of flesh on flesh, the soft moans and grunts of two men in the throes of lust. The image in his mind shifted, color bleeding in until it was a brown hand gripping Billy's rump. Temper gave a soft moan, stroking faster. How would it feel, 57

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to caress that firm, muscled backside? To sheath his aching penis in that tight heat? God, to smell the sweat and manscent at the nape of that neck? He leaned forward and nuzzled, breathing deeply, noting it was no longer Billy's short, red cut, but long, dark brown hair. The smell sent a little jolt straight down his body, and he twitched his hips without thought. The body beneath him moaned and bucked. Temper lost hold of his control and shoved forward, mashing the solid body against the wall as he thrust over and over, embedding his full length into his hotly willing partner again and again. Just before he reached his peak, he hooked his chin over one pale shoulder and planted a tender kiss on Larry's bearded cheek. Lying in the narrow bed, seed cooling on his heaving chest, Temper stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and decided that church services couldn't come soon enough. **** It was a long-standing tradition at the Bar J Ranch that the hands ate Sunday dinner in the main house. Only the most necessary chores were done, leaving the hands with several hours of free time. Temper, returned from town on the borrowed mount he'd found waiting for him, spent his time in a quiet little spot in the north pasture, reading his Bible and thinking, until the dinner bell sounded. Clean and dressed in their best clothes, the men headed up the hill toward the main house. Temper hadn't had cause to venture to this part of the ranch yet and took in the details with a curious eye. In the front of the house, off to the left, 58

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was a little fenced-in graveyard, the grass neatly trimmed and cheery yellow flowers blooming by the markers. One grave was fresh, and Temper took his hat off respectfully as he passed. A large vegetable garden sprawled off to the right, and clucking and flapping from around the house hinted at a good-sized chicken run out back. Off to the right sat a smaller house, no doubt the foreman's house currently occupied by Lonnie and his family. Pausing on the porch to knock the dust off his boots, Temper took a moment to enjoy the view. The entire spread was laid out at his feet, green pastures crisscrossed with narrow brown trails and bordered with tidy fences. It truly was a beautiful piece of land, well-planned and lovingly tended, and Temper felt a little swell of contentment. God's country, he thought to himself, a smile touching his lips. Inside the house he cast a curious look around. Even from the hallway, he could see it was a man's house. The walls were mostly bare, the furniture sparse and practical. A tin mug sat on a table, a bouquet of drooping flowers splayed inside it, and that was about the only feminine touch to be seen. A child's pencil drawing of a horse, its legs impossibly long and a large, foolish smile gracing its face, was centered in a rough wood frame and hung on the otherwise bare hallway wall. To the right of the entrance was a large and comfortablelooking den. Two armchairs stood close together in front of a fireplace, cold now but laid out for lighting later when the night grew chilly. A little table stood between the chairs, holding an amber bottle and two matching glasses. 59

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Temper followed the other hands to the kitchen, where a long table was groaning under the weight of the biggest feast he'd seen in years. The room was too warm to be comfortable, thanks to the big cast-iron stove at the far end, but the smells were incredible. Temper's mouth was flooded with saliva as he laid eyes on the huge side of beef slowroasting over the fire pit. They settled at the table, Ben at one end, Snow at the other, and shared the finest meal Temper had enjoyed since he'd left his mama's house. Conversation was a bit more polite than usual, since Juanita and Rosie were there, but otherwise it was the same teasing, boisterous dinner hour he'd come to expect at the ranch. After they'd worked their way through the fine food, Juanita poured the coffee and produced several pies and a towering chocolate cake. Fit to bust, Temper helped the other hands clear the dishes and then headed outside. The sun was still up, sitting low and fat just above the horizon. Rosie ran onto the lawn with a ball made from knotted rags, and soon Lonnie and a few others were running around playing a game that seemed to have few, if any, rules. Temper, too full and sleepy to join in, sat himself on the porch steps to watch. Behind him, Ben settled on the porch swing while Snow and Porter perched on the railing and continued the mild argument they'd started over dinner. Time and again, Temper found his gaze going back to Larry. The young man was grinning wildly, racing around the lawn with the others, but his focus was always on Rosie. It seemed he'd go to any lengths to amuse her, chasing her 60

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making funny faces or flopping dramatically to the grass at her playful push. She threw herself on top of him, her giggles turning to shrieks as he dug his fingers into her ribs and tickled her mercilessly. "Papa!" she squealed between laughs, "Papa, save me!" Bellowing like a buffalo, Lonnie charged over and picked Larry up like he was no bigger than a child himself, slinging him over his shoulder and lumbering across the yard. "Pick on my little girl, will you?" he shouted, to Rosie's great delight. "What should I do with him, Rosie? Drop him in the well?" "Horse trough!" Ben called from the porch, and several others took up the call. Temper laughed out loud as Lonnie dangled his captive over the trough, his head dangerously close to the water. And then a prickly feeling on the back of his neck made him look around, and there was James Arcady, leaning against the side of the house. Temper felt a flush of anger so deep he nearly jumped up and confronted the man, but then he took a closer look. Arcady was staring at Larry, as he usually was, but somehow he looked different. His face had lost that wolf-like sharpness that made him look like he was always scheming at something. Instead he looked—Temper struggled to find the word. Sad? Wistful? Almost regretful. Then he noticed Temper watching him, and his face closed like a window curtain. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Temper confused and wondering just what James Arcady had to regret. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 5 New Mexico in July meant hot, dry days broken up by afternoon thunderstorms. The rain fell hard and fast, leaving inches of standing water all over the ranch. As soon as the storms passed, the cracked ground sucked up the moisture, and minutes after the sun came out, it was like it hadn't rained at all. It was rare that the rain lasted more than half an hour or thereabouts, so when the day's work was done and dinner was over and it was still pouring buckets outside, Ben started getting agitated. Obie, slumped in his chair with his bare feet stretched toward the fire, watched as his lover moved around the room like a brooding mare, picking things up and putting them down, straightening pictures on the wall, and always coming back to the window to peer past his reflection into the darkness. Obie sipped his whiskey and wiggled his toes, feeling warm and dry for the first time since breakfast. "Come and sit down," he called, reaching for the bottle and adding a measure to both their glasses. "Something tells me we ain't gonna get much sleep tonight. You might as well take a load off." He fought a grin as the older man threw himself into the chair, his face twisted into a sulk. "When's the last time it rained this much around here?" "Before your time," Ben answered, picking up his glass but not actually getting around to the drinking part. "North pasture flooded out. That little pond covered half the enclosure." 62

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"Ah, so that's why you moved them down." "Yeah, but at this rate the lower pasture's gonna flood too." Obie frowned and cast a glance at the window just as a flash of lightening whited out the view. "Where we gonna put them then?" Ben tossed back his whiskey, his face grim. "Now you see why I'm worried." He put the glass down with a thump and hauled himself out of his chair. "Come on then, let's catch a few hours shuteye. Rain don't stop before long, we'll be up and everybody else with us too." **** Sometime later, Obie bolted up in bed, heart pounding and nerves ragged as though he'd woken from a nightmare. Panting a little, he shivered and realized his chief source of nighttime warmth—his lover—was missing from the bed. Slight movement near the window caught his eye. "Thunder," Ben said quietly. "Big one, just now. Think there was a lightning strike close by." Obie scratched at his stubbled jaw and wiped at eyes sticky with sleep. He climbed out of bed, hissing when his bare feet hit the cold planks of the floor, and joined his lover at his watch. "Still raining," he muttered. "Yep." They dressed in the dark, hands brushing against warm skin as they fumbled for clothes. As Obie pulled his shirt closed, a warm kiss was pressed to the nape of his neck. 63

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Lucky for him, there was no light for Ben to see his sleepy, silly grin. He followed his lover into the hallway. The front door blew open, letting in a spray of water and wind. Juanita, her dark hair covered with a scarf, struggled in holding a lantern which she sat on the hallway table. "I'll start the coffee." A huge shape looming behind her resolved into Lonnie's familiar presence. Wearing a long oilskin coat and a dripping hat, he carried a blanket-wrapped bundle against his broad chest. He made his way down the hall to the spare bedroom and deposited his daughter on the bed without waking her, then joined the other men as they left the house. Lights were already on in the bunkhouse and the barn. Obie stepped in a puddle almost immediately, filling his boot with damn cold water. The ground was actually muddy, pulling at their steps as they trekked down the path to the ranch proper. Snow was coming out of the barn when they arrived, leading his and Obie's horses. "Tried to saddle yours," he called to Ben over the rain. "That bastard near kicked my head in. You ought to shoot that monster." "Maybe tomorrow," was Ben's response, now expected. "There's a big tree down, blocking the gate to the south pasture. Gonna need the wagon to shift it, but I'm afraid the wheels'll bog down if we try." "How bad's the flooding in there?" "Bad in the upper half or so, getting muddy down below." "Let's go have a look. I want a man there all night, 'til the rain stops. Another one in the barn, keeping an eye on the hay and feed stores. Everybody else rides fences and watches for trouble spots." 64

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Snow nodded, sending a river of water flooding from the brim of his hat. Obie knew the foreman had already anticipated his boss's orders, and what's more, Ben knew it too. Obie couldn't help but grin. It was nice of Snow to let Ben think he was in charge every once in awhile. The smile didn't last long. The stormy night stretched out before them, and it was a long time until dawn. **** By morning, the storm had passed, and the usual summer sun began baking the ranch dry. The hands, who Ben had sent to their bunks for a few hours before dawn, rose and saddled up their mounts, riding out for every corner of the Bar J Ranch to check on the horses and assess the damage. All in all, the news wasn't as bad as it could have been. There were plenty of trees down and a few fence breaks. The north pasture was underwater, but the south was already drying up. Most importantly, the buildings were all intact and the animals had weathered the rough night just fine. The biggest surprise came from Billy, who had ridden the northernmost fence all the way to the eastern border. "Cattle, boss," he reported, dropping out of the saddle. "Mess of them, up in the high field." "Cattle? How do you like that," Ben mused, pushing back his hat to scratch his head. He and Obie were cutting and clearing downed branches that had blocked the road to town, and both were thoroughly soaked. "Branded?" "Yep, all Sam Barstow's." 65

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"Huh. Sam must have his hands full if he hasn't come after them yet. Snow." "Yeah?" The foreman was coming out of the barn with several lengths of rope, which he dropped in the bed of the wagon. "We got anything that can't wait?" "Not really. We'll be cutting up trees for awhile, but we need the wood anyways." Ben squinted up the hill, as though if he looked hard enough he could see all the way to Sam's spread. "Billy, take a few boys back up there and drive them cows back where they belong. Take Temper, he knows beeves. And patch up that fence, ours and Sam's both. Once you get out to the B & L, find out if Sam needs any more help and come on back and let me know." "You got it, boss." "Snow, where you headed?" "South pasture. Reckon it's dry enough to get the wagon up there and move that big tree. We can cut it up later when there's time." Ben nodded. "All right then. If Sam's in a bad way, I'll want you to take a crew over and help him out." Snow nodded and climbed up on the wagon, giving the team a slap with the reins to get them moving. **** It was just before noon when Billy rode back, soaked and covered up to his chest in mud. "Aw, what a mess they got over there, boss," he began before even getting out of the 66

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saddle. "We was pulling cows out of some mighty deep mud. Temper and Larry stayed behind. I told 'em you wouldn't mind." "I don't." "Worst part is they had a tree come down on the bunkhouse during the night. Bunch of his fellas are hurt, a couple pretty bad. Ain't got enough men to mind the stock and get the fences back up, never mind fix that roof." "Hell. All right, go get Snow, and bring anybody else you run into." Billy took off at a run. Ben went into the barn and pulled out a couple of fresh, strong horses to hitch to the wagon. When Snow came back, a few of the other hands in tow, Ben was stacking tools and supplies in the back. "Billy says Sam's in a bad way," Snow said as he moved to help. "Sounds like it. Go on and take the men over to the B & L. You're all to do whatever Sam needs, for as long as he needs it. Take whatever lumber we've got, feed for their horses, whatever else you think they might need. They're gonna need dry clothes and blankets, so take whatever we can spare. Lonnie, run up to the house and tell Juanita to load up her wagon too. Her and Rosie'll need to cook for all Sam's men as well as ours. And take whatever bandages and whatnot you can find." The men ran off to fetch the supplies. Snow watched as Ben dumped an armload of horse blankets into the wagon. "Not the most comfortable," Ben admitted. "Better than having none. You want me to take everybody?" 67

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"Sounds like Sam needs all the help he can get. Me and Obie will mind the store here." "I hate to say it, Ben, but it pains me to give up that lumber, seein's how we can't pry any more out of that damned Dutchman." "I know. I've got a bit of a twinge, myself. Sam's got the greater need, though. Besides, he's good for it. He's been trying to buy us some on the sly for a while now, but de Groot's on to him. Knows what he needs and won't sell him a plank more. We'll make do without it for now." Ben continued his work for a moment before realizing Snow was just staring at him. "Why you still here?" Snow had a little grin on his face. "Nothin', boss. I'll round up the rest of the boys and get goin'." He walked out of the barn, leaving Ben to shake his head. "Sometimes I wonder what gets into him." Obie hid his smile and tossed another saw on the wagon. It was one of the things he loved about the older man. To Ben, you were supposed to treat other people right, and there was nothing special about it. He had no idea how rare a man he was. "You know," Obie mentioned as he worked, "I can't help but notice that's gonna leave you and me alone on this big old ranch all afternoon. Maybe most of the night too." "Good thing we got all that brush to cut," Ben remarked, but Obie could see the little half-grin under the brim of his hat. "That's true. I reckon by the time we're through, we'll be too tired to do much but hit the hay." 68

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"Then again, nothin' says we gotta clear it all today." Obie laughed and hoped the boys didn't take too long to get going. After all, Sam was counting on them. **** "Ow! Damnit. Stop. Stop!" Obie pushed himself off the musty hay bale and rubbed his chest. His lover stood behind him with a hangdog expression and a rapidly deflating erection. Obie sighed and gave the organ in question an encouraging squeeze. "Ben, you know I'm here to please, truly I am. But this ain't as fun as it sounded." It had been a great surprise when Ben had admitted his long-held fantasy of bending Obie over a hay bale and taking him in the barn. The idea was definitely interesting—hell, just being naked in the barn in broad daylight, knowing that anyone could come by and see them, had Obie adjusting his britches. In reality though, that hay was prickly as hell. Obie's chest was red and irritated, not to mention his more tender bits. Ben gave his nipple an apologetic kiss, soothing the sore skin with his big, callused hands. Obie ruffled his hand through his lover's close-cropped hair, his other hand still working Ben's recovering member. "So tell me," he murmured into the closest ear, "you got any other fantasies you want to tell me about?" The organ in his palm gave a definite twitch. Obie smiled. "Come on, give. What is it?" Ben drew back, his weathered face tinged pink around the cheeks. Tickled now, Obie pressed on. "What? Tell me." The older man's gaze flicked to a length of rawhide harness 69

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hanging on a nail. Obie's jaw dropped. "Oh my God. Ben Johnson, the most strait-laced... are you telling me you wanna kit me out like a horse and play stallion?" "What! Christ, no. The things that come out of your mouth, Obediah." Ben looked mostly disapproving, but a certain sparkle in his eye almost made Obie regret mentioning it. "Well, what then?" "I'd like to tie you. Just your hands," Ben hurried to say. "Although,"—he grinned wickedly—"maybe if I put a bit in your mouth, you'd shut up for awhile." "You're pretty lippy for a fella wantin' favors, ain't ya?" "I'll show you lippy," came the reply, and Obie was treated to a kiss hot enough to dry up the whole damn ranch and then some. When he finally came up for air, his lips feeling rough and swollen, he reached a hand out and fumbled around until he found the harness. Slapping it against Ben's chest, he smiled and slowly walked backward. "Outside," he ordered. Ben's eyes darkened, and his cock twitched. He followed. Squinting in the sunlight, Obie paused and looked around. The ranch was strangely quiet with all the men gone, and his ears were still trying to hear the chopping and sawing sounds that had filled the morning they'd spent clearing downed trees. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, dragging the leather softly over his cock. He let out a little moan, leaning back into his man. "Your show, cowboy," he whispered. Ben growled, and Obie could feel the rumble up through his chest. The next thing he knew, Obie was bent over the training corral fence. He put his hands to the small of his back 70

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and waited for the leather. But Ben had other ideas, pulling his arms over the other side of the fence. Obie's wrists were tied to the lower rail, forcing him up on his toes and lifting his rump high in the air. It was a damned uncomfortable position, with the top rail digging hard into his gut and all the blood rushing to his head, but when Ben nudged his feet farther apart and left him open and helpless, his cock decided it was definitely worth the trouble. He could see Ben's hairy calves moving behind him, could hear the heavy breathing that spoke of his lust. His own member was at full attention and rubbing up the underside of the rail. He gave a brief thought to splinters, and then a finger ran lightly up his spine. Obie hissed and shivered all over. His lover's low chuckle made him whimper. He was totally at Ben's mercy, and Obie wasn't sure he had any. Little touches, warm puffs of breath. He couldn't see where the next would come from, couldn't stop himself from twitching and moaning every time. His thighs trembled with strain and tension. Sweat sheened his body and dripped off the end of his nose. It was sweet torture, and he wanted it to go on forever, but his body was sending him the message that he couldn't hold position much longer. "Ben," he groaned, putting all of his pleading into the word. The older man gave him a light smack on his upturned ass. "I like you like this," he remarked, laying a few more slaps on Obie's skinny behind. "Think I'll do this from time to time, just to keep you from gettin' uppity." Obie's retort ended in a very undignified squawk as Ben put two thick fingers up inside him. 71

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"Oh yeah. I like this a lot." He worked his fingers in and out, twisting and then scissoring. Obie tried to push back and get that touch where he needed it, on that magic spot deep inside, but he could barely move at all. He was helpless to do anything but moan and shout while his lover played with his body. The fingers left him and two callused hands gripped his buttocks, pulling them apart. Obie waited for the thrust, tugging restlessly at his bonds and breathing like a steam engine. What he got was a long, warm breath ghosting over his opening. His toes curled and his back tried to arch. He was still gasping when Ben's length pressed into him. "Oh. Oh," he groaned as his lover set up a steady pounding pace. "Yeah, just like that, just like that." Ben was a quiet, intense lover who usually left the talking to his partner. It seemed like living out his fantasy had loosened his tongue though, since rough whispers were slipping past his teeth. Obie bit his lip, wanting to silence his own sounds the better to hear his lover's. What he heard made him forget to breathe. In between "yes" and "God," Obie distinctly heard what he'd been hoping to hear for nearly a year. And then Ben hit that magic spot, and sparks went off behind his eyelids like the striking of a flint. Behind him, Ben stroked hard, groaning louder than Obie had ever heard him. Obie too, was way beyond words, especially when his lover's hand wrapped around his cock, both stroking and shielding it from the fence rail. His balls tightened and rose in their sac, and with a throaty cry, he convulsed. He was bent at such an 72

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odd angle that his seed splashed against his own chest, some of it even hitting his chin. Ben faltered in his pace, shoving in deep and freezing while his release overtook him. Generally content to bask in the afterglow, Obie was in no position to appreciate it now. The stress of his position, combined with the midday heat, worse now that Ben was slumped over his back, had him wiggling before his heartbeat had come back down to normal. His grunts of discomfort caused his lover to stir. Slowly, with a groan of his own, Ben went to his knees and reached between Obie's spread feet to unknot the rawhide. "Oh, my achin' back," Obie moaned as he straightened, stretching with his hands clapped to a spot just above his tailbone. His shoulders hurt, his abdomen was rubbed raw. Hell, he even had a sore patch on his johnson from friction with the fence rail. He glanced at Ben, expecting a bit of sympathy, but his lover was staring at him with wide eyes, his nostrils flaring. Moving like he was in a dream, the older man reached up and swiped a thumb over Obie's chin, then pushed the thumb gently into Obie's mouth. Obie sucked the digit languorously, tasting his own seed, and beneath that, the sweat and musk of his lover. A lover that looked ready to go again, sooner rather than later. Obie moved into his embrace, passing the flavor on through a hungry kiss. "Next time," he murmured into Ben's mouth, "we're doin' my fantasy." "And what's that?" "I don't want to spoil the surprise," Obie answered, grinning wickedly. "But it does involve a saddle." Against his 73

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hip, Ben's exhausted organ gave an interested, futile twitch. Sooner rather than later, indeed. **** It was late in the evening before they heard the wagons clatter up the trail. Peering out the window, Obie could just make out two points of light, bobbing wildly as the wagon's lanterns swung on their hooks. The first light stopped at the barn. The second paused for a moment, then continued up the path toward the house. Obie and Ben stepped out onto the porch, bearing their own lantern, and watched as Lonnie brought the wagon to a halt. Beside him, Juanita was slumped over asleep, with Rosie dead to the world in her lap. The big man all but fell out of the wagon, his usual easy grace a casualty of his fatigue. "Hey, boss, Obie," he called quietly. He gave a great yawn and leaned his forearms heavily on the porch railing, letting his chin rest on top. "Mr. Barstow sends his thanks. He sent a case of whiskey too. It's in there somewhere." He gave a lazy nod toward the wagon and its load of cooking gear. "He says to tell you he'll replace the lumber soon as he can. They had a right mess over there, boss, but we got 'em through the worst of it. Said they could handle the rest." Lonnie's eyes were drifting closed, and his voice was petering out to a murmur. Ben clapped him on the arm, making him start. "Go on, get your family to bed," Ben told him. "Don't worry about that wagon. Me and Obie'll unload it in the morning. All you boys have a lie-in tomorrow. You've earned it." 74

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"Can't," came the drowsy answer. "Gotta feed the horses." "It won't hurt 'em to eat a few hours later. God knows it's been a long day for everybody. Go on now, get to bed." Lonnie gave in with a nod and went back to the wagon, shaking his wife awake. Juanita couldn't seem to get her eyes open more than halfway and barely noticed when Lonnie took her daughter from her arms. Finally, they were all up and moving toward the foreman's house. Ben and Obie brought the wagon around back to the kitchen door, set the brake, and unhitched the horse. "You too, Obediah. Go on to bed. I'll see to this old gal and come join you." He took the mare by her bridle and snagged the lantern with his other hand. He'd only gone a few steps when he stopped. "Huh." Reaching into the wagon, he pulled a dark bottle out of a crate. "Good stuff?" Obie asked, rubbing his gritty eyes with the back of his fist. "Kentucky sippin' whiskey. Finest kind." "Sam's good people." Obie yawned so hard his jaw cracked. "Bed, now, before you swallow your own head," Ben ordered, putting the whiskey back and getting the horse moving once more. "I'll wait for you." "Like hell. You'll be asleep soon as your head hits the pillow." "Naw, I'll wait for you." The older man smiled knowingly. "All right, then." Obie watched him for a few minutes as his lantern moved back down the hill to the barn, then turned and went inside. 75

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He sat down on the bed to unbutton his shirt, and that was the last thing he knew until morning. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 6 Obie wasn't surprised to wake up in an empty bed. Ben was an early riser by nature and didn't seem capable of sleeping in, even when he'd gotten little sleep the night before. Obie got out of bed and stretched, rubbing his lower back with a wince. "Gettin' old," he muttered to himself as he slowly got dressed. His first stop was the kitchen and the pot of hot coffee waiting for him on top of the cast-iron stove. He drank half of the first cup before he even put the pot down, scalding his tongue but not caring. Ben must have been up for some time, he realized as he looked around. Everything from the wagon had already been put away. Obie wasn't the only one getting off to a slow start. The sun was well up and the feed wagon was just now making its way up to the north pasture. Exhausted from the long hours and physical labor of the day before, the hands looked slow and clumsy as they went about their tasks. Besides the daily chores, there were still a number of large downed trees and branches to clear, so it was no surprise that no one looked enthusiastic about the day ahead. Obie wandered into the barn and found Ben saddling the Bastard. "'Bout time you got out of bed," Ben grumbled, tightening the cinch. The Bastard swung his broad head in Obie's direction with a snort, and the young man took a hasty step backward. "Behave, you," Ben admonished with a tug at the bridle. "I'm headin' over to the mill. I swear, I am determined 77

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to pry some lumber outta that old Dutchman if it kills me. You wanna come with?" "Hell no. Last time I went, that old man called me a catamite. I still don't know what that means." "Ask Father Percy next time you're in town. How 'bout you, Temper, feel like takin' a ride?" "Me? Nawsir. I don't know what a catamite is neither, but I bet it ain't worse than a nigger." "Damnit, you got a point. Old Arne's likely to shoot you on sight. God save us from hardheaded sons of bitches." He swung up into the saddle, the Bastard doing a little dance in place before Ben settled him down. "Tell Snow to follow me with the wagon in a half hour or so. If I ain't talked de Groot around by then, I guess I never will." He gave the stallion a nudge, and the great black horse lunged out of the barn. Half an hour later, Snow left with the wagon, trundling down the path to the road. Half an hour after that, he came trundling back up. Obie rose from where he'd been hunched over, sawing through a downed branch. Squinting into the sun, he watched the wagon approach with a funny feeling in his gut. Snow wasn't driving any faster, but the lines of his body were taut and tense. And why wasn't Ben with him? Before his brain could come up with a good reason not to, Obie was running to meet the wagon. Sure enough, when he looked over the side, Ben was reclining back on a pile of rope, scowling something fierce. A kerchief was tied around his right thigh, its dark blue fabric stained purple. Obie launched himself over the side, a jumble of questions spilling out of his mouth. 78

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"What the hell happened? Who did this? Where's the Bastard?" "Settle down, Obediah." Ben let his hand graze against Obie's for the briefest of seconds. "I'll live." By now, a handful of others had gathered around the wagon and followed it as it bypassed the barn and went directly to the main house. Snow threw the brake and climbed into the back, issuing orders. "Lonnie, run ahead and tell Juanita we need hot water and bandages. Dex, you find Porter and get him here now." "Doctor," Obie chattered nervously. "Somebody needs to get a doctor." Even though Ben was warm and alive right there next to him, Obie had taken a chill deep inside he couldn't seem to shake. He and Snow helped their boss off the wagon and supported him between them as Ben hopped on his good leg, up the porch steps and into the house. Juanita was ready for them, having laid out clean bandages and spread the bed with burlap sacks to catch the blood. "You need a doctor," Obie said again as they settled him on the bed. "No I don't. Porter's a better hand at takin' out a bullet than that young sawbones in town." "He shot you," Obie spat, hovering over his lover. "Son of a bitch, I knew he didn't like you, but damn!" "Arne de Groot didn't shoot me," Ben refuted. He was utterly calm, laying there with a damn bullet in his leg and acting like they were having a Sunday picnic. It was making Obie a little crazy. "I only got about halfway to the mill—you know that spot before the turnoff to Sam's, where the 79

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thickets are heavy? I was passin' there, and somebody took a shot at me from the brush. Probably would have killed me, too, if the Bastard hadn't bucked. Threw me off and left me there, the ill-mannered beast." "I found him limpin' down the road, swearin' a blue streak and complainin' about blood in his boot," Snow commented as he untied the stained kerchief and gingerly pulled it away from the wound. Ben hissed a little but otherwise didn't react as Snow tugged the boot off his foot and slit up the pant leg with his knife. "Damnit, I like these pants." "I'll sew your pants," Juanita said as she bustled into the room with a basin of steaming water. "Such a baby." "Where you figure that horse is now?" Snow asked casually as he soaked a cloth in the water and dabbed at the wound. "No idea. I reckon he'll come back on his own, when he's damn good and ready and not before." Ben chuckled, and suddenly Obie was angry as hell. "What the hell are you laughing at? You've got a damn bullet in your leg. Somebody tried to kill you. Wanna tell me what's so damn funny here?" Just as he was working up to a serious hissy fit, he glanced down at Ben's wound. With all the blood cleaned away, it was a perfectly round hole, right there in that strong thigh that Obie had touched, had kissed, so many times. He looked at his lover's leg and only saw a piece of meat with a chunk missing out of it, still oozing blood, and his stomach flipped over. "Oh my God," he moaned, and suddenly he could not stay in the room one minute more. He spun on his heel and 80

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bolted, nearly plowing over Porter, who was on his way in. He all but fell down the porch steps and kept right on running, not heading anywhere in particular but needing like hell to get away from the house. Could've died, could've died. The words bubbled out of the sick, churning mess in his brain, the one that tried to picture his life without Ben Johnson and came up with nothing, absolutely nothing. Obie lurched to a stop, bent over, and threw up between the toes of his boots. He retched for a moment, elbows on his knees, eyes watering. Finally his stomach quieted and he spat until the foul taste had mostly left his mouth. He straightened and wiped at his streaming eyes, feeling sick and shaky. Get hold of yourself, he thought, taking a few deep breaths. He's alive. He's all right. And he probably thinks you're a lunatic. Running his hand through his hair, he resettled his hat and strode determinedly back toward the house. No more running, he told himself. Time to stand. Ben was still lying on the bed, propped up on a heap of pillows. His thigh was snugly wrapped in a clean, white bandage. Porter stood at the washstand, rinsing his bloody hands, looking more like an undertaker than a doctor in his usual black clothes. Ben looked up when Obie came in, his face calm but his eyes showing concern. Obie gave him a sheepish smile. "How you doin'?" "I'll live. How you doin'?"

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"I'm okay." Obie tossed his hat on the bureau and settled next to his lover on the bed. "Sorry 'bout that. Just got to me for a minute there." Porter snorted, drying his hands on a scrap of burlap. "First gunshot wound you've ever seen?" "No," Obie shot back, feeling a little defensive. "Just the first one... the first time...." Ben's hand settled over his, and Obie knew he understood. Porter snorted again and left the room, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. When they were alone, Ben tugged Obie closer until they were lying side by side. Hearing Ben's heartbeat, feeling the heat coming off his body, calmed Obie, and he snuggled in like a puppy. Long moments went by without any words between them. Eventually Ben stirred and laid a kiss on Obie's hair. "Feeling better?" "Yeah." "Good, 'cause I want you to do something for me. Go on into town and tell the sheriff what happened." "Aw, hell, what for? You know that fat old man won't do a thing about it. Arne de Groot's got him bought and paid for." "Henry don't like our kind, it's true, but he's still the law. Even if he don't do nothing, we'll do what we're supposed to." Obie sat up and regarded his lover with a worried frown. "You really don't think Dutch plugged you?" "No," Ben replied, gingerly shifting his injured leg. Just like that, Obie was up and pacing again. "Just last year he let those mill boys beat the tar outta you."

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"Arne's a blowhard, and he don't think twice about bustin' heads, but he's no coward. He'd like to shoot me, all right, but he'd do it to my face, not hidin' in the bushes." "So who then?" "I've got enemies enough," Ben said, but something in his tone told Obie the man knew, or at least suspected, more than he was saying. Obie knew better than to ask again, though. Ben was among the most stubborn men going, and couldn't be made to speak before he was damn good and ready. The muted sound of raised voices drew Obie to the door. He opened it halfway and stuck his head out, listening to Juanita swearing and shouting in Spanish. It took him a few minutes to get the gist of things, and then he turned back and gave Ben a grin. "Your horse is back. And it's eating the geraniums out of her flowerbox." **** At Ben's insistence, Obie took Lonnie and Porter into town with him. For all he was a gentle soul, Lonnie had the size to make anyone think twice about starting trouble. And Porter... well, the man was a puzzle. He wasn't big or muscled, but something about the way he held himself, the way he wore his black hat pulled down low over his pitted face, the way he rarely spoke—all of it gave Porter a distinctly dangerous air. Obie was glad to have both of them along, especially when they checked in at the jail and didn't find Henry Sumner. While there was always a chance that the sheriff was out and about doing his job, Obie was a gambler at heart and knew 83

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long odds when he saw them. The smart money was on the saloon. Sure enough, the sheriff was at the bar, his gross bulk leaning over a glass of whiskey. He didn't look up when the Bar J hands walked in, just kept staring into his drink with yellow-tinged eyes. Obie imagined that if he went far enough back in Henry's life, he might see a man without a paunch hanging over his belt, without long years of too much liquor bloating and blotching his face. Maybe, he thought, he might even find a man who wasn't as lazy and hateful as a beaten jackass. "Sheriff." Obie crossed his arms, already feeling impatient with this fool's errand. "We're here to report a crime." Henry picked up his glass and drained it, then set it down and gestured for the bartender to refill it. "What sort of crime?" His tone told Obie he couldn't care less. "Somebody shot Ben on the road to town, near the cutoff to Barstow's spread." Henry didn't even look up. "Really." "Yes, really, damnit." "Well. Did he see who did it?" Obie ground his teeth. "No, he didn't see who did it. He was too busy bleedin' at the time." "So he's not dead, then?" "No, God damn it!" Obie all but yelled. "Sorry to disappoint you," Porter muttered darkly. Henry drank down another mouthful of whiskey and smacked his lips. "Well," he sighed, shifting his bulk on the barstool. "No witnesses, not much I can do." 84

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"Not much you can do," Obie sneered. "Wouldn't want you to go out and take a look or ask some questions. Hell, you might have to get up off the damn stool. Don't think your heart could take the strain." "Watch it, boy." At last Obie had the sheriff's undivided attention. "You Bar J boys are so quick to run your damn mouths. Always comin' into town like you own the place, bothering normal, decent folk with your unnatural ways. And then you got the nerve to be surprised when somebody takes a shot at one of ya!" Henry was working himself up into a fine state, an ugly flush creeping up from his neck to tinge his face red. He pushed himself off his barstool with a wheeze and took an unsteady step in their direction, his voice growing louder. "Why don't you go on back to that ranch, before somebody takes a shot at you too!" Obie's patience, not too long on the best of days, stretched past its breaking point. "You threatenin' me, old man? 'Cause so help me—" Porter laid a firm hand on his shoulder and twitched his head toward the corner. Obie left off his rant to follow his gaze. At first, all he saw was the usual table of rowdy mill workers, drunk and loud in the middle of the day. Seated with them, smoking the stub of a cigar, was Captain Vargas. And the bastard was smiling right at him. Obie felt his heart quicken. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths before turning back to the sheriff. When he spoke, it was with a low, dangerous voice that few had ever heard him use. "You don't want to do your damn job, that's fine with me. We'll take care of things ourselves." 85

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Henry narrowed his eyes, giving him the look of a rooting pig. "Don't you go takin' the law into your own hands, boy." "I guess I will," Obie growled. "Tell you somethin' else for free. We'll go wherever we damn well please, and we won't stand to be threatened." The sheriff's face flushed deeper, almost purple, but before he could speak, Obie cut him off. "Go back to your bottle, old man." With that, he dismissed Henry outright and headed to the mill boys' table. He stopped, aware of Lonnie and Porter flanking him, and fixed his eye on Vargas. "Still in town, El Capitan?" The Mexican smiled with his mouthful of ghastly teeth. "I like it here," he said, pulling his cigar from his teeth and waving it in their general direction. "Since I no longer have an army, I find myself with, como se dice? Time to kill." The mill boys laughed. Obie clenched his fists and kept his focus on Vargas. "If I were to find out it was you who took a shot at Ben—" "Me? Why would I do such a thing? I bear no ill will to the man. It was a simple misunderstanding." False sincerity oozed out of the man, along with his big, phony smile. "Besides, I have been here all day. My new friends here will tell you." One of the mill boys glared up at them from behind a bushy, blond beard and moustache. "That's right. He's been here with us all day. Why don't you run on back to your pervert ranch, faggot? Before you get hurt." Lonnie leaned in close, his muscles flexing through the thin fabric of his work shirt. "Somebody's gonna get hurt, all right." 86

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On Obie's other side, Porter had produced a hoof pick and was calmly cleaning his nails with it. "This is a dangerous town," he remarked. "Man gets shot just mindin' his own business. Makes you think anything could happen. To anybody. Probably not wise for a fella to travel alone." His dark eyes flicked to Vargas, his meaning unmistakable. For a long moment, no one spoke. The air felt thick with tension as they all eyed each other and waited to see who'd make a move first. "Awright, break it up," Henry blustered, stumbling into their midst. "I don't want no trouble in here. You boys head out of town, right this minute." Obie held his stance a moment longer, then turned on his heel and headed for the door, the other Bar J hands following him. The sheriff made good with a parting comment. "Tell Ben, next time he gets shot, he oughta pay more attention." Face flaming with impotent rage, mocking laughter at his back, Obie stalked from the saloon. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 7 It didn't take long for life to get back to normal at the ranch. Ben spent some time on the porch with his leg up, scribbling on bits of paper that he wouldn't let anyone, even Obie, get a look at. After a few days, he refused to sit still any longer and hobbled around the ranch on a crutch. Temper was especially busy in the days right after the big storm. At Ben's request, he set about teaching the others how to plane down rough boards from fallen trees. It was hard, slow work with hand tools, but they had the trees and needed the lumber so there was nothing else for it. When they were done, they'd have enough to tide them over, but the lumber shortage still weighed heavy on everyone. For Temper, the work was automatic and mindless, giving him plenty of time to think. Too much time maybe, since his brain kept coming back to Larry and James Arcady and the situation between them. On the one hand, Larry was no helpless boy. He was a man full grown and capable of taking care of himself. In his place, Temper might not have been too pleased to get help he hadn't looked for. There were some things a man preferred to take care of his own self. On the other hand, Temper knew there were some things that scared a man beyond all reason, left him helpless to manage his own business. Temper himself couldn't hardly look at the smallest, most harmless snake without damn near pissing his britches and crying for his mama, dead these long years. He thought that Arcady was 88

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like a snake in Larry's eyes, hypnotic and terrifying. And Temper didn't know whether he could stand by and watch as the jaws closed and Larry was slowly poisoned to death. In the end, he did what he always did when he had an unquiet mind: he prayed. The answer to his problem remained just outside his reach, and he felt the desperate need to talk to someone, get somebody else's take on things. But there was no way he could talk about Larry's private business with the men he had to work with every day. He resolved to approach Father Percy after services on Sunday. Where most of the men looked forward to Saturday night and the trip to the saloon, Temper found himself counting the days until Sunday. As he usually did, he spent Saturday night in a room above the saloon. It was clean, more or less, though coated with a fine layer of dirt like everything else in town. The dry air carried it into every nook and cranny, where it clung to everything and everyone like a second skin. He did his best to knock it off his boots and brush it from his hat and coat before stepping into the church the next morning. Tucking his hat under his arm, he cast around for a seat and found one in the back row. He looked around as the room filled, noting the small but lovingly kept room with its modest altar flanked by sad, limp bouquets of dried flowers. A large, plain cross hung on the wall behind it. Dust motes danced like fairies in the sunlight drifting lazily in through the tall windows, as the scuff of boots and shoes made their way across the board floor. Temper was subjected to the usual array of suspicious stares as well as a few polite nods. 89

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Father Percy entered through a side door, resplendent in a white cassock trimmed in black. Temper wondered how he kept it clean. The congregation settled and fell quiet as the pastor moved to the pulpit and paged through his Bible. He was fairly unimpressive to look at: thin and stooped, his skin covered with age spots. When he raised his head to look out over the faithful, loose skin wobbled under his chin like the wattle of a turkey. "Good morning, friends!" he boomed. While preaching, he had a voice that belonged to a much larger, much younger man, amplified by the high rafters of the room. Father Percy read a list of announcements and parishioners needing special prayers and launched into the day's sermon. It wasn't the most rousing performance Temper had ever seen, but he'd certainly heard far worse in the many churches he'd visited during his travels. They finished off with two hymns. Temper knew them both by heart and added his baritone to the chorus. Father Percy was standing outside the door, ready with a handshake and a word of greeting for each parishioner. Temper lingered in the background, waiting for a chance to speak to him alone. When the last of the faithful had gone, Percy turned and looked him over with a practiced eye. "Come back inside, son." He gestured. "It's already too hot out here for my tastes, and it's not even nine o'clock." They went back into the relative coolness of the church, where Percy motioned for him to sit. The old man looked at him with sharp, knowing eyes. "How are you getting on out at the Bar J?" 90

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Temper was immediately on his guard. There seemed to be two camps of people in this town: those that knew about Ben's "habits" and didn't seem to care, and those that found it disgusting and actively wished the man harm. Temper was already fond of his boss and wouldn't take kindly to any wanting to abuse him. His caution must have showed in his face. "Easy, son," Father Percy soothed, "I just want to see how you're settling in. It can be hard for a man of faith to accept certain behaviors goin' on in his vicinity. Believe me, I know firsthand." "I'm getting on all right. Mr. Johnson's a good boss." "And a fine man. He put the roof on this very church last spring." Temper looked up automatically, as if the roof were some great curiosity. "Ben and I have had our differences over the years," Father Percy continued, brushing at the sleeve of his robe. "I used to hound him like a vengeful spirit, calling curses down on him for being a sodomite." Temper grinned. "I don't expect he paid you much mind." "Hah! He tolerated me like a parent would a tedious child, all patient looks and kind smiles. It drove me crazy." "He seems good at that." "Indeed he is. Anyway, last year when he was attacked, I found myself presented with a choice. Turn my back on a good man, a good neighbor, because he didn't meet my standards of behavior? Side with thugs and ruffians? Stand by and do nothing? None of these felt like the right thing to do. 91

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In that second, standing in the rain watching Ben get beaten, God showed me my path." "What did you do?" Temper had heard the attack referred to, but had few details to flesh out the story. Father Percy lifted his chin and sniffed. "I waded in and punched one of those hooligans right in the nose." "Father!" "I know, not very Christian of me. I did penance for it, though God help me I'd do the same again. The point, son, is that I finally figured out that if I only opened my heart to those that followed all of God's rules, I would die a lonely man. Even worse, I'd be failing in my mission to bring the word to others. So while I can't and don't approve of a man lying with another man, I can call Ben and Obie and the others my friends, and pray that they find their own path to God. Do you understand?" "I do, Father. My mama always said that love is a blessing from heaven, and only a fool and a sinner would turn it away. I reckon them fellas are lucky to have each other, when there's so many ain't got no one." Percy gave him a searching look and nodded. "Your mother sounds like a wise woman." "Yassir." "But I've gone off the track, haven't I? You didn't come here to hear about my spiritual journey. Is there something I can help you with?" Temper told him all he knew and all he thought he knew. "My gut tells me that this fella did somethin' awful to him way 92

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back when he was just a boy. But I got no proof, and Larry ain't talkin'." "And no one else has noticed?" "I don't think so. Snow, maybe. He always keeps a sharp eye on Arcady, but that might be just because he's a lazy bastard. 'Scuse me, Father." Percy smiled briefly but didn't comment on his language. "I take it you're feelin' the urge to help this young man?" "Yassir, but I don't exactly know if he'd welcome it. I just don't feel right about standing around doin' nothin' while a man suffers." "Hmm. Let me give you something else to consider. Are you sure that Larry needs your help? You think he's scared, but might there be some other reason he hasn't confronted this other fellow?" Temper hadn't thought about that and said so. Percy nodded, deep in thought. "We often come to trouble when we try and parse out what others are thinking and feeling. Even this Arcady. He might have done something awful in his past. Many of us have. It doesn't mean he's prepared to do it again. Men do change, Temper, especially over so much time." More confused and uncertain now than ever, Temper gave a little sigh of frustration. Percy patted his leg apologetically. "Son, here's an idea. Why don't you talk to Larry? I know he don't talk back, but from what I've seen, he does pretty well making himself understood. Just letting him know he's got a friend in you might be enough to help him through." 93

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Temper could have smacked himself in the head. "Lord, why didn't I think of that? The man's mute, not deaf." Percy chuckled and rose, a crackle sounding from one complaining knee. "Good luck, son." He held out his hand and Temper shook it. "I'm here when you're ready to talk about the rest of it." Temper frowned, but the preacher was already moving away. Temper thanked him and left the church, his mind replaying the conversation. It was a simple solution that had eluded him no matter how hard he prayed on it, and he gave a quick, silent prayer of thanks for his newfound clarity of mind. He wanted to know how he could help Larry, so he would ask him. **** It was two days before Temper found himself alone with the object of his concerns. Even with all that time, he still struggled to find the right words. "Say there, Larry," he said awkwardly, clearing his throat and shuffling his boots in the dirt. He immediately cursed himself for acting like a nervous virgin. Larry, who was taking his turn mucking stalls, stood back from his work and leaned on the pitchfork. His bare, hairy chest was sheened in perspiration, with bits of hay sticking to the damp skin. He pushed back a lock of sweaty hair from his face and gave Temper an expectant look. "Um." Damn it all. This was a lot harder than the preacher had made it sound. "Been wantin' to ask you, that is to say, I've been wonderin' about... aw, hell." Larry covered the 94

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distance between them and laid a hand on Temper's arm, peering up under the brim of his hat and giving an amused grin. Temper felt an answering grin touch his own face, and he took a deep breath and started again. "I don't like that fella Arcady. I don't like the way he looks at you, like he wants somethin'. I don't know what happened between you all them years ago, and it ain't my business anyhow. I just want you to know you can count on me if you need a hand." Larry had the most expressive face Temper had ever encountered, and everything from annoyance to embarrassment flashed across it. Suddenly feeling foolish, Temper dropped his gaze to his boots. "Ain't sayin' you need help dealing with your own affairs. 'Course, you probably got lots of other fellas you could ask if you did." A warm hand on his cheek made him look up, and there was Larry, a sweet smile on his face that wouldn't have been out of place on one of the angels in the holy book. For that one moment, Temper could feel the heat from his skin, smell the sweat and musk rising from the younger man like a spirit in rapture, feel his own sex stir and thicken, and he had to fight the urge to lean in and breathe deep of his scent. Unbidden, he recalled the dream he'd been trying so hard not to think about and couldn't help but imagine what it would be like, pushing into that body. He came back to his senses when Larry leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. Temper felt dazed. Larry was so close that Temper could see tiny flecks of gold in his brown eyes. And then Larry gave him a smile and a pat on his arm and turned away. Temper watched him pick up his fork 95

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and go back to work, wondering if he was really the only one who'd had his world upended, just like that. How had it come to this? Temper had never had a lustful thought for another man, not in his whole adventure-filled life, and now suddenly, he wanted Larry so badly he felt he'd die if he couldn't have him. He went back to his own work, rubbing down tack with the strong-scented oil they kept in the barn for that purpose. Lord, he was confused. The only thing he felt sure about was whether or not Larry wanted his help. Father Percy was right. The man knew how to make himself understood. And the answer he'd given had been clear: no help needed, but it's kind of you to ask. As for the rest? Temper knew he had a lot of praying to do. And he had a feeling that Father Percy would be expecting him. **** Three days later, Temper was pulled from his daily chores by his boss. Holding a sheaf of papers, Ben drew him away from the barn, and they walked a short way up the path to the north pasture. Temper noted that he had discarded his crutch and was barely limping now. "How's the leg coming along?" "Gettin' there, Temper, gettin' there. Now, I've been thinkin' long and hard about what to do with that overgrown plot up there, and I've finally made up my mind." He consulted his papers, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. Temper leaned over and tried to sneak a 96

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peek. Ben grinned and rolled the bundle up, tapping it in the palm of his hand. "Not yet," he admonished. "I want you to start clearing that brush and cutting down those trees. Once the horses are fed and watered, that's your priority, got it? Put together a crew. Use whoever you need to have it done by the end of the summer." Temper's eyebrows shot up. It was a damn big job, and not a lot of time to do it in. "I know," Ben said, squinting in the direction of the plot in question. "It's askin' a lot. But now I've got a plan, I'm of a mind to get it finished before winter." "Yassir," Temper acknowledged. He was fair itching with curiosity, but the one thing he had come to know about his boss was that the man could keep his lips tight until he was damn good and ready to talk. A shout sounded from the barn, a single word that had them both running at top speed. Fire! Snow was closer and dashed into the barn before they got there. A faint wisp of smoke slipped out the top of the door and hung there in the air. Temper veered off, heading straight for the well. He pumped a full bucket in seconds, his muscles driven by near panic, then hefted it and ran. At first glance, things inside the barn looked bad, but a few seconds of peering through the haze of smoke revealed only a small fire smoldering in a hay bale. Temper made short work of it, waving a hand to try and clear the air. Frowning, he leaned over and plucked something out of the sodden hay. He 97

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held the limp cigarette up, suddenly aware of all the eyes that were fixed on him. Snow had Arcady by the collar, pinned up against a stall, and he was fair vibrating with anger. "He was sleepin', right there on that bale. Damn your hide, didn't I tell you what I'd do if I caught you smokin' in here?" Snow gave him a little shake. Arcady stammered out a denial, but it fell on deaf ears. "You're through here," Ben said in that infuriating calm tone of his. "Get your gear. I'll draw your wages. Temper, Snow, get these animals out of here. Put 'em in the training corral 'til the smoke clears out." Snow all but threw Arcady out the door as Temper hurried to follow orders. He wasn't looking forward to dealing with Ben's stallion, but he didn't have to. Ben put a bridle on the Bastard and led him out himself, swinging onto his bare back and trotting up to the main house. When Temper brought out Obie's little chestnut mare, Arcady was standing toe to toe with Snow, his face red and every muscle in his neck standing rigid. The foreman stood still and quiet while the disgraced hand cursed at him, but a dark, ugly storm was moving in over Snow's face. Oh Lord, Temper thought, hustling the mare into the corral. If the men actually came to blows, he wanted to have his hands free. "—and I'm tellin' ya, it ain't mine! You told me no smokin' in the barn, so I don't!" Snow unclenched his jaw enough to grind out a response. "Whose was it, then? You're the only one workin' down here." Arcady cut his eyes toward Temper. "You! You set me up, didn't you?" He turned back to Snow, jabbing a finger in 98

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Temper's direction. "He's hated me right from the start. I bet he took a smoke out of my footlocker and left it in the barn!" "What the hell, boy?" Temper was shocked enough to take a step forward, fists clenched, but Snow waved him back. "Save that horseshit," the foreman barked. "Hell, I don't even care if you set the fire. You're a lazy son of a bitch, and I was fixin' to fire you anyhow. Now go in there and get your horse and tack. I want you off this ranch as soon as Ben gets back with your pay, which you wouldn't be gettin' if I had a say." Arcady snarled and spun on his heel, disappearing into the barn. Temper moved to follow, intending to keep bringing out the horses, but Snow held him back. "Wait." A minute later Arcady stormed back out, his saddle under one arm, leading his bay with the other. He wrapped the reins around the corral rail, threw the saddle on the animal's back and tightened the cinch with a jerk. He then turned and stalked to the bunkhouse, passing close enough by Temper to shove him with his shoulder. Again Temper made a fist and stepped forward, and again Snow shut him down with a look. He pointed instead to the barn, and Temper grit his teeth and went in to fetch another horse. When he came out, Ben had ridden back down and turned the Bastard loose in the training corral. Running a practiced eye over Arcady's mount, he checked the tack and loosened the cinch. The animal shifted and sighed. "That's better, ain't it," Ben murmured, giving the pale flank a pat. Arcady slammed out of the bunkhouse with his pack and saddlebags, brushing past Ben to throw them up over the horse's neck. Ben handed over the fancy pistol he'd 99

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confiscated months ago and held out a small bundle of bills, but didn't let go when Arcady moved to take it. "Don't go takin' out your piss-poor attitude on that horse," he warned. Jerking the money free, Arcady glared at Ben, his teeth bared in a snarl. Temper found himself thinking back to their first day at the ranch, and the hungry, inviting look Arcady had given his new boss. There was no lust in the cowboy's eyes now, only smoldering rage. "You go to hell, old man. You and all the damn perverts on this ranch." He swung into the saddle and rode away without another word. Ben watched him go, his face showing nothing but mild annoyance. "Damn it all. Obie was right about him. I'm never gonna hear the end of it. Snow, send word to Sam and Gus, in case he goes to them lookin' for work." He tipped his hat back and scratched his head, then frowned at Temper. "I know you're not standing here gawkin' while my horses are in that smoky damn barn." Temper all but sprinted into the barn, Ben's voice following him in. "I already fired one fella today—it ain't the time to go slackin' off!" **** The following Saturday night, James Arcady was sitting at the corner table in the saloon, playing cards with his fellow mill workers and one ex-militia captain. Snow made the observation that it sure was handy to have all the folks who hated them all together in one little place. [Back to Table of Contents] 100

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Chapter 8 Summer fairly flew by. Temper spent all his work time clearing out the overgrown lot, cutting trees and uprooting scrub brush and stumps. All the hands took turns helping, but more often than not it was Larry who showed up after the horses were fed, grinning and shucking his shirt. Eventually it became Larry's permanent job, which suited Temper just fine. He'd always been a man who enjoyed peace and quiet, and with Larry, there was sure no shortage of that. The work was hard and hot. They took frequent breaks, escaping the sun in a little lean-to, sprawled side by side sipping lukewarm water. For Temper, those moments were both heaven and hell. Laying there, feeling the heat coming off Larry's lean body, scenting the sweat that trickled down his skin, hearing his little panting breaths.... And the dreams. Good Lord, the dreams he was having put that first one to shame. It was damned inconvenient when you slept in a bunkhouse with a dozen other men. Some nights he'd wake with a start, his member big and aching, with fleeting wisps of dream still floating in his brain, flashes of humid bare skin, of touching and groaning and kissing, and damn if that wasn't the best part, the part that sometimes got him out of his bed and out into the cool night to finish himself behind the barn. And always, always, it was Larry, the soft of his lips and the rough of his beard, that he imagined kissing when he finished. 101

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Temper might have been in torment, but Larry was relaxed and happy. The tightness around his eyes had eased since Arcady left the ranch, and the spring was back in his step. And maybe it was Temper's imagination, but it seemed to him that those occasional shy glances thrown his way were just a mite bit wicked, too. One hot Saturday night in August, Larry jumped into the wagon and settled next to Temper, throwing him one of those teasing little grins. Temper grinned back and shook his head, wondering why the young man insisted on soaking himself in that God-awful cologne for every trip into town. His own sweaty, earthy smell was far more attractive. Not that it made much difference to Temper, who was terribly aware of the other man's presence, even if he did smell like a Kansas City brothel. The wagon seemed a lot more crowded tonight, mostly because Lonnie was coming along. Most Saturdays he stayed at home with his family, but this week he seemed glad to be getting out. No one was sure what he'd done to anger Juanita, but they'd all heard the angry Spanish hollering that had chased the big man out of his house—not to mention the stock pot that had bounced off his skull on the way. He'd been sulking when he threw himself into the wagon, taking up more than his share of space, but soon his natural good temper had reasserted itself, and he was laughing and joking with the others. In fact, everyone was in a fine mood, full of piss and vinegar, as Temper's daddy used to say. The men were all ready for their weekly night out on the town. Only problem was, they were two men short. 102

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Snow lounged against the side of the wagon, sighing and shooting pointed gazes at the setting sun. "Where the hell are they?" he muttered. "Finally! Let's go, time's a'wastin'." "Actually," Ben said, aiming for casual and missing by a country mile, "You go ahead and take 'em into town. Me and Obie'll stay and keep an eye on things." Porter snorted, and Obie pinked up like a virgin. Temper made a mental addition to his shopping list—whenever them two were left alone on the ranch, it played hell with their supply of saddle oil. "All right, boss," Snow said with a knowing grin. "I guess you two got things well in hand." Snickers rose up from the wagon. "Damnit, left my hat in the bunkhouse." Ben took the battered tan hat off his own head and dropped it on Snow's. "Now you got a hat. Git goin'." This time Snow laughed outright. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're tryin' to get rid of us. You in a hurry or somethin'?" Ben flashed him a rare, wide grin in answer. Snow shook his head and climbed up on the seat, released the brake, and twitched the reins. They rumbled down the path to the main road. Ben and Obie had disappeared into the barn before they'd traveled ten feet. Yeah, they'd definitely be needing more oil. As they slowly covered the distance between the Bar J and town, Temper noticed with suspicion that with every bump and rut the old wagon jostled over, Larry moved a little closer. By the time he could feel the heat of the other man's thigh resting against his own, Temper was sure and gave him 103

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a questioning look. For his part, Larry flashed an impish grin and nestled a bit closer. Glancing around at the others, Temper saw that either no one had noticed or no one cared. He let himself relax and enjoy the contact, even daring to add an extra bottle of oil to his list, just in case. He didn't actually hear the gunshot, though he remembered it later. The first hint he had that something was wrong was when Ben's hat landed in his lap. It was upside down, and there was a spray of blood droplets on the underside of the brim. And then Larry scrambled over him to the seat, and the wagon jerked to a halt, and there was shouting, and Snow was pulled down into the wagon bed with them. Shock made Temper slow on the uptake, and for a long time he couldn't understand where all the blood was coming from. It was pooling on the planks he was sitting on and soaking into the leg of his trousers. It was staining Snow's white hair a bitter red. Abruptly, Temper snapped back into himself. Lonnie had already stripped off his shirt and was pressing it to the side of Snow's head. Porter vaulted over the side of the wagon and ran toward the thick brush lining the road. "Go!" he hollered at Larry, who was white-faced and clutching the reins. "Get him back to the ranch!" As the wagon started moving, Temper made his decision and jumped out, following Porter into the scrub. With the wagon turned 'round and gone, his own breathing was harsh in his ears as they crashed through the undergrowth. Porter was like a hunting dog on a scent, 104

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crouched low and moving quick, following some sound that Temper couldn't hear. He did his best to quiet his breathing and keep up, ignoring the branches that sliced and slapped at his face and arms like whips. They burst into a clearing in time to hear hooves pounding away from them. Something skittered away from the toe of Temper's boot and he looked down. Porter's lips thinned into tight lines as he squinted after their quarry. "Won't catch him on foot, but I can track him." "Don't think we need to," Temper replied, straightening from a crouch and holding up the green leather riding crop. Porter's eyes went lizard black. "Let's get back." Was all he said. Temper said a silent prayer. He had a very bad feeling that more blood would be shed before the night was over. **** Obie groaned and shifted his weight, trying to wiggle some feeling back into his hands. It was all well and good for Ben to enact these fantasies of his, but just once, couldn't he fantasize about a feather bed in a nice hotel somewhere? Why did they all involve Obie getting tied up? Not that the rewards weren't ample. Naked and standing against the main pillar in the barn, his hands bound to a hook high above his head, he was able to forget his discomfort by the sheer fact of Ben, on his knees in front of him, suckling his cock like a foal at his mam's teat. Lord, what a thing it was to watch his johnson, grown thick and stiff from all the attention, moving wetly in and out of his 105

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lover's lips. Needing a faster pace, he tried to thrust further into that hot mouth, but Ben caught his hips and held him still. Obie called him every filthy name he'd ever heard. The chuckle that drew vibrated up through his most sensitive parts, stealing his ability to swear. Ben was still dressed, but his britches were open and his own swollen member was poking out. He dropped one hand down to give it a slow, leisurely stroke. Obie threw his head back, and the noise that came out of his throat was somewhere between a groan and a gurgle. His eyes were closed in bliss. He could feel his finish creeping up on him, his stones tightening in their sacs, his cock filling out even more. He damn near screamed when Ben took his mouth away, then resumed his cursing when Ben rose up like a shot and forced his member back into his pants. "Son of a bitch!" Obie hollered, twisting against the leather strip that held him. "Don't stop now, you bastard!" His eyes widened when Ben slid the knife out of his boot. Before Obie had the chance to get nervous, Ben slit the cord and started throwing his clothes at him. "Somebody's coming." "Son of a bitch," Obie said again as he dressed frantically. Far from cooling his lust, almost being caught was making him even harder, and it was no easy task to button his trousers over his leaking cock. "Whoever it is, I'm gonna kill 'em." He could hear what Ben had heard now. It was a wagon, and it was coming in fast.

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Ben had an odd expression on his face, like he'd just had a premonition of something awful. Obie's erection abruptly wilted away and a twisting, gnawing ache took up in his gut. They burst out of the barn just as the wagon reached them. Larry was driving, and Snow was— Oh God. Oh, my dear God. Obie watched the color drain from Ben's face. There was so much blood. Larry barely slowed long enough for them to jump on the back of the wagon, then whipped the horses on to the main house. They carried Snow inside and laid him out on the bed. Snow's eyes were open, but they didn't look right. The right one looked normal enough, but the left was big and dark like a startled horse's. Both were fixed on nothing, blinking slow and sluggish. Someone's shirt was wrapped around his head, acting as a bandage. There was blood in his hair and in his ears. Obie heard Lonnie send someone to town for the doc, knew that men were rushing around for water, for bandages, but his gaze was on the one man who wasn't rushing at all. Ben sat down on the side of the bed and stared at his oldest friend. He raised a hand and waved it in front of those sightless eyes, then let it drop to his side. The look on his face made Obie's heart clench in his chest. "You've seen this before." Ben gave a slow nod. "Once. Fella got kicked in the head by a mustang." "He didn't make it." It wasn't a question. 107

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"No," Ben whispered, taking Snow's limp hand in his own. His face was drawn, his eyes swamped in misery. "No, he didn't." Obie laid his hands on Ben's shoulders and pressed himself against the man's back. He felt like he'd swallowed a rock, big and heavy in his stomach. He knew that others were in the room, doing their best to tend their friend, knew that at some point the doctor came and went. None of that seemed important or even real. The world narrowed down to him, his lover, and the man on the bed. They stayed that way for half the night, listening as Snow fought harder and harder to draw breath. It took almost four hours for him to die. **** They stepped onto the porch and straight into a whispered argument, but the men fell quiet when they appeared. No one had to ask. Ben's face told the story. "Son of a bitch," Billy muttered, snatching the hat off his head. "Goddamn son of a bitch." Larry hunched in on himself, his face disappearing behind the curtain of his hair. Lonnie dashed at his eyes with the back of his hand. It was Porter who finally spoke. "Show him." All eyes turned to Temper, who flicked his gaze between Porter and Ben. "You sure?" "Show me what?" Ben's words came out like knives, and Temper wisely gave in. He pulled the crop out of his jacket and held it out without another word. Ben looked at it for a 108

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long moment, his lips thin and bloodless, his jaw clenched tight. And then he snatched it from Temper's hand and strode past them all, heading for the barn. Lonnie jumped to his feet. "Oh Lord, he's gonna kill him." He made as if to follow, but Obie held him up. "I got him. You take care of Snow." With a glance over his shoulder at the little cemetery, Obie ran to the barn. He had to jump back when the Bastard plunged through the door and took off down the road to town with Ben riding bareback and hunched low over the stallion's neck. Obie tossed a saddle on the fastest horse he could find and took off as well, hoping like hell he could catch up with his lover. And what then? If Ben was set on killing the captain, was there anything in the world Obie could do to stop him? Did he really want to? Obie nearly killed the little filly, but he managed to keep the black stallion in sight. It was too damn dark to be riding this fast. The trees were sketchy shadows against a gray-blue sky that seemed to reach out for him as they flashed by. Ben rode the stallion into town and right up to the saloon, leaping off the horse and pushing through the doors in the time it took the filly to pull up. When Obie ran up the stairs and into the saloon, the captain was sitting with his back to the door, playing cards. Ben grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out of his chair like he weighed less than a kitten, and flung him halfway across the room. Obie spared a glance at the saloon's patrons, most of whom he knew. They were silent to a man, frozen with shock, and Obie knew how they felt. He'd never seen his lover so 109

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much as raise his voice, never mind his hand, to another man. No one spoke or moved to interfere when Ben dragged the captain to his feet by his collar and shoved him up against the bar. He didn't say a word, just held the crop up in a grip so tight his knuckles were white and his whole arm was shaking. The captain looked at the crop, and the color drained from his face. He looked into Ben's eyes and saw murder there, his own death looking back. A damp stain spread across his trousers. The saloon was so quiet, Obie could hear the piss hitting the fabric. For a long moment, nothing happened at all. Ben reared back and struck the captain across the face with his own riding crop, a vicious blow that would scar the man for life. By the third blow, the captain was shrieking and trying to shield his head with his arms, only to squeal when his fingers were brutally slashed. Again and again the crop fell as Ben thrashed the little prick with all the strength in his muscled body. When the captain was reduced to a sobbing, cowering heap on the floor, Ben threw the crop aside and started kicking, slamming his boots into the vulnerable ribs and kidneys. It was clear by now that he meant to kill the man, and Obie found himself of two minds as to how to proceed. On the one hand, once Snow's death and the captain's part in it became known, not a man in town would argue the man deserved to die. But right now Obie didn't give a damn about the law or what the neighbors thought. He only cared about Ben and what was going to bring him out the other side of 110

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this with his heart and his head intact. And there was that other hand. Obie wasn't at all sure Ben was in his right mind. He sure as hell wasn't acting like himself. If he killed the captain he might be satisfied today, but days from now, weeks or months or even years from now, would he regret it? Would Ben in his right mind want Obie to stop him short of murder? Further complicating the whole mess was the undeniable fact that Obie wanted the captain dead his own self. Watching as his lover did his best to beat the bastard to death, Obie was pretty sure he'd feel no guilt himself. If he stopped Ben now, he could always come back later and finish the captain off a bit more discreetly. Assuming, that is, he could stop Ben. The man was devilish stubborn, once he'd made up his mind. Obie stepped forward, taking care to stay out of his lover's reach. "Ben," he called, keeping his voice normal. "Ben, that's enough." If Ben heard him, he gave no sign. Just kept kicking. Sighing, Obie picked up a mug from the bar and dashed its contents in Ben's face. Ben started, whipping his head around in search of a new enemy to pummel, instead finding Obie's familiar face looking calmly back at him. "I said that's enough." Ben blinked, the wildness leaving his face all at once. He looked down at the unmoving man at his feet, moaning and smelling of piss and blood, then around the saloon at his staring neighbors. When he came back around to Obie, he had a bewildered look on his face, like he'd just woken up from a bad dream. Obie took his shoulders and squeezed 111

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hard, wanting Ben to focus on him. "Come on. Let's go home." Nodding, Ben made his way slowly to the door, weaving a little, like he was drunk. Obie watched him leave and then turned back to the others. "Snow's dead. Vargas bushwhacked him on the way to town." Just saying the words made his throat feel like it was caught in a noose, but watching their faces, Obie knew there'd be no trouble. Everyone had liked Snow. More than one man present turned a grim eye in the captain's direction, and Obie thought he might not have to come back, after all. Sam Barstow asked the question Obie hadn't yet considered. "Why'd he go after Snow?" A sick feeling washed over Obie. He thought of the last time he'd seen Snow, well and smiling, driving the wagon away. Wearing Ben's hat. His fists clenched, he turned to the whimpering mass on the floor, ready to finish the job. A firm hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Percy, his eyes wide with shock, shaking his head in a silent plea. Obie choked back his rage and walked out. He nearly didn't see his lover, clinging to the side of the big, black stallion in the dark. Obie paced slowly to his side. He ran a hand up the man's heaving back, breaking their unspoken no-touching-in-town rule. To his surprise, Ben spun around into his arms, sliding to his knees in the dirt and pressing his face hard against Obie's flat stomach. Ben's arms went around his waist so tight Obie could barely breathe. 112

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Obie returned the embrace, pulling his lover as close as he possibly could, one hand cupping his head, the other wrapped around his shaking shoulders. Every other thought in his head abruptly fell quiet as Obie considered that he was very likely the only thing keeping Ben from flying into a million pieces. He, Obie Watson, who up until a year ago had never been trusted with anything more important than the care of an old pocket watch, was now responsible for the well-being of another human being. And not just any man, but Ben Johnson. That most controlled and steady of men, when he reached his limit, turned to Obie to hold him together. And that was just damn terrifying. Ignoring the voice in his head urging him to run, run, run, Obie held on tight while his lover sobbed silently against his belly. "I've got you," he whispered, stroking the short hair beneath his hand. "Go on, it's all right. I won't let go." **** It took a long time for Obie to fall asleep that night. After falling apart so briefly in town, Ben shut down completely. He was still lying there, stiff as a corpse, staring sightlessly into the dark, when Obie finally dropped off. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 9 The hands moved slowly around the bunkhouse, casting furtive looks at Snow's empty bunk. Temper sat cross-legged on his bed, holding his Bible and praying. His blood-stained pants were hung over a fence outside. Likely a coyote would drag them away by morning. Temper wouldn't mind. Larry and Porter were silent, the one sunk in misery, the other in simmering rage. Miguel had been playing mournful, wordless songs on his guitar, and it was working Dex into a temper. "Swear to God, if you don't quit plucking on that thing, I'll wrap it around your goddamned neck!" Miguel spat a short Spanish insult at him and kept on playing. "I've had just about enough of your kind!" Dex snarled. The music stopped. "My kind?" Miguel's voice was soft and dangerous. "Mexicans," Dex spat. "It was one of your kind that killed Snow. Least you can do is let him rest in peace." "Vargas was none of mine. I hope the boss killed him, and he burns in hell for all eternity. Snow is in heaven now, and he deserves to be. I will play this guitar to honor him, and not you or nobody is going to stop me." Miguel resumed his dirge. Dex swore a blue streak and slammed out of the barn. Billy sighed and followed him out. Temper paid them no mind. Grief was a strange thing, striking men in different ways. For some, anger was easier to deal with than sorrow. He glanced at Larry, looking for some 114

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sign that he needed company, but the young man seemed caught up in his own thoughts. Temper slid the Bible under his pillow and crawled into his bunk, waiting patiently for the others to settle and put out the lamp. He didn't know if any were actually sleeping, but the room finally went dark and quiet. He wasn't planning on getting much sleep himself, the events of the day still much too clear and new in his head, but after a while, he drifted off. Sometime in the night he awoke with the feeling that someone was watching him. He knew Larry was nearby, having become accustomed to the feel and smell of him. Silently, he lifted the edge of his blanket. The younger man climbed in. Temper wrapped his arms around him, pulling the lean, warm body up close against his own. Little huffs of breath blew against his chest, and a few hot, silent tears soaked into his nightshirt. Temper held him until his breathing evened out in sleep. A while later, after Dex and Billy had crept back inside smelling like sex, he wondered what the others would think in the morning, finding them in the same bed like this. He found he didn't really care. **** Obie woke up alone when the sun was barely up, his eyes feeling like he'd ridden through a sandstorm. He dressed and wandered into the hall. Juanita, red-eyed and silent, pressed a tin mug of coffee into his hand and vanished back into the kitchen. Lonnie was sitting on the porch swing with his own cup. His shirttails were untucked and his suspenders hung loose 115

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around his thick thighs. He was unshaven, and his expressive face was tired and bleak. He motioned with his cup, and Obie turned, registering the sound he'd been hearing since he stepped outside. Ben was in the cemetery, shirtless and up to his knees in a hole, digging mechanically. "He won't let me help," Lonnie said. "Guess he wants to do it by himself. Wanted to build the coffin, too, but Temper promised to do a good job. Said he'd do right by old Snow." The big man's voice caught, and he cleared his throat and took a long drink. Obie sighed and watched his lover for a while, grim-faced and sweating at his task. He decided not to interrupt him and headed for the barn instead. He pushed the door wide and left it open to allow the weak morning light to filter in. Obie's throat tightened at the sight of Temper, carefully filing a rough edge off the pine coffin set up on sawhorses in the work area. It finally hit him, right then and there, that he'd never again walk into the barn or the bunkhouse, anywhere, and see Snow's familiar, white head and smiling face. Temper had looked up briefly at his entrance but returned to his work. Obie trailed his fingers over the wood, noting the seamless joints and sturdy construction. "It's nice," he said, the words rasping in his throat. "That's a good job." Nodding, Temper laid the plane aside. "Give me a hand." Together, they lifted the coffin into the back of the wagon. Obie noted with a sick sense of relief that all traces of the blood had been washed away. While they were loading it up, Percy's old mare plodded up the road to the ranch. The preacher was sitting arrow-straight in the saddle, clutching 116

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the reins in thin, liver-spotted hands. He pulled the horse up as he approached the barn. Obie went to meet him. "Morning, Father. What brings you out here?" "I've come to lay Snow to rest," Percy said, sliding carefully from the saddle. Obie took his reins and handed the mare off to Temper for care. "I don't know that he was a believer," Obie admitted. "Nobody's perfect." Obie managed a smile. He guessed that Percy would never quit surprising him. "Perce," he ventured as they walked toward the house, "is he dead?" "He wasn't this morning when I checked in. Some of the boys from the lumber mill dragged him off to the doctor last night. Andy seems to think he'll live." "That's too bad." Percy stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You did right, stopping him when you did." "I'm not so sure about that. Bastard deserves to die for what he did." "Perhaps." Percy rocked back on his heels and lifted his eyes to the sky. "Believe me, son. I know what it's like to feel that righteous anger. But vengeance is the province of the Lord, and it's up to Him to punish wrongdoers." Obie made a face. "Too bad he don't always come through with the punishin'. I seen plenty of fellas do wrong and skip off free as a bird." "In this life, maybe. But God judges all in due time." "You really believe that?" 117

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"I have to, Obediah. Sometimes it's the only thing that gets me through the day." They resumed walking. "Speaking of justice, I had a conversation with the sheriff. He wanted to ride out with me this morning." "Not today, Percy. I truly don't know what would happen, but it wouldn't be pretty." "I thought as much, so I talked him out of it. He agreed to wait a day, but if Ben doesn't come into town to see him tomorrow, he'll be coming out." "That fat son of a bitch. He's gonna pick now to do his job? He sure didn't give a damn about the law when that bastard shot Ben." "I understand, truly," Percy soothed, patting Obie's arm. "But that's for tomorrow. Today we say goodbye to our friend." **** Obie didn't hear much of Percy's sermon. He stood at Ben's side in a numb state as words and sounds drifted past him. He heard the horses whickering and the men sniffling, he heard Rosie ask her mother if Tio Snow was really in that box, and why were they putting him in the ground? But the preacher's words were a low buzz in the background. Mostly, Obie was aware of Ben standing next to him, feet planted, eyes fixed on some point on the horizon. Obie reached out discreetly and brushed his hand against his lover's. It was like touching stone. **** 118

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When the grave had been filled in and Percy was on his way back to town, Ben ordered all the hands to wait for him in the bunkhouse. Obie followed him into the house and found him in the bedroom, kneeling in front of the big chest under the window. Ben kept it locked, and Obie had never seen what was kept inside. Now the blankets and clothes that were usually heaped on top of it had been carelessly dumped on the floor. Obie dropped to his knees beside his lover, planted a kiss on that stubbled jaw, and tried not to worry when Ben didn't seem to notice. "Whatcha doin'?" "Something I never thought I'd do," came the gruff reply. Ben pushed back the lid on the chest and pulled back a faded green quilt. Obie felt his heart speed up at what lay underneath. "Where'd they come from?" Nestled among old clothes in the bottom of the chest were pistols of varying quality and caliber, some still in their holsters. "I never allowed guns on this ranch, 'cept for rifles. Boys turn these in when they take work here. Pick 'em up when they leave. These are from the fellas that either didn't leave, or gave up the gun when they did." Obie was drawn to a set of pistols much finer than any of the others. Gleaming black, with dark walnut grips, they rested in fancy leather holsters attached to an equally fine leather gun belt. It was hard to believe anyone had willingly given them up. "Can you shoot, Obie?" 119

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"Some. Not much of a shot," the reformed gambler admitted. "Generally I rely on my mouth and my feet." Ben almost managed a smile, but it quickly faded. "You'll get better," he said, spreading the quilt out on the floor. One after another, he laid the guns on the fabric, adding cloth bags that clinked when he put them down. Obie watched, a pain growing in the core of his stomach. His anxiety grew as they walked together to the bunkhouse. The men were sitting quietly, the pall of the graveyard having followed them indoors. Obie tried to judge how they were taking Snow's death, but most of them were damned hard to read, even for an old poker player. Temper was sitting on Larry's bunk, talking to him in a low voice with a hand on his arm. Everyone looked up when they came in, their faces tight and closed as though waiting for another blow. Ben regarded them for a moment, then strode over to Snow's neatly made bunk and dropped his burden. The hands gathered around without a word. "From now on, nobody goes anywhere unarmed. That goes for here and in town. I know I can count on you all not to be foolish with these damned things, but I expect you all to protect yourselves and each other. I'll set up some lessons for those of you that need 'em. "I don't want anyone going anywhere alone, neither. Every time you fellas ride out, at least one man is to have a rifle loaded and ready." Ben looked around the circle, making eye contact with each man in turn. "There's worse things around here than coyotes. We found that out the hard way. Next time... next time, we won't be such easy pickin's." 120

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Obie watched their faces as Ben laid down the law. Mostly he saw tightening jaws and hard swallows and felt a general sense of determination from the hands. Snow is gone, they seemed to say. Let him be the last one. The one exception was Porter, who regarded his boss with hooded eyes and walked out of the bunkhouse. Ben didn't look surprised. He gathered up the gun belt with the fancy pistols and followed him out. Obie wasn't sure if he was welcome, but trailed behind out of sheer curiosity. Porter was leaning against the fence, the lines of his back tense and uninviting. Ben approached casually, leaning next to him, while Obie hung back and watched. For a long moment, neither of them said a thing. When Porter spoke, he did so without moving at all. "You know what you're asking." "I do." "You promised me." "I know. I'm breaking that promise. I'm asking you to take them up again." Ben held the belt up, the butts of the pistols pointing right at him. "Worse than that. I want you to teach the others." Porter's head dropped until it was hanging below his shoulders. Obie barely heard his response. "I don't want this." "You think I do? You think I ever wanted my boys running around this ranch like gunslingers? I swear I can hear Robert rolling over in his damn grave." Ben spat on the ground and rubbed a heavy hand over his face. Obie could practically feel his weariness from where he stood. "Damn me, John, I don't know what else to do. You, all of you, are my responsibility, 121

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and I don't know how else to protect you." The desperation in his voice was so foreign, so frightening, that it felt like shards of glass in Obie's ears. Porter must have felt it too, because he took a deep breath and blew it out in a sigh, straightening as he did. He reached out with steady hands and took the pistols. "I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure you never have to use them," Ben said as he watched him strap them on. "I know my promises probably don't hold much truck with you right now, but that's the best I can do." At the best of times, Porter was a gruff, almost cold man, and this was far from the best of times. Something in Ben's face must have moved him, though, for he grunted and gave a nod. "I'll teach 'em. How to shoot and when to shoot." He started moving toward the barn but stopped and spoke quietly over his shoulder. "I don't want to lose nobody else, neither." Obie watched him go, waiting until he was out of range before approaching Ben. He leaned against the fence, close enough to his lover that their shoulders were touching. Ben took his time, but eventually he spoke. "I promised him, when he came here all them years ago, that he'd never have to take up those guns again. Told him he could start over, have a new life." "He's got one," Obie insisted. "I don't know what he did or who he was before he took up with the Bar J, but you gave him a new life. Now you're asking him to protect it. I think he understands. If he don't, he will, given time." 122

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"I hope you're right." Ben sighed and pushed off from the fence. Behind them, the men emerged from the bunkhouse and made their way to the barn. "I just have this feeling that I'm wrecking one man to save the others, and I don't like that at all. No," he said, rubbing his face again and staring at the yearlings in the near pasture. "Don't like it at all." He turned and headed back toward the bunkhouse. "Obie, tell them boys, after they do chores, they're to do whatever Porter tells 'em to." "All right," Obie agreed. He didn't have to ask what Ben would be doing. He'd be packing up Snow's things to send to his sister in Philadelphia. **** Even though Obie relayed Percy's message about the sheriff, Ben showed no inclination to ride into town. So it was that Henry's old, swayback mare made its lazy way up the path from the main road just before lunch the next day. Temper was just finishing mucking the stalls. They'd all gotten a late start on daily chores, having started the day with another shooting lesson. Temper hated wearing that damned gun. It was cold against his thigh, a cold that seeped through his trousers and into his bones. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the weight of it, or if he'd always feel like it was heavy enough to drag him straight down to hell. For the first time in his life, he was glad his mama had passed on. The thought of what she'd say about her boy walking around like he was fixing to rob a bank... it didn't bear thinking on too hard. 123

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The smell of gunpowder was still strong in his nostrils, and the crack of the shots was still loud in his ears when the sheriff rode up to the barn and dropped heavily from his horse. Temper leaned on his shovel and watched him warily. Ben had made it clear that he didn't trust anyone outside the ranch at this point, and it had rubbed off on everybody. The sheriff's gaze went from Temper's bare, black chest to the gun strapped to his thigh. Bloodshot eyes traveled up his face. "Where'd you get that gun, boy?" This wasn't Temper's first roundup with this sort of man. He kept his cool, so well that ice could have formed on his words. "Boss gave it to me." The fat man snorted, sending his belly twitching like a mare's about to foal. "Ben a little worried about security 'round here, is he?" Temper felt a flash of anger that almost melted his control. That the man came to their home, making light of things, when Snow was barely in his grave? He tightened his jaw and ground out a neutral response, "I reckon." The sheriff was looking at his gun again. "You know how to use that thing, boy?" "Yassir." Temper figured it was a little lie at most, having had all of two lessons and proven he could hit a large target if it was very close and didn't move at all. That earned him a long, hard look from the sheriff, which he returned. The big man sighed, as though dealing with Temper was a terrible burden. "Where's your boss?" 124

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"Here." Ben stepped out of the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. Planting his feet, his own gun on display, there was no sign of the laid-back man he'd been two days before. Temper felt a twinge, like he'd done while praying over Snow's grave. It was a scary thought, one he hadn't had before: had they lost Ben just as surely as they'd lost the foreman? "Ben, you and I need to talk. You damn near killed that Mexican." "I'm aware." The sheriff's wide face was sweating, and he mopped at it with a kerchief. "Let's get out of this damn sun." Ben turned and strode into the barn. Temper waited until the sheriff had followed, then fell in behind. "This don't concern you, boy." "Nobody goes anyplace alone. Ain't that what you said, boss?" "That's right, Temper. That's exactly what I said." Ben gave him an approving look, which quickly went hard as he turned back to the sheriff. "What do you want, Henry?" "I'm getting pressure to put you under arrest, and I ain't convinced not to yet." Ben snorted. "Let me guess, that damned old Dutchman." The sheriff didn't answer, but his expression told the story. "You want to arrest me, go ahead. We'll have a big old trial right there in town, the town that I helped build, by the by, and we'll all talk about how Vargas shot me and you did nothing. It was me he was gunnin' for the other night. Snow was sitting up in my seat, wearing my hat, and that son of a bitch murdered him in cold blood. And you let him." Ben's 125

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voice had risen steadily as he talked, and now he was as near to shouting as Temper had ever heard him. The sheriff looked as though he wanted to step back, away from that uncommon anger, but held his ground. "Well hell, Ben, what do you expect? Flauntin' yourselves all over town. People ain't exactly thrilled at having a bunch of pre-verts loose in the streets. Frankly, you're damn lucky this is the first man you lost like this." Temper's heart leapt in his chest. He was certain Ben was going to go after the man now. Should he hold him back or help him? Ben narrowed his eyes and planted his fists on his hips, one of them alarmingly close to his pistol. "Get off my ranch," he growled. "Get the hell off this ranch. Go back to town, and tell everybody to stay clear. Every man on this ranch is armed, and anyone who comes up here lookin' to start shit is gettin' a bullet for his trouble. You tell 'em, Henry. Tell 'em they'll be shot and left for the coyotes. I'm through diggin' graves." The sheriff's eyes had widened, his kerchief hanging forgotten from his fist. Temper had a sudden insight: this man had always been afraid of Ben. Maybe he'd always seen this darkness in him, under that easy-going surface, but had just been too stupid to do his part to keep it at bay. "Now just wait a damn minute," he sputtered. "I'm the law—" Quick as a lightning strike, Ben grabbed the shovel out of Temper's grip and spun, smashing it into the support beam next to Henry's head. The shaft splintered and sent the metal head spinning off somewhere into the barn, where it landed 126

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with a clang. The sheriff looked like he was about to piss himself. Temper realized his jaw was hanging open like an idiot's and snapped it closed. Ben threw the ruined shovel down at his feet and pointed a shaking finger at the sheriff. His jaw worked furiously, but he was too angry to force out a single word. Temper took a cautious step forward, desperate to keep this pile of manure from getting any deeper. "Man says go, reckon you better," he said calmly, addressing the sheriff but keeping his eyes on his boss. He'd come to respect the man since he'd signed on at the Bar J, even liked him after a fashion, but at the moment, he didn't trust him, not one bit. The sheriff tried to pull himself together, mopping at his brow with a hand that shook a little. He had a desperate sort of look to him, one Temper knew very well. The man wanted, in the worst way, to be back on his barstool with the comfort of his whiskey. Temper almost felt sorry for him, and then he thought of Snow bleeding all over the wagon, of his blue eyes clouded over and staring at nothing. Bending over, Temper picked up the shovel handle and bounced it gently in his palm, giving the sheriff an expectant look. "I'm goin'," Henry managed to spit out. "But your boys cause any trouble, and I'll be back." Ben found his voice, though he sounded like he was being strangled. "Don't ever set foot on this ranch again." Temper watched the sheriff leave and then turned back to his boss. The man was turned away, his shoulders heaving, fists clenched at his sides. A long moment passed, and then Ben squared his shoulders, turned, and strode out of the barn 127

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without another word. Temper was left with two powerful but conflicting emotions. On one hand, he felt a great swell of loyalty and affection for every soul on the ranch, and it made him want to dig in and protect his home, his boss, and his brothers. But a small, quiet part of his mind was watching Ben walk away—watching and worrying. And a traitorous little voice, one he tried hard to ignore, was urging him to run like the devil, before all hell broke loose. **** "He knows the ranch inside and out," Ben said softly. He was standing at the window, staring into the black night. Obie slouched in his chair, rolling his empty glass in his fingers and studying his lover with a weary eye. Snow had been dead and gone for four days. For four nights his ghost had laid between them in the bed, choking away their words and turning Ben's flesh to stone. Obie was doing his best to be understanding, but he wasn't gifted with much patience at the best of times. "I don't imagine anyone would put up a fuss. They all like Lonnie." "He's the right man for the job. Ain't so good with figures, though. Think you can school him a bit?" "I'll talk to him tomorrow." Obie set down his glass and rose, stretched his long, lean body and slid in behind his lover. Resting his chin on Ben's shoulder, he ran his hands up over his chest, down his belly, finally dropping lower to fondle his privates. There was no hint of arousal, no response at all. He could feel the heat of Ben's skin, hear his soft breaths, else he might have thought he was holding a cigar store 128

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Indian. "Come to bed," Obie urged. His voice was rough, but it was more desperation than lust that made it so. Ben never turned around, never took his eyes from the darkness. "You go on," he murmured. "I'm gonna sit up a spell." "I'll sit with you." Ben abruptly shrugged off his hands, turning with a sharp eye and a sharp tongue to match. "Damn it, Obediah, leave me be. I can't get one minute to myself anymore." Stung, Obie backed away a step, his hands held out to the side in surrender. "All right," he said, struggling to keep hold of his temper. "I'll go on to bed. You sit up here and sulk just as long as you want." Ben made an irritated noise and turned back to the window, and Obie suddenly found he just couldn't leave it alone. "If Snow were here—" "Don't." "If Snow were here," he repeated, ignoring Ben's warning, "he'd put a boot up your backside for being such an ass." That earned him a full-fledged glare, and it was something to behold. Obie had never been the target of it before and found himself fighting the urge to look away. "Maybe he would at that," Ben growled, and Obie wondered how the voice that usually turned him on had the power to scare him too. "But Snow ain't here, and you're a damn poor substitute." Obie couldn't have spoken a word to save his life at that moment, his throat knotted up like he'd swallowed a 129

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tumbleweed. He was still standing there, dumbstruck, when Ben sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Obie." No answer. Obie had his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall near the floor. His fingers were flexing nervously, and he crossed his arms tight over his chest to make them stop. "Obie," Ben repeated, coming to stand before him. Rough fingers touched his cheek. Obie finally looked up, watched the struggle play out across his lover's face. There was regret there, and so much pain that he couldn't find the beginning or end to it. And on top of it all was frustration at not being able to express himself or get control of his own head. Obie saw the moment he gave up, dropped his hand, and closed his face like a window shutter. Obie closed his eyes, heard Ben move around him and pour another measure of whiskey. "I've been thinkin'," the older man said. "Maybe you ought to sleep in the bunkhouse for awhile. The men are a little out of sorts without Snow there. You might help to settle 'em down." Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Obie finally managed to speak. "Even though I'm a damn poor substitute?" "Besides," Ben continued as if he hadn't said a word, "it'll give me time to get my head together. So I don't...." He didn't finish. He didn't have to, Obie heard it anyway. So I don't hurt you no more. "Just as you like," Obie croaked. His eyes were burning. Rejection coiled up in his belly like a hard and angry rattlesnake. He spun on his heel and stalked to their bedroom—Ben's bedroom—before he broke down like a fool. 130

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His old traveling satchel was under the bed. He dragged it out and yanked open a bureau drawer, dragging out clothes and stuffing them in the bag blindly. He packed everything, even took his grandfather's pocket watch from the nightstand drawer. When he stalked down the hall and out of the house, Ben was back to staring out the window. The strange numbness holding him broke apart in the crisp night air, replaced by his old familiar companion, anger. He wasn't wanted. He knew what to do when he wore out his welcome. Bypassing the bunkhouse, he went straight to the barn. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 10 Obie dropped his satchel in the dust and made his way by feel to the correct stall. His mare greeted him with a snort and nibbled his hair while he opened the gate. All at once it was all too much, and Obie threw his arms around her neck and pressed his face hard against her chestnut coat. A sob slipped passed his lips before he gulped the rest down, releasing the horse with a pat and dashing a hand across his eyes. "Place was gettin' boring, anyways," he muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Should've moved on a long time ago." He reached for a bridle and froze when he realized he could see what he was doing. His heart jerked and started hammering like it hadn't beaten all night. He changed his mind! He followed me down here, to tell me not to go But when he turned, when the shadow behind him lifted up his lantern, it was only Larry. Obie staggered a step, the disappointment crushing down on him until he thought he might actually die. Larry hung up the lamp and pulled Obie to him. Surrendering to the shelter of strong arms, Obie shook and clung to him, trying his damndest not to break down and bawl like a woman. "He don't want me no more," he gasped, hiding his tears against Larry's shirt. "He went and made me love him, and now he don't want me no more." The older hand made soothing, wordless sounds into his ear, holding him as tight as he could. 132

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The sound of a door closing made him startle and look up. They weren't alone in the barn. Temper, moving like a ghost through the shadows, had put his mare back in her stall and closed her in. "Leave her out," Obie protested, "I'm goin'." "No you ain't," Temper said, even as Larry shook his head with a sad smile. Temper laid a warm hand on Obie's shoulder, his skin glowing like roasted chestnuts in the lamplight. "I don't know what he said, but he don't mean it. He's all messed up right now, don't know if he's comin' or goin'. You're gonna have to be the bigger man and wait him out. He'd do it for you." Obie pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes. "He has," he groaned, thinking back a year when he'd panicked and run. Ben had treated him carefully, let him run a bit, then calmly brought him back home. And here he was, running again, expecting Ben to come chasing after him when the man couldn't hardly get his boots on the right feet. Time to grow up, Obediah, he scolded himself. Ben needs you to be the strong one for awhile. Sniffing back the last of his misery, he picked up his satchel and gave the others a nod. Larry patted him on the back and took down the lantern, and the three walked together to the bunkhouse in silence. No one was stirring when he undressed and settled in. He slept little, mostly laid on his back staring at the ceiling through the dark. In the morning, the hands must have been surprised to see him there but, other than exchanging a few glances, they let it go. **** 133

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For a time, Ben's demand for privacy had the opposite effect. The Saturday after Snow's death, a single rider approached the ranch. The hands all tensed up and made nervous gestures toward their pistols. All except for Porter, who tossed a rifle over his shoulder and strode down the path to meet their guest. Obie only relaxed when he saw the two men shake hands and turn back toward the barn together. As they got closer, the mystery rider took on the familiar face of Sam Barstow. "Obie," he greeted in his gravelly baritone, sliding off his horse and slapping the reins over a fence. "I came up to pay my respects. Ben around?" "No idea," Obie replied. "He's around somewhere, I suppose." In fact, the Bar J's owner had taken to leaving the house early, saddling that big stallion and riding off for parts unknown, not returning until near dark. He avoided everyone, Obie in particular. Obie let him run, for now. Sam reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bottle. "I guess it's you and me, then. Fetch us some glasses and let's drink to old Snow." They walked up the hill to the house. Obie ducked in and grabbed two clean glasses from the den, doing his best not to think about the last time he'd been in that room. In the cemetery, they stood before Snow's grave and drank a toast to their friend. "That's a fine marker," Sam remarked, and indeed it was. Ben had spent the better part of a day carving the wood 134

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grave marker, engraving Snow's name and the dates of his life. Beneath that, Ben had carved, "Friend and Brother." Sam poured another measure of fine whiskey, held it out in silence a moment, and then poured it on the grave. "How's Ben taking it?" "'Bout as well as you'd expect." Obie was torn between wanting to talk to someone about his frustrations and wanting to keep the ranch's private business private. Sam was a friend, but talking about his problems with Ben seemed like a betrayal. "He's hurtin'," he finally settled on. "And he won't talk to nobody or let nobody help him. Damn stubborn fool, all the years I've known him." Obie's gaze wandered to another marker, right next to Snow's. "Did you know Robert?" "I did. Good man. Steady, good sense of humor. Used to play jokes on everybody: crack eggs in their boots, shaving foam in their hats, that sort of thing. Made everybody crazy, but he'd do damn near anything to make Ben grin." Guess Snow's not the only one I'm a poor substitute for, Obie thought with a little sigh. Sam gave him a sharp, knowing look. "You've been good for him, Obie. After Robert passed, I thought the man might never smile again. He was gettin' downright cantankerous before you came. Old before his time. You changed that." "That's just it, Sam," Obie admitted, accepting another glass of whiskey. "I don't believe I have. With Snow gone, he's just like you said, and I can't do a damn thing about it." 135

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Sam's big, callused hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Time, Obie, give it time. Just don't give up on him. He's a stubborn old cuss, but he's worth the trouble." **** Gus, the cheerful Australian who owned the sheep spread, was the next to turn up. Once again Ben was nowhere to be found, so this time it was Obie and Lonnie both who shared in the drinking ritual. Afterward, they sat in the shade on the porch and caught up on the town gossip. "Christ, what a ruckus." Gus topped off their glasses and gave the porch swing a little shove with the heels of his boots. "The whole town's taking sides. A few are still pushing for Henry to come out and throw Ben in jail, but as you can imagine, Henry's in no hurry to try his luck." "Temper said last time was quite a scene," Obie remarked. "Wish I'd been there. Nobody much cares that Ben near killed that Mexican bastard, not with what he did to poor Snow. Town's pretty much hollering for his head on a plate. Somebody's hiding him away but good, or I'd take my boys around to lump him up proper." "Appreciate it, Gus, but best you stay out of it," Obie said, and Lonnie nodded in agreement. "The whole mess is liable to get uglier still before it's all said and done." "Bugger that. A man ought to stick up for his friends and neighbors. Nothing about this sits right with me, lads. Oh, there's something you should know, and I'd appreciate it if you'd pass it on to Ben. Sam and I have agreed not to buy lumber from Arne de Groot anymore." 136

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Obie stared, his mouth open, and Lonnie was no better. The foreman recovered first. "Gus, you can't! There isn't another mill around, not for two hundred miles." "I'm aware." The Australian smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "We gave it a good long think, and reckoned that if you boys can do without, so can we. I may have to steal your man Free to come over and teach us how to plane boards properly, but it's decided. Until Arne stops harboring that murderer, until he stops behaving like a fool where Ben's concerned, we'll neither of us give him another penny. Since we're the biggest customers he's got left, I'm hopeful it won't take long for him to come to his senses." Tossing back the contents of his glass, Obie mumbled, "Swear to God, Gus, that's all I want in this world right now. For everybody to just come to their damn senses." **** Obie filled his days with as much hard work as possible and fell into an exhausted sleep each night, alone in his narrow bed in the bunkhouse. In the evenings he tutored Lonnie in sums. The big man was a slow learner, but he was patient and determined to do well in his new position. He was twisted up with nerves, desperate to do a good job and earn Ben's approval, while still feeling guilty at replacing his old friend. What's more, the new foreman knew about the change in Ben and Obie's relationship and had taken to fretting and fussing over that too. In his new role as "grown-up," Obie did his best to not only reassure Lonnie, but to help him manage the other hands. 137

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Billy and Dex took to scuffling at the drop of a hat, and on one memorable episode, Lonnie had physically picked Dex up and dropped him in a horse trough. Porter was more surly and withdrawn than usual, barely speaking a word to anyone outside of shooting lessons. Even Miguel—steady, easygoing Miguel—kept to himself and spent a lot of time staring at the horizon. Only Temper and Larry seemed stable, spending their days together clearing the overgrown lot. Obie thought it was just fine that they were growing closer, especially as they were the only steady thing on the ranch these days. He just couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Three long weeks passed before Lonnie put his foot down. He sought Obie out and called him out of the barn with a twitch of his head. They walked the path between the big pasture and the training corral, which wasn't seeing much use since Ben had taken himself off. Lonnie kept taking off his hat, running his hand through his short curls and jamming his hat back on. "I don't know what the hell to do," he finally blurted. "Everybody on this damned ranch has gone and lost his mind, all at once." Obie might have laughed if it wasn't close to true. "I know it," he said. "They're all still sideways over Snow, with nothin' to take their anger out on but each other." "Still no sign of the Mexican?" By unspoken agreement, no one referred to Snow's killer by his name or his so-called rank. "Not that I've heard, and Gus is keepin' an ear out." Obie knew what the men needed. They trusted Ben to a man and would fall in line as soon as he told them to. But Ben 138

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spent his days roaming who-knows-where, armed with pistol and rifle, not seeming to care much at all about the men or the ranch he'd built up from nothing. Some of the men speculated that he was out hunting for the Mexican, looking to shoot him down like a mad dog, but Obie thought it was as least as likely that Ben just needed time alone with his thoughts. Whatever the case, the man disappeared before dawn, returning at dusk and shutting himself up in the main house. According to Juanita, he sat in the den sipping whiskey into the night, only eating when Rosie asked him to. Something had to change, and despite his own uncertain position at the moment, Obie knew he'd have to be the one to make it happen. "Lonnie," he said, forcing a note of cheer into his voice, "tomorrow is Saturday, ain't it?" "Yeah, what of it?" "I'm thinkin' the boys need a night in town." Lonnie gave him a doubtful look. About the only order Ben had given since arming the hands had been to cancel the weekly trip into town. Only Lonnie, with Porter riding beside him with his rifle, had ridden in to fetch needed supplies. Everyone else had been restricted to the ranch, and Obie thought it was starting to make them all twitchy. "I know, Lonnie, but enough is enough. If Ben wants to shut himself away from the world, I'm not sure there's a force on earth could budge him. For the rest of us though, the sooner we can get things back to normal, the better. Normal as we can manage, anyways." The big man tugged on the brim of his hat and frowned. All around them, the Bar J spread out green and beautiful like a 139

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slice of Eden. It was no doubt the prettiest prison any of them had ever been stuck in. "All right. I'll go and tell Ben tonight." "I'll do it." "Now, Obie, it's my job. The men are my responsibility." "I know. You're a good foreman, Lonnie. Truth is, I've got a few other things that need sayin'. He ain't gonna want to hear 'em, but I won't leave 'em unsaid no longer." Lonnie kicked a rock, sent it skittering down the path. "I swear, Obie. I never would have thought this place could change so much so quick. Feels like it's all slippin' away." "That's exactly what I'm gonna tell him. Go on and tell the boys. Tomorrow we're goin' to town like usual, with or without the boss." Lonnie still had his doubts, but he looked a bit calmer now that they had a plan of sorts. "All right. Hey, hang in there, Obie. He'll come to his senses sooner or later." "Sure hope it's sooner," Obie muttered to his broad retreating back. That night, Obie watched from the bunkhouse door as Ben trotted the big black stallion into the barn. He waited patiently while his lover bedded down his demon horse, then watched him walk up the hill in the bright full moon's light. Obie strolled to the far side of the corral, smoked a cigarette he'd filched from Porter, and waited some more. If he timed it right, Ben would have had at least one drink, maybe two, and it might be a little easier to get through to him. There was a fine line between planning and stalling, so he finally had to bite the bullet and head up to the house. Rather 140

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than heading straight for the den when he stepped in the front door, he turned left and went into the kitchen. As usual, everything was neat as a pin. Loaves of bread were cooling on a low counter alongside several pies and a tray of cornbread. Juanita was standing in front of the stove, shoveling potatoes onto a tin plate. "Evenin', Juanita," Obie called from a safe distance. He was careful to avoid startling her, ever since she'd smacked him in the head with a soup ladle so hard his ears rang for a full day. "Whatcha got there?" She sighed and added half a chicken breast to the plate. A scoop of red beans and a slab of cornbread followed suit. "Mister Ben's dinner. Don't know why I bother. He won't eat none of it." Under the obvious annoyance, Obie could see her concern. Rumor had it that Ben had taken her in years ago, pregnant and on the run from the Federales, after killing her abusive husband. Neither had ever confirmed the story, but Juanita's loyalty to her boss was fierce and absolute. "Why don't you let me take it," Obie offered. "Think you can get him to eat?" "If I can't, I'll brain him with the plate." A ghost of a smile crossed her sober face. "In that case, I'll put it in the cast-iron skillet." Ben was slumped in his chair when Obie strode in and dropped the plate on the table with a clatter. Just as firmly, Obie snatched up the whiskey bottle and took a long pull before setting the bottle on the mantel. Ben watched him with a familiar, annoyed squint but didn't move or say a word. 141

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Standing in front of his boss and one-time lover, Obie planted his feet shoulder width apart and crossed his arms. You're the grown-up, he reminded himself. "Tomorrow night, Lonnie and I are takin' the boys into town. You're welcome to come with, but we're goin' either way." "That so." "Yeah, that's so. They've been cooped up on this ranch for too long, jumpin' at shadows and squabblin' like a pack of hungry mutts. They need to let loose." "It's a bad idea." Ben's whole body had tensed up, though he hadn't moved a muscle. "There's people in town gunnin' for us, Obediah. One slip-up and the whole lot of you'll end up in jail, or worse." "Me and Lonnie'll watch out for 'em. Since you don't seem to want the job no more." "The hell I don't! I'm not the one takin' 'em off to be bushwhacked." "You can't keep them here!" Obie had sworn he'd stay calm, but already his exasperation was mounting. "They're grown damn men, Ben, not children! You can't lock 'em away for their own good. Keep trying, and you'll lose 'em." Ben snorted and picked up his glass, draining it to the last dregs. Obie ran a hand through his hair, searching for patience, searching for the right words. Finally he sank down into a squat in front of the other man and placed his hands lightly on the arms of his chair. "All them years ago, when you and Robert built this place up outta nothin', I don't imagine you figured on runnin' the Last Chance Ranch. Over the years, all these oddballs and 142

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troublemakers showed up on your doorstep with no place else to go. You took 'em in and put 'em to work. "You built somethin' special here. Built a family. The downside is it hurts to lose family. Hurts like hell. But what you're doin' ain't helpin' anybody. The men need you, and you need them, and runnin' away from that is makin' everything worse. And if that ain't bad enough, you're lettin' things in town get out of control. These are your neighbors, Ben. They're on your side. But you gotta stop treatin' everybody like the enemy." Ben still wasn't looking at him, but Obie knew he was listening and thinking. "You asked for space, and we all gave it to you. Now it's time to get off your ass and do something. If you don't want me no more, well... it ain't okay, not by a long mile, but we'll deal with that another day. The thing you need to worry about is this ranch. 'Cause while you sit here alone drinkin', while you ride off to God-knows-where, everything you built here is slippin' through your fingers." Ben blinked rapidly, his fingers toying with the empty glass. He swallowed hard a few times, but his voice still sounded like a rusty windmill. "I don't know what to do." Obie knew what that admission had cost him. He moved his hands to Ben's knees, rubbing gentle circles on his thighs. "I know. For tonight, just eat your dinner. The rest will keep 'til tomorrow." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 11 The hands shifted restlessly in the back of the wagon, barely speaking. Obie was settled on the seat. Next to him, Lonnie sat in Snow's customary position, fiddling with his hat, the reins and everything else within reach. Everyone, it seemed, was trying their best not to think about their last trip into town. Temper was cleaned up to a shine and wearing fresh clothes, but he wasn't in the wagon. Larry had only smiled and shook his head when he mentioned going to town. He'd pretty much quit his shy act over the last few weeks, making bold with touches and looks that could damn near set the barn ablaze. Tonight he'd made it clear that they wouldn't be making the trip. He had something else in mind. So Temper strolled his way up to Obie and his foreman, well aware that the others were looking him over and thanking God for his dark skin that covered up his blush. "Me and Larry will stay behind, boss, keep an eye on things." Lonnie raised an eyebrow and exchanged a knowing grin with Obie. "Will you now?" "Yassir." Temper tried not to fidget, knowing Larry was watching from the barn door and probably laughing himself sick. "Unless you think you'll need us." "We'll be fine," Obie answered. "You fellas hold down the fort." He cast a long, searching look up toward the main house, then checked the sun and sighed. "All right, let's get goin'." 144

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Lonnie slapped the reins and called out to the team, and the wagon rattled off. Temper watched them go, saying a little prayer that they wouldn't find any trouble tonight. At least, no more than they could handle. With Obie sitting up straight and tall in Ben's place, looking as cool and determined as the boss ever had, Temper had the feeling they were all in good hands. Strong, square hands circled around to hold him as Larry's warm body pressed against his back. Temper leaned into the touch, a contented growl rumbling up out of his chest. Larry pressed a kiss to his neck, then broke away and took him by the hand, drawing him back into the barn. At Larry's urging, he saddled his horse and threw an extra blanket across its neck. It took longer than usual. Larry kept finding excuses to brush up against him, sending him looks that made him wonder how he was ever going to ride comfortably. Finally, Temper reached his limit and backed the younger man up against the wall, holding him there with an arm on either side of his head. Larry gave him a brazen smile and hooked his fingers into the belt loops of Temper's trousers, pulling him close. Lowering his head, Temper captured that laughing mouth with his own. Larry opened to him fully, inviting his tongue in and meeting it with his own in a slow, hungry dance. Temper groaned and couldn't help but give a little shove with his hips, bumping his hardness against Larry's in hopeful anticipation. They almost didn't hear the throat clearing behind them. When they finally looked up, they were so surprised to see their boss that Temper was struck as mute as his companion. 145

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For his part, Ben had one side of his mouth quirked up in a smile that made something ease in Temper's chest. The ranch owner was wearing a clean shirt and Snow's brown hat, and he had a box under one arm. "Juanita sent this down," he said, handing it to Larry. While Larry was cramming the package into his saddlebag, Ben crossed his arms and regarded Temper with tired but clear eyes. "You got that parcel of land cleared yet?" "Almost. Couple more weeks at most." "That's good. Come out here a minute." Temper followed him outside, but stopped short of where the Bastard was tied to the corral fence. Ben fished in a saddlebag, ignoring the way the big black shifted and flicked his tail. "Here's the next part of your project, Temper," he said, handing over a folded packet of papers. "Look it over, give it some thought, and let me know what you need to make it happen." Untying the reins, Ben swung up into the saddle and wrestled the Bastard under control. "Oh, and Temper? Don't you all forget the saddle oil tonight." Temper stood gaping as he rode away. "Huh," he said to himself. "Looks like he's comin' 'round." He headed into the barn, unfolding the papers as he walked. When he spread them out over a hay bale, Larry crowded in next to him to see what the boss had finally decided on doing with that plot. "Well how do you like that." There was a central area that contained a well and what looked like a vegetable garden, but what drew their attention were the small buildings laid out on a grid around it. "They're cabins," Temper murmured, sliding the top sheet over. The 146

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second page was a detailed floor plan of a simple living space, with one bedroom and a sitting room with a fireplace. Larry pulled the top sheet toward him and bent to look closer, so Temper followed suit. One of the cabins was marked "Billy & Dex." Only one other had writing on it. It said "Larry & Temper." The two men stared at each other, and Temper had the sure feeling that Ben had known about them before they had. "The man said he found out everything eventually," he mused. "Lookit him, building hisself a little town right here on the ranch." Larry took his hand and peered up at him from under his shaggy mane of hair. A hint of his previous shyness had reappeared, and Temper leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss. "It's gonna be nice not to have to sneak around the bunkhouse, ain't it?" Nodding, Larry folded up the papers and handed them over. He pulled Temper in close and stole a deep, promising kiss, and then drew Temper by his hand toward his horse. Heading to his own mount, Larry stopped and slipped into the tack room, holding up the little stoppered bottle with a grin before tucking it in his saddlebag. Temper swallowed hard. It was definitely going to be uncomfortable sitting a horse tonight. Luckily, they didn't have far to go. He followed the rump of Larry's sorrel, quickly getting an inkling of where they were heading. They wound their way across the ranch, past the training corral and the holding pen, up the path between the south and big pastures. Larry dismounted and opened the 147

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gate to the north pasture, careful to close up behind them. The horses in the north pasture were mostly wild and shied away from their approach, snorting and flicking their tails. In the farthest corner of the north pasture, there was a little pond shaded by an ash tree with wide-spreading limbs. During the day, it was a favorite spot for hands to take lunch, have a quick wash or swim, and rest in the shade for a spell. Tonight, with the moon big and full and staring down at its twin in the still water, it felt like virgin land, like they were the first to ever lay eyes on it. They unsaddled the horses and turned them loose. A few minutes' work earned them a goodsized pile of sticks and deadfall, dry enough to catch a spark in no time. Larry spread a blanket out, and they dropped their saddles side by side, settling against them shoulder to shoulder. Temper felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire when Larry's hand crept into his own. They watched the flames for a while, followed the path of the sparks as they snapped and rose into the night. Temper took his hat off and slid down until he was laying flat. Above him, the sky stretched across eternity, black and blazing with stars. He caught his breath, wide-eyed, and opened himself to the heavens. The fire crackled, the horses snorted and shifted in the dark, and Temper felt the presence of God. And then he felt the presence of fried chicken, the smell wafting up from the open box Larry set in front of them. Mouth watering, Temper helped him unpack their dinner, and they ate in comfortable silence, tossing chicken bones into the fire where the grease sizzled and popped. They ate chocolate 148

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cake with their fingers. Larry was left with a smear of icing across his lower lip, and even as Temper licked it off, he was pretty sure Larry had done it on purpose. He was sneaky like that. They spent so long kissing, the fire banked down to coals. When Larry pulled away to toss more wood on it, his lips looked swollen and abused. Temper shifted himself inside his trousers, which didn't really help, especially when Larry laid himself out flat on Temper's body and started a slow, grinding rub. "Lord have mercy," Temper groaned, one hand coming up to grip the younger man's firm backside and push their bodies together even harder. With the other hand, he pushed away the curtain of hair hiding Larry's face, barely able to make out his profile in the firelight. He ran his thumb over the bruised lower lip and then surged up for another kiss. He felt like he would burst, and suddenly, the rubbing wasn't nearly enough. He had to have Larry's hands on him, had to feel his skin with no clothes in the way. Sitting up left him with Larry straddling his lap, the front of his britches straining and swollen. Temper worked the buttons with clumsy fingers, tugging at the fabric until Larry's long, fine cock sprang free. The younger man sighed as Temper wrapped his hand around it and stroked from root to tip. They had done this before, behind the barn at night, this touching, but it had always been hurried and desperate, groping each other to a finish in the dark. How long had Temper wanted to do this, a slow, thorough exploration of this man's parts? Wanting to see better, he rolled over, taking Larry with him, 149

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and laid him out as close to the fire as he dared. He pulled off first one boot and then the other, then shimmied those tight britches off those long coltish legs. Larry pulled his own shirt off over his head and then lay back, naked as the day he was born and completely unashamed. Temper started at his feet, running his hands up the arch of each foot, over and around muscled calves, across hairdusted thighs that parted easily before him. He ignored the excited groin for now, sliding around the narrow hips to ghost across the flat belly, up the ribs to pause at the firm chest. There was hair here too, a dark tousle of fur right over his breastbone. Temper ran his fingers through it and then spread his hands wide, cupping and squeezing each breast. Larry squirmed a bit under his touch, shifting his hips restlessly. When Temper's thumbs found his nipples, he gave a nearly silent gasp and wiggled even more. "My God but you're beautiful," Temper murmured, bending to place a kiss on his chest, just above his heart. He worked his way back down Larry's body, using hands and lips both, until his nose was just an inch away from his lover's cock. He blew a warm breath at it, watched in fascination as it twitched. A bead of liquid swelled at its tip. Temper had never even thought about it before, but he found himself leaning forward to capture it with his tongue. Larry gave out a grunt and bucked like a horse under the first touch of a saddle. Licking his lips, Temper chuckled and went in for another taste. He had to clamp his hands down on those boney hips and hang on for the ride. My, but that boy could wriggle something fierce. 150

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He couldn't say it was a pleasant taste, but Temper figured he could get used to it. Circling the shaft with his thumb and trigger finger, he stroked at the strong pace he himself favored, sucking awkwardly at the spongy head. Larry made a noise deep in his throat, a rumbling groan that made Temper grab himself right through his britches. He was just finding a good rhythm when Larry snatched him by the ears and pushed him away. They rolled in the dirt, pulling at clothes until every last stitch was gone. Larry paused to root around in his saddlebag, and then he was pushing Temper over on his back and straddling his thighs. Temper nearly lost control of himself when he felt the oil, warm from being so close to the fire, spill over his cock and dribble down the sac of his tight, drawn-up balls. He shuddered and bit his lip. Larry waited, looming over him with a smirk, while he caught his breath. "Brat," Temper rumbled. This boy is gonna be the death of me.... And then Larry gripped his cock in a slippery hand and moved over him. Shadows hid his movements from Temper's eyes, but there was no question what he was doing. Temper had had women before, a few times in his life, and it had felt good, but nothing could compare to the feeling of Larry slowly lowering himself, taking Temper deep into his body. He lay perfectly still, so much of his mind focused on the joining of their bodies, there was nothing left to remind him to breathe. The tightness and the heat were nearly unbearable, the urge to thrust just about more than he could stand, but he forced himself not to move, not to think, just to 151

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feel. Feel, and commit every second, every sensation to memory. This? Whatever the Bible or the preachers might say, this was something holy, something to be revered and treasured and remembered always. Larry's body nestled against his, fitting together like a tongue-in-groove joint. A drop of sweat fell from his face, spiraling through the dark to land in the center of Temper's chest. Temper's breath came back in a whooping gasp, along with sound and sight and all his awareness of the world outside of his lover's body. Larry was moving, sliding up and down Temper's hardness, and Temper grabbed his hips and bucked, hard, up into the heat. Larry threw his head back and moaned, the closest Temper had ever heard him to speaking a word, and Temper knew he'd do anything to hear that sound again. He wanted this to go on and on, to last forever. But Larry was in charge now, and he had no such patience. Hands braced on his thighs, muscles flexing under taut skin, he lifted himself and plunged back down, sending Temper deep into his body time and time again. His face, half-hidden in the dark, was slack and shut-eyed, making him look like a wild animal in rut. Temper felt a jolt go through him at the thought and knew he wouldn't last much longer, so he reached up and got hold of Larry's cock, jerking it roughly in time to their rocking. Needy noises made their way out of Larry's throat and he rocked faster. Temper felt like his cock had grown big as a fencepost. Larry let loose with a strangled cry. Hot seed flowed over Temper's hand and showered onto his belly, and he groaned helplessly and emptied himself into Larry's willing body. 152

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Stars and sparks were all around him, flashing in the sky and behind his eyes. Temper's heart raced, his chest heaved and pulled in cool night air. Larry pulled carefully away, but before Temper could regret the loss, he was back, wiping them both down with his discarded shirt. Temper caught his arm and pulled him down, tucking him against his side and pulling his tousled head under Temper's chin. Larry stretched like a long, lean cat and nuzzled his face into Temper's neck. His breathing evened out quickly into a soft snore. Temper lay awake for a long time, staring at the heavens and listening to that breathing. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 12 Damn near every head in town turned when the wagon rumbled down Main Street. Lonnie brought it to a stop outside the saloon and climbed down, and the men lined up in front of him to get paid. "Listen up!" Lonnie bellowed, his voice echoing off the wooden storefronts on either side of the road. "Same town rules as usual, but nobody goes off alone. Anybody starts trouble, they'll answer to me. Somebody starts with you, come get me or Obie. Got it?" Nods and mumbled assents met his warning, and he doled out each man's wages. Obie pocketed his own earnings and watched as Lonnie climbed back onto the wagon. Porter settled beside him, rifle at the ready. "Watch 'em close, Obie," Lonnie called as they drove off. "We won't be long." Obie kept track of where each man went, in pairs or in groups, and he followed most of them into the saloon. There were whispers and startled looks shooting around the room as the Bar J hands crowded around the bar, but Obie decided to ignore them. "Evening, Stanley," he greeted, settling onto an empty stool. The bartender put a glass of beer in front of him with a smile. "Good to have you boys back," he said. "Ben coming?" "Not tonight. Said to run the usual tab, though." Leastways, Obie was sure he would have said so, if he'd been asked. 154

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Obie put his back to the bar and looked over the room, glancing from face to face with a gambler's practiced eye. His first look, as always, went to the table in the corner where the boys from the mill spent their time. There seemed to be more of them than usual, crowded around, sloshing beer out of pitchers and playing a game that involved dice and a lot of swearing. James Arcady was with them. The Mexican was not. Stanley followed his gaze and leaned forward, eager as ever to share gossip. "Arne let a bunch of 'em go this week. Not enough work, he says." Hell, Obie thought. Sam and Gus had meant well by not buying Arne's lumber, but the short-term result was likely to be a problem. Last thing they needed was a pack of shiftless, out-of-work lumber boys roaming around with no one holding the reins. A few of them met his stare with dirty looks and one gesture he hadn't seen since leaving Kansas City, but they quickly turned back to their game. "Obie!" Grinning at the familiar booming voice, Obie turned and stretched out a hand to Sam Barstow. The rancher shook it, a pleased grin turning up the corners of his elaborate moustache. "Finally made it into town, didja? Come play some cards. You must have quite a stake burnin' a hole in your pocket." "Think I'll hold onto it a bit longer, Sam. I need to keep an eye on things. Any trouble tonight and I'll never hear the end of it." "Ben's not with you, then?" 155

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"Naw." Obie did a poor job of hiding his disappointment. He knew it, too, but being in town without his lover felt so damn lonely. "Well hell," drawled a voice from behind him, "if you could wait for a fella to have a wash and put on a clean shirt...." Obie damn near fell off his stool for spinning around so fast. Grinning like a right smartass, Ben slid in next to his elbow. It took all of Obie's restraint not to kiss his smug face right then and there in the saloon. He settled for a none-toogentle shove to the arm. "'Bout time you got here." Sam slapped Ben hard on the shoulder, and soon a small crowd gathered around to greet him. Obie slid off to one side so he could keep an eye on the mill boys and Bar J hands both. He was the first one to see James Arcady approach. "What the hell do you want?" Obie snapped. A hand touched his shoulder, and Ben's soft voice sounded in his ear. "Easy, Obediah." His tone changed as he confronted his former employee, polite but distant. "What can I do for you, Mr. Arcady?" Arcady shot a nervous glance back at his table, where the mill boys were quiet, watching him. "I just come over to say I'm sorry 'bout Snow. Me and him had our differences, but what happened to him weren't right. Well, that's all I have to say." He turned to walk away, almost missing Ben's quiet response. "Thank you, James." Arcady stopped and gave a short nod, then went back to his seat without looking back. Obie didn't like him any better, and he sure didn't trust him, but he felt like just maybe there was one less gun pointed in 156

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their direction. He swept his eyes across the room once more, saw nothing worrisome, and returned to his beer. Ben leaned up next to him. For a long while they were quiet, a little bubble of stillness in the noisy room. Obie felt the familiar warmth, smelled the smell of him that he'd been missing so bad, and it tested his will sorely, for he wanted to pull the man close and kiss him senseless, and wouldn't that go over well right there in town? He settled for saying, "Glad you decided to come." "So am I." A crash behind them had them both turning, but it was only the regular scuffle between Billy and Dex. Ben frowned and motioned to the bartender. After a quick whispered discussion Stanley handed over a key. Ben strode over and halted the fight, pulling the two seething men apart. Obie couldn't hear what he said to them, but he gave them the key and shoved them toward the back door. "What was that all about?" "Don't want 'em on the street. Might cause trouble with the sheriff, God knows who else." "So you got 'em a room to fight in?" Ben barked a startled laugh, nearly choking on his beer. "Well, I guess they can fight in it, or anything else they got a mind to." Frowning, Obie puzzled it out. What else.... "Hell no. Them two?" Ben nodded, hiding a grin in his mug. "How long?" "Longer than you been around, that's for sure." "Well hell. How'd I miss that?" 157

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Ben's smile faded a little and he dropped his voice. "Tell you what I miss. I miss you." "I ain't gone nowhere. Thought about it, but the boys brought me to my senses." The older man dropped his gaze to the bar, his jaw working as he struggled with his words. "I dreamed of you, last night. Dreamed I was standing in the graveyard, and I looked down the hill and you were standin' out front of the barn, and your hair was fire." "Huh. Why the hell was my hair on fire?" "Not on fire, exactly. More like it was made of fire. It... bothered me," Ben murmured, fiddling anxiously with a stack of coins on the bar. "I want you to move back up to the house." Obie felt his heart surge at the words he'd been waiting to hear. One look at Ben's face, though, made him think long and hard before answering. "Naw. Not just yet." Confusion and hurt flashed across the older man's face in the second before the walls went up. "Just hold on, Ben, let me say my piece. You sent me away so you could think and get your head straight. It hurt me, I won't lie, but now I'm thinkin' it was a good thing to do. I want you to take a little more time for yourself." Ben's face was troubled, like a sky that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to rain. "I asked you to come back. What more do you want?" "I want you to ask 'cause you want me back, not 'cause you're afraid I'll leave." Obie grabbed a handful of Ben's shirt 158

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sleeve and gave it a shake. "I ain't goin' nowhere, old man. I'll be here when you're ready." Ben couldn't seem to look at him, but his right hand shot out and covered Obie's, squeezing it hard. It was more touching than they usually allowed themselves in town, and even this much was scandalous, dangerous. They held on as long as they dared, and then Ben chuckled and gave him a little shove. "Go on and play some cards. I'll keep an eye on things." Flashing a wide grin, Obie picked up his beer and went to take his usual seat. He was greeted like the regular he'd become, and Sam dealt him in. Obie looked from his truly awful hand to his lover, slouched watchfully at the bar. And even though Snow wasn't there no more, even though it couldn't ever be the same, Obie started to think things were returning to normal. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 13 Standing in the middle of the cleared field, Ben pushed his hat back and planted his fists on his hips. "Fine work, boys. Mighty fine work." "Couple big stumps we couldn't pull up," Temper said, pointing them out. "Gonna need dynamite to shift 'em." "All right. We'll put it on the list for town. How'd we make out with lumber?" "Not as good as I'd hoped, boss. Most of the stuff we cleared was scrub and small saplings, not too much that's good for planin'." Ben sighed. "Figures. Kinda the way our luck's goin' these days, ain't it? I guess we ought to focus on the well first, anyhow. Set up a rotation for diggin'. Everybody takes a turn, me included." Larry gave him a skeptical look, and Ben crooked up one side of his mouth. "What? I'm not so old as I'll keel over from diggin' a hole." "Nawsir," Temper agreed, but he was smiling too. It was damn good to see the man taking an interest in the ranch again. He'd been around lately, back to working with the horses and talking to the hands. Temper also suspected he and Obie were working through their troubles. The younger man was calm and happy these last few weeks, though he was still sleeping in the bunkhouse. "You know somethin'? I don't care to wait on that dynamite. You two take yourselves off and clean up a bit. I want you to go into town tonight. See about that dynamite, 160

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and you might as well order the pump for the well while you're at it." Temper glanced at the sky. "Gettin' late, boss. Store won't be open time we get there, not on a Tuesday." Ben looked from Temper to Larry and a soft smile touched his face. "I'm aware. Go on into town, get yourselves a room for the night." He pulled a few bills out of his pocket and handed them over to Temper. "Have a few beers and enjoy yourselves. This here's a hard job, well done. You've earned it." A quick splash at the pump and a trip to the tack room later, and they were saddled up and on their way. As usual, Larry found plenty of ways to communicate his thoughts without speaking a word. He passed the trip with a detailed pantomime of Lonnie and Juanita's courtship that had Temper laughing so hard he could barely stay in the saddle. They reached town in the gray dusk and handed over their horses to old William at the town stable. Saddlebags over their shoulders, they knocked the dust from their boots and went into the saloon. There weren't many folks inside, just the mill boys and a handful of townies. The ranchers and farmers from the outlying spreads wouldn't come in until Friday night when most of the week's work was done, and they got a break from early morning chores. The Bar J hands cast a quick glance at the mill workers, met a few scowls with warning looks of their own, and settled in at the bar. Larry had to have noticed James Arcady's eyes on him, but if it bothered him he surely didn't show it. Temper dropped some money on the bar and they sipped 161

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their drinks—beer for Larry and the usual soda for himself—in easy silence. Temper was feeling fine tonight, his body pleasantly tired from hard work and fresh air, his mind peaceful and content. And the company couldn't have been better. He almost felt giddy, like he figured it would be with a beer or two buzzing in his head. The urge to touch his lover was damn near irresistible. He wanted to ghost his fingers over Larry's scraped and callused knuckles, slide his hand up over his muscled, hairy forearm. Larry caught his gaze, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. He drained his beer in a long gulp, wiped the foam from his upper lip and twitched his head toward the door. Temper hid a grin behind one hand as he waved to Stanley for a room key. His britches felt too tight, making him walk like he'd spent a few days in the saddle. Stopping at the door to wait for his lover, he caught a glimpse of Arcady over Larry's shoulder. The man had one eye swollen and turned black and was watching them with an expression that looked a whole lot like fear. And then Larry squeezed by him in the doorway, filling Temper's nose with the smell of soap and horse and man, and God help him, but Temper forgot about every damn thing else and followed his lover like a mooncalf, around the back of the saloon and up the rickety stairs to their room. **** They slept naked and tangled together in the chilly room, sweat drying on their limbs under the thin quilt. Temper was 162

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dreaming of a vast, flat plain, a dream he'd had before. He rode for miles as fast as his horse would gallop, hooves beating against the cracked earth, raising puffs of dirt with every stride. On the horizon he could see the barest wisp of smoke, and he knew it was rising from the chimney of a little house. Inside the house was everything he'd been searching for, all his grown days. The dream had changed though, because finally, finally, he was getting closer, closing the distance at last. His goal was coming into view. The hoof beats grew louder, sharper— He snapped awake, fumbling to turn up the lamp. Beside him, Larry bolted upright with a snort. The knocking at the door continued. Temper all but fell out of bed, swearing as he stubbed his toe hard on the bedside table. He yanked his trousers on, paused, and then pulled his pistol out of its holster and held it loosely at his side. A glance behind him showed Larry also had his gun at the ready, though he hadn't bothered with clothes. At a nod from his lover, Temper cracked open the door. James Arcady stood in the hall, blinking hard. The bruise on his eye stood out against his chalky face. Temper had just enough time to notice the dark stain on his fancy embroidered shirt before the man toppled forward into his arms. "Jesus!" Temper stumbled under the weight of him. Larry jumped to help, and together they wrestled Arcady onto the bed. With the lamp turned up all the way, the man looked even worse. He had blood in his teeth, and pink foam was oozing out one side of his mouth. He took one wheezing, 163

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tortured breath after another, and the left side of his chest didn't hardly move at all. "Oh Lord," Temper murmured. "You best go get the doc." Arcady was having none of it. He caught at Larry's wrist before the younger hand could more than twitch toward the door, hanging on with the desperate strength of a driven man. "Stop 'em," he gasped. "I couldn't." "What happened?" "Damn Mexican... he's crazy, stuck me... gotta stop him!" The man's urgency was scaring the daylights out of Temper. "Stop what, James?" "Took some boys... to the ranch... he's gonna burn it...." Fear sliced through Temper like a blade, from his heart straight down to his groin. He looked at Larry and found him wide-eyed and pale as wax, and for a long second they stared at each other, frozen in shock. Arcady, his strength fading fast, gave Larry's arm a shake and looked up at him with pleading eyes. When he spoke, they had to lean in close to hear his shaking whisper. "Sorry... what I done to you... weren't right... didn't know...." Arcady coughed, sending a fine spray of blood over the lower half of his face. "My old man... done it to me, I was a boy." Larry's face flashed through a whole range of feelings— shock, anger, sadness—and then he leaned in close, almost nose to nose with the dying man. Arcady's lips were moving, whispering, "sorry, sorry," over and over again. Larry laid his hand on his pale, sweating forehead, and Temper knew it for what it was. A blessing. A benediction. 164

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Forgiveness. Arcady peered up with eyes that didn't seem to focus, but he must have seen what he needed to see. He sighed, and the tension left his face, leaving calm acceptance in its place. His grip on Larry's wrist loosened, and Larry took his hand in both of his and held it tight. Temper took hold of the other hand. They sat quietly. In less than a minute, the horrible, gasping breaths fell silent, and James Arcady died. Precious seconds ticked away while they sat, nailed in place by shock. Temper was the first to shake it off. "Oh Jesus, we gotta get back to the ranch." They scrambled for clothes, boots, and guns, left the room in a hurried tangle, and clattered down the stairs. Temper stopped short. "Get the horses. I'll meet you at the stable." There wasn't a single light on, all up and down Main Street. Temper could see well enough in the moonlight as he ran across the street to the little church. Ignoring the front entrance, he ran around to the side that led to the old priest's living space and pounded on the door. "Father!" he hollered, beating the wood with his gloved fist, "Father Percy! It's Temper Free, from the Bar J! Need your help!" A light came on in the rectory. Temper waited, still knocking impatiently, until the door cracked open, and Percy's thin face peered out. Wasting no time, Temper poured out the particulars. "A man's dead, Father, name of James Arcady. Somebody stabbed him, said it was that Mexican captain. He's upstairs from the saloon. I need you to see to him and get the sheriff. Me and Larry are headed back to the ranch, Mexican's gonna 165

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burn it down." Percy looked bewildered and opened his mouth, but Temper had no time to answer questions and was already running toward the stables. Larry had their horses saddled. They mounted up and took off at a purely dangerous pace, Temper forcefully reminded of his nightmare, of riding hard toward a goal that never got any closer. He prayed as he rode, prayed that neither horse would break a leg or throw a shoe, prayed that they'd get there in time and find all their friends and animals safe. He prayed that James Arcady's death hadn't been for nothing. **** Obie blinked into the darkness of the bunkhouse and tried to figure out why he was suddenly awake. He listened hard, hearing nothing but the various snores and farts of the other hands as they slept, and figured he'd been dreaming or some such. He yawned and punched his pillow, stuffing it under his head and burrowing back under his blanket, already back on the brink of slumber. Except the hair on his arms was standing up, and something niggling at the back of his brain wasn't going to let him go back to sleep. He sat up, this time not concentrating so hard on his ears. One deep breath and he had it. "Smoke!" He threw aside his blanket and groped in the dark for his boots, thumping the sleeping body in the next bunk. "Everybody wake up, goddamnit! There's a fire!" That had everybody springing up out of their beds. Obie ran out the door, still stamping to seat his boots proper, and found he couldn't see much of anything. Thick, black smoke 166

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filled the air, and through it, Obie could see an orange glow. He headed toward it, heart stuttering in his chest. The goddamn barn was on fire. He could hear timbers crackling and the panicked screams of horses, their heavy hooves beating against the doors of their stalls. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. He took a step toward the barn, but felt a hand on his shoulder. Miguel had appeared at his side, unseen through the heavy bank of smoke. He was looking at Obie expectantly, dark eyes wide with horror and the desire to take action. Obie grabbed him by the shirt and started giving orders. "Send somebody up the hill to get Ben and Lonnie. I want a man at the pump and everybody on bucket brigade. Building's a loss, get the horses out!" Miguel nodded once and disappeared. Obie pulled out his kerchief and was about to tie it over his face when he heard a gunshot. "Hell, now what?" He took a step toward the bunkhouse but glanced at the barn and hesitated. And then Porter was moving past him, toward the sound of the shot, and Obie made his decision. If there was gunplay, Porter was the man to handle it. Obie covered his face and plunged into the burning barn. If hell was like this, Obie was going to church next Sunday. The heat was unbearable, singeing the hair in his nose with each breath even through the kerchief. His eyes dried out and he narrowed them to slits, ducking his head and groping his way to the first stall. Inside was his own little bay, dancing and rolling her eyes in terror. Obie grabbed a rope, looped it around her neck and threw open the stall door. He covered the bay's eyes with his kerchief as best he could and hauled 167

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on the lead. She fought him every step, desperate to return to the fire with the irrational desperation of a dumb beast. But Obie's blood was running high, his heart hammering eight to the dozen, and he dragged the mare out through sheer force of will. He slapped her flank hard at the door, and she bolted for the cooler night air. Dex ran past him with a full, sloshing bucket. Obie stopped him long enough to dunk his kerchief and find out that he knew nothing about the gunshot, and then he plunged back into the barn. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 14 Temper started smelling smoke almost a mile away from the ranch. With a sick feeling in his gut, he urged his horse to gallop even faster. Larry rode grim-faced at his side, hair streaming behind him like a mane. There was a light on the horizon, an orange glow that looked like the sun rising, but Temper knew it was nothing so ordinary. By the time they passed under the Bar J sign they could hear the fire crackling, hear the men shouting as they ran back and forth with buckets. Temper knew right away that the barn couldn't be saved, though it seemed the whole ranch was throwing water on it. Lonnie was stationed at the pump, massive arms working non-stop to fill bucket after bucket. Even Juanita, her hair hanging loose down her back and wearing a shawl over her nightdress, was passing buckets on the line. Temper glanced at the barn just as a dark shape filled the doorway, and then a horse plunged wildly into the night. Someone drove it with slaps and shouts into the nearest corral, where several animals were already clustered on the far side. Larry leapt off his horse, slapping the reins hard on the top fence rail to wrap them, and headed straight for the barn. Temper wanted to help, but the thought of the Mexican running around the ranch unchecked made his blood run cold. He turned his horse loose in the corral and slid his pistol out of the holster. Bypassing the activity around the fire, he sprinted toward the bunkhouse and pulled up short at the 169

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sight that met his eyes. Seven figures were kneeling in a row alongside the wall. An eighth lay in a motionless heap at the feet of John Porter, who wheeled and brought up his gun as Temper approached. "It's me," he called, and Porter lowered his gun. Temper moved in close and examined each scowling face. "Mill boys," Porter growled. "They lit the barn, tried to do the same to the bunkhouse. While we were goddamn sleepin' in it." He lashed out with a pointed boot, drawing a howl from the nearest prisoner. Temper grabbed another by the hair, twisting his neck until their eyes met. "Where is he? Where's the Mexican?" "I ain't tellin' you shit," the man spat. Then he started screaming, on account of the bullet Porter put through his leg. When Temper turned to the next man in line, he didn't even have to ask. "He went up the house! Gonna kill Johnson hisself." Temper reeled away from him without another glance and ran back to the corral. Snatching up the reins of Larry's horse, he threw himself into the saddle and kicked the animal hard in the sides, tearing up the path toward the main house. **** Obie couldn't stop coughing. He couldn't draw much of a deep breath either, and the smoke made it hard to keep his eyes open. Squinting hard, he made his way through the inferno by memory, crouched low and moving from stall to stall with the leather bridle clutched in his fist. By his count, he'd pulled five horses out. He'd bumped into at least one 170

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other man doing the same, so he figured that was at least two more out of danger. There were eight stalls on each side of the barn, and they'd all been occupied. His chest seized up. He dropped to his knees and continued down the row on all fours, straining to hear the panicked sounds that let him know he was close to the next animal. Seven down. Nine more to go. **** Temper launched himself out of the saddle before the horse came to a stop. He was running at full speed, driven by worry for his boss, but at the foot of the porch steps he forced himself to stop and think. If Ben was in danger, charging in like a damn fool would likely get them both killed. He slid his gun out of its holster and carefully checked the bullets as he'd been taught, trying not to think very much about the way his hands were shaking. He had never killed a man before and truly hoped he wouldn't have to now, but that Vargas was an evil bastard and no mistake. If needs be, Temper would put him down and square it with the Lord later. He crept up the porch, nearly tripping on Juanita's gardening tools, and flattened himself up against the clapboard siding. A quick peek through the window showed him nothing out of place, but the front door was open just a crack. Temper used the toe of his boot to push it wider, wincing at the tiny creak that whined up from the hinges. The smell of kerosene rolled out like a living thing, stinging his eyes and driving him back a step. He steadied himself and 171

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stepped inside, doing his best to ignore his sense of smell and concentrate on his eyes and ears. He moved silently down the hall, checking and dismissing each room as he passed. He held his gun out in front of him like a holy talisman and hoped desperately that his own thundering heartbeat didn't keep him from hearing something important. He got all the way to the end of the hall without encountering a soul. The door to Ben's bedroom was ajar. Temper edged forward and peered, and a little gasp forced its way out of his throat. Ben was lying on the floor in a heap, blood pooling around his head. He wasn't moving. "Oh Lord," Temper murmured, pushing into the room. Dropping to his knees, glancing continuously from Ben to the open door, he grabbed the older man's shoulder and gave it a shake. "Boss? Come on, boss, wake up." He rolled the man over onto his back and laid his head on his chest. It seemed like a full day went by, and then he registered the rise and fall with a grateful sigh. Still clutching his gun, Temper patted the pale face with increasing urgency. "Come on, boss," he repeated. "You can sleep later. We gotta get out of here. Crazy man gonna burn the damn house down around us." Finally, finally, those deep-set, green eyes fluttered open. They blinked up at him in confusion, not looking quite right to Temper, but it would have to do. "On your feet, boss," he urged, hauling the man up. Ben swayed and his knees buckled, only Temper's grip keeping him from landing back on the floor. But the rancher clenched his jaw and planted his feet wide, and in less than a minute he was clear-eyed and 172

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moving forward with only a little help. No doubt about it, Ben Johnson was one tough piece of business. They made their way back down the hall, eyes burning from the kerosene fumes. Temper was focused on the open front door like it was the pearly gate to heaven, but before they got there it was blocked by the devil himself. **** Obie stumbled out behind the mare and crashed to his knees, taking in big whoops of air that didn't seem to make it to his lungs. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, his skin felt tight and too small for his face. Snot ran freely down his face, and he coughed up nasty globs of black phlegm and spit them into the dirt. Behind him, part of the roof gave way with a splintering crash and a sizzle of sparks. A hand holding a tin mug appeared before his face, and he gratefully gulped the cool water down. He looked up to find Miguel squatting next to him, his brown eyes wide with concern. Obie had to clear his throat and spit three or four times before he could get the words out. "How many left?" "You got most of them out, you and Larry and Dex." Obie grabbed him by the shirt and gave him a weak shake. "How many still inside, damn you?" "Just one," Miguel said, and his face was grim. "The Bastard." Groaning, Obie looked over his shoulder at the collapsing remains of the barn. The Bastard was all the way in the back, in the last stall on the right. Reaching him would be damn near impossible, and wrangling him would be even more 173

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dangerous as the beast was a menace at the best of times. And Obie was just about shot. His chest rattled and wheezed like an old man's, his hands were burned and sore, and his shoulder ached from where he'd caught a flying hoof from Porter's big roan. For all he knew, the massive stallion had already gone down from the smoke. But Ben loved that damn horse. Obie gave a sigh that sounded a lot like a sob and dragged himself to his feet. Miguel was clinging to his arm as he staggered back toward the barn. "No, Obie, too late. Too late for him now, don't go back in." Obie patted his hand and then pushed it off his arm. Once more, he thought as he took a deep breath and plunged back in. Just once more. He made it all the way back to the Bastard's stall and yanked open the door. The huge stallion plunged out, wheeling and rearing wildly. Obie fell back against the wall, away from the flailing hooves. Gripping the rope in his blistered hand, he watched the Bastard thrash and wondered how in the world he was going to get him out. He took a hesitant step toward the monster horse. A massive crack sounded from above. He barely had time to throw his arms over his head before the last of the roof came down. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter 15 Temper felt every muscle of Ben's body become tight as a bowstring, every bit of flesh hard as marble. The Mexican stood between them and the door, his face twisted into a smirk. And his eyes... there was madness there, the kind of madness you saw in an animal wounded beyond all reason. Temper raised his pistol, intending to put the wretched thing out of his misery. Ben caught his arm in an iron grip. "Don't," he warned. "Spark'll send the whole place up." Reluctantly, Temper lowered the weapon and put it back in his holster. The Mexican smiled wider, with his mouthful of black and missing teeth. In one hand he held the oversized knife he was so fond of flashing. In the other, he held a box of matches. "Where you goin', gringo? You can't leave before the party's over, eh?" Vargas rattled the matchbox, cocking his head at the sound and looking even more like a deranged animal. "It's over," Ben growled, pushing away from Temper's supporting grip. "Over for you." "Me? No, I don't think so. You got no ranch left. Horses, men, all gone. All burned. Now you get to join them." Ben's face blanched, and Temper was quick to jump in. "No, boss. Barn's gone, but they was gettin' the horses out, and the bunkhouse is fine. Porter's got them mill boys in hand." 175

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Vargas's face twisted, and the rage was an ugly thing that made Temper's flesh crawl. "Night's young, cabron. Maybe after I kill you, I go back and try again, eh? Hard work, putting out a fire. Men sleep real deep after that." "You won't get a chance." Ben's words were low, not meant to carry to the Mexican. He was through talking to this lunatic. He squared his shoulders and took a step forward, his intentions clear. "Come on, cabron," Vargas taunted, sinking into a crouch and waving his knife. "Stick you or burn you, don't matter none to me." Temper didn't like this much at all. He knew Ben's head must be ringing like a church bell. Unarmed, going up against a crazy man with a knife? No, Temper didn't like it at all. Temper wasn't much of a fighter. Throughout his life he'd mostly managed to keep himself out of conflicts with his words, with his faith and his easy-going manner. None of that would help him now. Neither would his gun. He cast around the hallway, hoping to find something to use against the Mexican. His eyes fell on the little wooden table outside the kitchen door. It never held much, just a little tin cup with water that Rosie liked to fill with flowers. A blur of movement and the two men fell on each other like wolves. Temper moved past them and snatched up the table by one spindly leg, sending the cup and flowers flying. He spun, hefting his weapon over his shoulder, ready to bring it down on the Mexican's head and bust his damned skull. He needn't have bothered. Ben had Vargas flat on his back, knife hand pinned to the floor. Temper watched, 176

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impressed, as his boss landed punch after hard punch while Vargas writhed and howled beneath him. Feeling a little silly, he set the table back in its place and leaned against the wall to wait for the end. Ben let up on the beating and squeezed Vargas's wrist until the bones cracked. The Mexican let loose with a scream, which Ben ignored. He snatched the knife from his weakened hand and tossed it away, then picked up the box of matches and slipped them in his pocket. "You pathetic son of a whore. You ain't even worth killin'." Ben rose to his feet, swaying a little before gaining his balance. "Let's go," he said to Temper in passing. For his part, Temper couldn't believe it. No way were they walking away, leaving this man, this murderer, alive, in Ben's home no less. "Boss!" he protested. Ben fixed him with a glare that could have only one meaning. Temper got the message. With one last wary look at the groaning Mexican, he followed his boss down the hall and out the door. Ben stopped on the porch, scratching at the dried blood on the back of his head. His gaze traveled down the hill to the smoking heap of embers that used to be the barn and he sighed deeply. That was all the self-pity he allowed himself. "Let's get to work." Temper stepped down off the porch and took a step, but he was still uneasy about leaving the Mexican at his back. "Boss, I really don't like—" He glanced back over his shoulder and a single, guttural sound of warning forced up out of his throat. 177

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It was all Ben needed. Quick as any rattlesnake, he stomped his boot down hard on the porch. Juanita's rake jumped up into his hand, and he spun around. Vargas pretty much ran right into it. He stood there for a long moment, a look of profound surprise replacing his usual cruel sneer. The tines were embedded so deeply into his neck and face that there was hardly any bleeding. At first. A few seconds after Ben yanked the rake loose, blood coursed down Vargas's olive skin and spurted out of the deep hole in his neck. His mouth worked, but no sound made it out. Eyes wide, he clawed at his collar even as it went red and wet, even as he crashed to his knees and his blood soaked into the weathered planks of the porch. Despite his great dislike for the man, Temper started praying. It was an awful way to die, and he hoped to never see its like again. For his part, Ben didn't seem particularly moved. His face was blank, nearly bored, as he watched the Mexican die. After a thirty-second eternity, Vargas's body fell forward and lay still. Ben nudged it with the toe of his boot, shot a mouthful of spit on the ground and turned away. "Let's get to work." Temper shivered. One final glance at the dead Captain Vargas and he fell into step behind his boss. He didn't follow too close, though. Right now, he felt safer at a distance. **** The closer they got to the fire, the more it became clear that something was terribly wrong. True, the barn was a loss, 178

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but the hands weren't even trying to douse the remaining flames. Instead they were clustered together watching it burn. Larry detached himself from the group and flung himself into Temper's arms, tear tracks cutting through the soot caked on his face. Lonnie was crouched in the dirt, cradling his face in both big hands while Juanita stroked his hair and murmured in his ear. Billy and Dex stood together, not talking or touching, but close enough to share each other's breath. Ben looked from face to face and found nothing but misery staring back. "What? Did we lose a horse?" Rising to his feet, Lonnie ran a hand over his face and gave a wet sniffle. "Boss," he said, and then started over. "Ben. We got all the horses out except for one. The Bastard... he was all the way in the back...." "Damn." Ben's face creased with the loss. He rested his hands on his hips, shook his head and dropped his gaze to the dirt. "Well, damn." "That's not the worst," Lonnie said softly. Juanita abruptly buried her face in her shawl and turned away. "Ben, it's Obie." Suddenly aware of the absence, Ben spun around in search of the one face he only now realized he hadn't seen. "Obie. Obediah!" "Boss—" Ben ignored him, ignored them all. "Obediah!" he shouted, striding first one way, then the other. He stalked to the bunkhouse door, shoving the door open and searching the dark room with squinted eyes. "Where is he?" he bellowed, 179

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walking right up to Lonnie and shoving him hard. The big man actually staggered back a step, weak with weariness and sorrow. "He went in—" "No!" "He went in after the horse, Ben. He was tired and hurtin', but he went back in. The roof came down. Ben, he's gone." Temper turned his face into Larry's smoky, sweaty hair. After all that had happened today, this last, most painful blow was just too much to take. For the briefest of moments, Ben's face crumpled, every line and wrinkle screaming grief, grief, grief. And then he hardened into rage and gave Lonnie another shove. "You're a damn liar!" Lonnie fell back with every push, submissive in the face of Ben's wrath. He was crying helplessly, shedding the tears that Ben couldn't seem to let fall. Finally, Ben's anger hit its peak. "Where is he? Where the hell is Obie, you son of a bitch?" He drew back his fist and swung at Lonnie's jaw, but the big man caught his hand and held tight. "Enough," he said softly. Again Ben swung, and Lonnie captured the other fist, bringing them together and wrapping them in his own huge hands. To Temper, it looked like they were praying. Ben struggled fruitlessly against that unbreakable grip. When at last he broke, Temper thought it was the most awful thing he'd ever witnessed. Ben dropped hard to his knees, as though all his bones had turned to dust, and collapsed against 180

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Lonnie's legs. The big man held him close as Ben sobbed into the dirty fabric covering his thighs. In Temper's arms, Larry silently shook with loss. With all the distressed horses calling out all around them, it took a long moment for the sound of one animal to stand out. Larry lifted his head sharply from Temper's shoulder, a frown creasing his face as he stared hard at the engulfed barn. Following his gaze, Temper eventually made out a dark shape nearly obscured behind the smoke and waves of heat rising out of the rubble. Larry pulled away and took off running, Temper hot on his heels. Heat prickled at their skin as they circled the wreckage, following the whinnies that were growing louder and more demanding. They came round the back, and damned if the Bastard wasn't standing there, head held high, tail twitching and flicking in agitation. Temper took a step forward, but Larry held him back. Underneath the big stallion, lying motionless between its splayed legs, was Obie. "Boss!" Temper shouted. "Boss, come quick!" It was killing them, not knowing if Obie was dead or alive, but they didn't dare startle the horse for fear of getting him trampled. There was only one man who could control the Bastard, only one man who could safely approach him now. Ben came running around the remains of the barn, the others close behind him, and stopped dead. The hope on his dirty, tear-streaked face was nearly as terrible to see as the grief had been. He took a careful step forward, then another, one hand stretched out for the rope looped loosely around the 181

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Bastard's neck. "Whoa, boy," he called softly. The stallion's head turned instantly at the sound of his voice. "Whoa there." The Bastard gave one last flick of his tail and lowered his head, nickering quietly as Ben approached. "Good horse," Ben intoned, patting the dark nose. Taking up the lead, he gently urged the horse forward. Temper watched with ragged nerves as each ash-coated hoof passed within inches of the still body. As soon as the horse was clear, Ben handed the lead off to Lonnie and dropped to his knees at Obie's side. Temper knelt down too, and together they carefully turned the young man over. He was black with soot just about from head to toe, darkest around his mouth and nostrils. His hair was singed, and his skin was burned red under the layer of ash. His face was lax and senseless, and Temper feared right then and there that they were looking at a corpse. Ben lowered his face right down to Obie's mouth, his fingers clenched in the folds of his lover's dirty shirt, hoping to feel his breath stirring. The fire hissed and snapped as the barn finally died. In the corral, the horses called to one another for reassurance. The men waited. **** Morning crept up slow and gray over the Bar J ranch. The worst of the fire had burned out long ago, but thick, white smoke belched up here and there from the remains. The hands, exhausted and filthy, moved slowly back and forth to the pump, half-heartedly dumping buckets of water on the smoldering ashes. 182

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The mill boys, tied hand and foot, were still sitting against the bunkhouse wall in a row, right where Porter had put them. The hands took turns guarding them, and if the prisoners kept collecting bruises throughout the night, none of their captors felt the least bit of guilt. Miguel had been dispatched to town to fetch help. The doctor had already been and gone, but they were still waiting on the sheriff. "That useless son of a bitch," Ben railed, scratching at the dried blood in his hair. He'd brushed the doctor off, insisting that he was all right, but the long night and the whack to the head were clearly catching up with him. "Remind me to talk with Sam and the others about finding a new sheriff." Climbing the porch steps, he scuffed his boot through the dirt he'd put down to soak up some of the blood. Vargas's body lay off to the side of the path, wrapped in an old sheet and forgotten. The porch swing jolted a little as Ben settled in, pulling his lover carefully into his arms. Obie sighed in pleasure, only to be wracked with his millionth coughing fit of the night. "Cough it up," Ben instructed, pounding on his back. "Get that crap out of there. You heard the doc." Obie coughed until he saw stars, his chest searing like he had hot coals in his lungs. When he was done, he spat out a wad of black phlegm and collapsed back against Ben's side. "All right," the older man soothed, wrapping the blanket around him tighter. He held a tin mug of water to his lips, and Obie drank from it gratefully. "Just rest a bit," Ben said, pulling him close. Obie figured there'd be a whole lot of 183

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resting in his immediate future, and not much else. Still, it felt good to be held, even though the coarse blanket was chafing his tender hide. It said a lot that, with the whole of the ranch to be set to rights, Ben had handed the task over to Lonnie and set himself to coddling his young lover. Obie wasn't going to complain, at least not yet, but it was already starting a little niggle of worry in the back of his head. "Ben," he said, wincing at the raspy sound of his own voice. "Right here." "I know what the doc told you. About me not ever being the same." Ben was quiet for a minute. Clearly he hadn't thought Obie had heard him. "He didn't say for sure. Said there was bound to be some damage, but he don't know how much." "I know." Obie squirmed a little, trying to get closer to his lover's warm, solid presence. "What'm I gonna do, if I don't get any better?" "You'll get better." "What if I don't? If I can't work, what'm I gonna do?" "Well, what the hell do you think you're gonna do, Obie? Think I'm just gonna throw you to the wolves 'cause you can't muck stalls no more?" Ben was irritated for sure, but the way he tightened his arm around Obie's shoulders took the sting out of it. "I wouldn't do that to any hand on this ranch, and you are far from just any hand, Obediah." The young man opened his mouth, but Ben cut him off before he could fret any further. His voice became soft, soothing like the plant sap Juanita had smeared on his burns. "I'll tell you what you'll do. 184

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You'll do whatever you can. You'll help Lonnie with the books, or Juanita with the garden. You'll go to town and play cards and drink whiskey. You'll lie next to me in bed and let me love you. And I do love you, Obediah." Tired and sick as he was, Obie had a hard time swallowing back tears. Ben showed he loved him in small ways every day, but he'd never before said the words. "Okay," he ground out, rubbing one leaky eye on the blanket. "I'm here as long as you'll have me." Ben stiffened. "You almost weren't. Why the hell did you run back in there, knowin' the roof was comin' down?" "Why?" Obie thought the answer was obvious. "Because the Bastard was in there. I know how much you love that horse." Ben abruptly stood up, sending the swing jiggling, and walked to the porch rail. "That horse?" Ben fairly shouted, "That horse right there? Look at me, Obediah! Look at me!" Obie did, wide-eyed with shock and just a little bit of fear. Ben pointed to the Bastard, tethered loosely nearby, grazing on grass. "You think I love that horse?" "Ben—" "You think I care more for a horse than I do for you? Jesus Christ, Obie!" Ben grasped his short hair in a tight two-fisted grip, tendons standing out on his bare arms. "Don't you ever put a damn animal's life ahead of your own! Promise me, or I'll go in and get my rifle and shoot that damn horse where it stands, I swear to God I will!" His tone was bordering on hysteria now, and Obie finally understood just how badly he'd been frightened. He wanted more than anything to go to him, 185

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but he didn't trust his legs to hold him up. He did the next best thing. "I promise. Ben, I promise. Come and sit down." Ben stood for a minute longer, then took a deep breath and let it out in a long, shaky sigh. He settled back on the swing and pulled Obie back into his arms, but he couldn't meet his eyes. "Thought you were dead," he murmured into Obie's scorched and smoky hair. "That was... that was just... unacceptable." Obie didn't reply, just snaked an arm out of his blanket cocoon and held his lover tight until the fine tremors quit running through his body. They sat for awhile, and things were quiet except for the distant sounds of the hands. Obie craned his neck but couldn't see a thing from his angle. "How's everything going down there?" "Well enough. Most of the horses look okay, but I think we may lose that old mare of Billy's. I don't like the looks of her." "Poor old thing." "She may fool us yet. Even if she pulls through though, she's done bein' ridden. We'll put her out to pasture." Obie figured he was in the same boat, but no sense setting Ben off again. "How we gonna rebuild the barn with no lumber?" He yawned. "Ain't quite figured that out yet," Ben admitted. "We'll get by. Always do, somehow." Mumbling a reply, Obie closed his eyes, letting the gentle sway of the porch swing pull him toward sleep. He was almost there when he heard and felt Ben grunt. "Wha?" he mumbled, sitting up and blinking himself awake. 186

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Ben rose and went back to the railing, squinting down the long path with a confused frown. A smile, a genuine, fullblown smile lit his face. "I'll be damned. Come and see this, Obie." Ben came back and pulled Obie to his feet, supporting him through a dizzy head and shaking, weak legs. They moved slowly across the porch until Obie was able to grasp the railing. Peering down the path, Obie saw a long caravan of horses and wagons. "Who the hell is that?" "Everybody," Ben said, his grin still evident in his voice. Obie blinked his eyes clear and looked again. Driving the first wagon was Sam Barstow, with Father Percy perched up next to him. Behind his two wagons came Gus, and behind him— "Well, I'll be dipped." Ben followed his pointing finger and started to laugh. There, driving his buckboard, with his flat cap jammed tight on his head and the stump of a cigar clenched in his teeth, was the old Dutchman, Arne de Groot. "Oh Lord! I hate to think of how they got him to come along!" Obie shifted his finger, pointing out a fat figure on a swaybacked horse. "Sheriff's here too." "Good. He can take that garbage and get it off my ranch." Ben spat in the direction of Vargas's body. "I told Temper and Larry to bring back Arcady, and we'll lay him to rest here. Far as I'm concerned, he's one of my boys now." Risking his grip, Obie laid one hand over Ben's. They'd both heard how Arcady had gotten killed trying to warn them, and Obie couldn't agree more. "He earned that. Least we can do for him. Oh, ain't that a beautiful sight." 187

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And it was. Every wagon in the caravan was loaded to the top with lumber. Men hung off the sides like barnacles on a ship. The whole parade stopped at the barn. Gus, Sam, and Percy jumped down and met Lonnie halfway. After a moment's conversation, orders were shouted, and men began unloading supplies. Ben turned to Obie, dirty and worn to a frazzle but still smiling. "Our friends are here. Let's go down and say hello." Obie smiled back, letting out a squawk as Ben scooped him up like a baby, blanket and all. Before he could object, he was carried down onto the grass and over to the Bastard. "Oh no," he protested as the great black head swung around to observe him. "Ben, he ain't gonna let me ride him." "Hush," Ben chided, lifting him carefully onto the broad, bare back. Obie wrapped his fists in the coarse black mane and held his breath, knowing he wasn't up to taking a fall from that height. To his utter amazement, the stallion stood placidly, allowing the weight without fuss. Obie stroked his neck, recalling how easily the huge, panicked horse had kicked out the back wall of the barn. He barely remembered crawling out into the night, but he knew he owed his life to the Bastard. Maybe, just maybe, they'd reached an understanding as they struggled to survive in that inferno. The Bastard swung his head around and nipped Obie on the thigh. Even as Ben barked out a warning to the misbehaving horse, Obie couldn't help but laugh. "That's okay," he said, patting the long neck once more. "It's a start." Ben took up the trailing bridle and clicked his tongue. "Walk easy," he intoned, and the Bastard set off at a sedate 188

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pace down the hill. Below them, Obie could see that the newcomers had taken over everything. The Bar J hands were clustered around the pump, having a wash or a drink before collapsing on the grass. He looked over these men who had become so important to him, who called out to him with friendly insults that barely disguised their relief. And even as his answering call was swallowed up in a cough, even as he slid from horseback and weakness and dizziness swept over him, Obie felt Ben's arms around him, stabilizing him and warming him inside and out. No matter what happened, he realized Ben was right. They'd get by. [Back to Table of Contents]

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D.G. Parker spends her days posing as a mild-mannered hospital administrator in upstate New York. Her alter ego has been reading and writing voraciously since childhood and dreams of one day publishing the "Great American Novel." She's taken her pen name from the very quotable Dorothy Parker, who reminds us all that "You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think." Visit D.G.'s blog at dgparker.wordpress.com/. [Back to Table of Contents]

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The Last Chance Ranch (C)Copyright D.G. Parker, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America June 2011 191

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eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-940-9

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